Post by gamemaker minerva hale on Dec 23, 2017 19:10:41 GMT -5
I am a child of a money hungry, prideful country grass is green and it's always sunny hands so bloody, tastes like honey I'm finding it hard to leave
A name older than the finest of elite, elegance remained the face of his high-standing family upon a simple glance. Should someone have ever looked past the silken drapes of the Royale estate, however, a black and white foreknowledge became a hastily painted portrait of gray; question marks twisted and warped into luxury and beauty.
His mother was a woman so infatuated with the idea of love that she never stopped searching for it. Even after she married Colt’s father and had two sons. His father usually drank his dinner, and his brother was an insufferable idiot who went on to fail his courses in college twice so that he could remain a part of his fraternity. Colt was meant that think people owed him nice things, and he was taught to be angry when someone told him no.
Savage bones, cloaked by civil skin- wealthy boys with pretty faces didn't need to be anything special, and Colt grew up with an assurance of wealth, regardless of how he chose to live his life: "Maintain the name," his older brother had once explained, "Maintain the brand, and you're set."
It was an easy truth, one he was never quite suited for. He was like leather in a world made for lace, smoking in the bathroom so his parents wouldn’t know and wiping ashes off the counter with his mother’s plush white towels. A veil of mysterious ambition, paired with a child’s wish upon a shooting star, when Colt told his family he was going to be a designer some day, they only nodded. Perfectly pleasant, but only because it would’ve been rude manners to discourage him. His mother met his gaze, throat tightening from her last sip of Eleven’s Finest, and she simply said: “Very well.”
They had their ways of expressing their true feelings, and only an expert in the art of wealthy deception would’ve picked up on it. His mother would motion to Colt’s father in the mornings as the avoxes served their breakfast: “Doesn’t the pin on his lapel look absolutely fabulous?”
Colt would stare blankly at the three golden vertical lines, the family name at the bottom in bold. To most, it was a sign of authority and respect. To Colt, a sign of adherence to expectations.
His brother, never quite as tactful as those who had created him, was the worst at hiding his disappointment in Colt’s future plans. He would read the newspaper while the family walked through the park, overdramatizing business opportunities and hoping one would peak Colt’s interest. Colt would just repeat the word no until he eventually grew tired enough to snatch the paper from his brother and toss it into a garbage bin.
He was only twenty years old when he proved them all wromg. He could have taken all of the credit, but he was not too prideful to admit that his parents’ money had made a huge difference at the end. Anyone can go places if they can afford the trip, and he knew that. But his talent and dedication to his craft we’re what kept his head above water for three years after the fact. Each fall, he was a featured designer, and each season, his shows became more and more difficult to attain tickets for.
It was only natural that talent scouts working under the Hunger Games had caught wind of his name. They began sending invitations around Colt’s 21st birthday, begging him to work as one of their stylists. It seemed almost insulting, if he was being completely honest. Flattering, in a way, but for every good Games Stylist, there were three bad ones. The outfitfs were often gimmicks, bad jokes, and simply ridiculous at times. Colt wasn’t the type to openly judge the work of others, but it was with a swift hand that he denied the initial invitations.
The following year, they asked again and he refused once again, more pride in his hard work than ever before. His sales were at an all time high, and there was no way he would risk losing business. Not after the years of judgement that had been passed onto him by his family, and not after he had made a real name for himself.
When the third round of invitations came through, he didn’t even open them. Why would he bother? His profits were so high that he had purchased a loft uptown, and two cars, and useless architecture that was only expensive because someone said it was.
He wasn’t against the Capitol, though, and while he was no advocate for the games, he certainly wouldn’t have been found at any anti-games protests. To him, the Hunger Games were nothing more than a fact of life- a tragic pageant with every bit of entertainment a person could hope for happening in real time. He watched Jacinta Salazar on her journey from tribute to victor, girl to woman, and when the scouts contacted him about becoming her stylist, he agreed.
“You understand this means styling future District Seven tributes as well, right?” One official asked, disbelief in Colt’s agreement thick on his tongue.
“Fine,” he replied, because he knew it was a small price to pay. Jacinta was going to heights even Colt had not yet reached in fortune and fame, and he would’ve been foolish not to let her do so with his name on her back. Besides, she was truly inspiring. Enough to get his signature, at least, and that was all that mattered.
When he went in to get her measurements before her Victor Presentation, he nodded to her once and said:
“My name is Colt, and I’m going to make them remember your name.”