62nd Reaping [D2]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

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last seen Nov 24, 2023 13:45:22 GMT -5

62nd Reaping [D2] Sept 7, 2012 23:01:15 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Sept 7, 2012 23:01:15 GMT -5

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Demeter Merwin-Glory!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Atlas Cornell!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, September 11th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a PRIVILEGE; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer. [/blockquote][/size][/justify]

{lulu's cast}

Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

3,114 POSTS
last seen Nov 24, 2023 13:45:22 GMT -5

62nd Reaping [D2] Sept 7, 2012 23:19:53 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Sept 7, 2012 23:19:53 GMT -5

[but i still wake up, i still see your ghost
oh lord i'm still not sure what i stand for]

[/i]
Atlas Cornell never slept the night before the Reaping. He didn't sleep very much most other nights either, of course - midnight stargazing on a mountain did a sufficient job of preventing that - but on this night in particular, he deliberately did not return to his stone hut on the mountainside until dawn was beginning to break. He simply stayed awake, up on his mountain perch, staring up at the lion and the hunter and the twins and whatever other shapes he could spot in the dark, starry sky. On Reaping night he didn't bring up any crumpled swatches of paper to scrawl down his stories on; that night was a time for simply sitting. Thinking. Wondering if, maybe, the following day would bring about the change he'd been training for for so long.

Did he hope for it to happen? Atlas found himself unable to answer that inquiry; he'd always planned on going into the arena, but never coming out. On the other hand, though, he was rather fond of his simple life in Two, and ending it in that way... well, it would be pretty drastic. So he didn't hope, and he didn't dread. He simply wondered. For the duration of that clear, Reaping-eve night he waited and wondered, thinking how content he'd be if he were able to just float away and live among the stars. If he died in the arena, was that where he would go? It wasn't such a bad prospect, not at all; he would be his own constellation. The warrior. The thinker. Carefully watching everything that occurred down below.

He returned to his bed in the room he shared with Scorpius at about 5:30 in the morning, slipping between the covers as if he'd never left, aware that his father would come to rudely wake them up in half an hour for early morning training, regardless of whether or not this was supposed to be a holiday. They would train for two hours, then shower and put on the best clothes they had - which weren't great - and trek down the mountain road to District Two's square for the event. Scorpius and Atlas would stand in the roped off Sixteens section, both eager boys waiting with bated breath to see how the selection would unfold. No doubt there would be a plethora of volunteers should the selected tributes express the desire for them. But it would be the eighteen-year-olds who secured those spots, not he and his twin, for it was their very last opportunity to do so.

The square was bustling with the teenagers and families of the district, all anticipating what was soon to come. Bulked up boys who Atlas didn't recognize because he'd never attended school flexed their muscles for the crowd to see, an unspoken contest of strength and worthiness of the Hunger Games. Scorpius looked keen to get in on the action, but Atlas was more inclined to keep to himself; he wasn't keen on getting into that sort of competition before the Games even started. He wasn't here to compete with the other boys of his district; he was here to see where fate would take him today.

"Atlas Cornell!"

You are twelve years old, sitting in front of the shabby television set your father snatched from the discarded junk pile of some former District Two doctor, watching intently the broadcast of the 58th Games. Perhaps not as avidly as your brother, Scorpius - he is the epitome of a backseat fighter when it comes to tribute battles - but still carefully and consciously all the same. After all, this is the finale, the battle in which District Two's ultimate pride Razor Creel will take the crown at last, disposing of the girl from Five, Lethe Turner. But you continue to watch, and it doesn't happen. After a heated conflict Lethe somehow delivers the killing blow, sending Razor to his knees and ending the Games on a note that nobody expected. Your father and brother curse at the screen in ultimate indignation, but you cannot help thinking that maybe Razor is the lucky one. He gets some well-deserved peace, at last, instead of going on to the turmoil of becoming a victor. Everyone thinks it's the best thing one could possibly be, but you know better. And that's when you made your first conscious decision to die in the Hunger Games.

Now it looks like that may become a reality.

Everything following happened in a daze. Atlas ascended the stairs of the stage, his hands loosely clenched in fists at his side, wondering did this really happen? He was going into the arena. He'd been the chosen one, out of piles of District Two teenagers. Standing up high beside the girl that had been called - he didn't recognize her at all, unsurprisingly - he searched for the face of his family in the crowd and he saw the look of satisfaction on his father's face, the expression of utmost anger on his brother's. Scorpius wanted this more than Atlas did; he knew that. A good brother would allow him to take the position and achieve the fame and glory he so longed for, taking the more unlikely of his two paths in life and escaping the life of a peacekeeper that was his backup plan. But he couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. He wanted to go in. He'd trained for this, and he would go out with a bang. His last conscious thought before he was escorted off to the justice building was that he would really miss his stars.

[what do i stand for? what do i stand for?
most nights i don't know anymore]

ooc - accepts.

[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify][/center]

Last Edit: Sept 8, 2012 0:55:04 GMT -5 by Lulu

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Python
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62nd Reaping [D2] Sept 8, 2012 1:31:48 GMT -5

Post by Python on Sept 8, 2012 1:31:48 GMT -5

The autumn air was thick with anticipation. An eerie silence lingered above the streets like a thick blanket of fog muffling the harsh whispers and excited mutters occupying the homes of one of Panem’s deadliest career districts. Those fortunate enough to have been raised in the wolf pack of careers were quivering from their itching cravings to enter the arena and shed blood in exchange for a touch of glory that would satisfy their desire for dominance and fame. Armed, vicious, and usually plagued with overbearing pride, the careers of district two were to be feared by any opponent and never underestimated by those who actually posed a threat, and it was for this reason that smiles and kisses were exchanged rather than solemn expressions in what should’ve been empty sidewalks haunted by those who had died years before for no cause. It was only the handful of average children - deemed “non-careers” by the monstrous brutes themselves - that did not scatter about in the streets so eagerly. Terrified eyes peeked from above window sills and watched the packs of bloodthirsty monsters stroll by, each with an their own unique air of arrogance, optimism, and raw bitterness waiting to be unleashed. But among the civilized group of adolescents was a pair of jade eyes scanning the area, a few golden curls brushing against long lashes as the eyes blinked and stared without a drop of emotion filling their hollow pupils.

The unsteady, labored breathing of two withering souls interrupted Demeter ~~Merwin~~ Glory’s precious silence. Reaping day or not, her grandparents would remain brittle, decrepit, and far too worn around the edges to muster the energy required for walking or worrying. As usual, the golden-haired seductress was free to perform as she pleased and cast away to fend for herself like the runt of the litter abandoned in a cardboard box. It was because of their limitations along with other contributing factors that she had been forced to quit schooling and acquire an occupation as a prostitute to meet the requirements not only for their medical bills, but for the trio’s survival. Without the extra income seeping through her pockets there would be no food on the table or water in the tap. There would be no scraps of hope in an already hopeless hell. There would be only starvation, suffering, and eventually a permanent visit to district two’s graveyard. It was for these reasons Demeter forced herself into filthy beds with strangers who her touched in ways no human being should be ever touched. Unforgivable ways. But it suited her well - unforgivable deeds for a girl destined for doom from the start.

Demeter silently slipped outside into the hustle and bustle with a coat wrapped around her bare shoulders. She nonchalantly sauntered past anxious children and enthusiastic careers, all of whom she held zero concern for whatsoever as the district square came into view. She blended in with the crowd of females as just another faceless figure and was still granted a clear view of the stage thanks to her staggering height. Standing at precisely 6’1” the girl was a tower compared to her peers, and very few managed to out-grow her, excluding the males, of course, though she had met quite a few who couldn’t quite reach the end of her nose. Arms crossed and lips pursed, she waited impatiently for the hassle that was The Reaping to end. It was just another waste of her precious time, and with her tight schedule and impatient clients time was of the essence.

”Ladies first!” It was the same line each year. Demeter stifled a scoff - as if The Capitol had any chivalry. There was a pause before the moment of her relief would arrive, the escort diving into the bowl of name-slips and seizing the fate of district two’s next victim. Although not suffering from apprehension, she could feel the tension rising and pressing against her chest like a heavy weight threatening to crack her rib cage. Trembling girls around her sucked in their breaths as the escort unfolded the slip and sentenced one of them to their tragic fate…

”Demeter Merwin-Glory!”

A breeze swept the square of all sound like an air-borne infection strangling those who could not bear its effects. Demeter’s eyes searched for the source of her hallucination as she struggled to comprehend why her brain was teasing her with deception and fabricating foolish lies. After a few moments of hearing only the pounding of her heartbeat inside of her chest, however, the realization kicked in. The escort was still on the stage, scanning the crowds with curious eyes for the next cursed victim, and now Demeter was faced with a severe dilemma: she was being reaped. Age eighteen, her last year, and she was being summoned to The Capitol, to national television, to an arena, to the life of a potential murderer. To a life of fame. Her expression a gentle but stoic mask, she stepped out of the crowd and made her way up to the stage paying no attention to the eyes that examined her every move and the minds that would judge her every action. With a frown etched into her features she overlooked the crowd carelessly as the next name was called. This was it. Her chance of renewal, her chance to discard the old and discover the new, her chance to abandon misery and find a sanctuary to start anew, to recreate herself. But to do this, she would first have to kill twenty-three strangers in a treacherous arena poisoned by The Capitol‘s touch.

And then, Demeter Glory, you will have to kill yourself.

[Demeter accepts her position as District Two tribute]