CHARLIE GARNET | GAMEMAKER | Hunger Games: The RPG

CHARLIE GARNET | GAMEMAKER May 25, 2015 23:11:15 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on May 25, 2015 23:11:15 GMT -5

D E B U T A N T E

She downs her shot of tequila before stepping out onto the promenade, no salt or limes to chase it towards her stomach. It's a good thing she does, the wince she makes when the camera flashes isn't quite so severe. With a deep breath and a wave of her hand ("It's an honor to be chosen, my deepest gratitude to President Snow, my fellow Gamemakers, and to all of you. We will make this games unforgettable.") she's free.

The night's filled with a clusterfuck of arrogant noses pointed skywards and pathetic noses so brown she swears that they'd actually eat shit to gain the perks of her friendship (like there even are any), but she's used to this. It's her warzone. She grabs a vodka martini. Reciting statistics stored at the back of her head, her database that parses and analyzes exactly what to say to finish the conversation in her favor as quickly as possible.

"It's Garnet, accent on the e," she hurriedly explains to a large woman in sea-foam green who she swears she's seen before ("Former District One Stylist," her assistant Xenia whispers, passing a Black Russian).

"Charlie, ma'am. Yes I'm quite sure. Oh this is nothing, just a simple suit is all. I remember your ensembles though - so breathtaking, would you mind revealing your inspiration?" I'm not drunk enough to deal with this.

The glass has been refilled and emptied twice before the woman finishes her tale of peacocks and satin. As Charlie escapes she swipes a Dirty Shirley from a passing waiter and sips it in relief. It's unfortunate that she has to walk the line between sober and hammered tonight - her stomach's doing backflips and she's feeling claustrophobic. There's no one here to talk to her about the important things, like the gradual integration of Artifical Intelligence into the arena, or how nanotechnology has enabled pixels to be fractions of their previous sizes, illuminating the dome ceiling with as many stars as the galaxy contains.

They're just excited that it's a quell, they just want her to reveal the twist, the arena, the fucking victor (as if she has a final say in that) so they can line their pockets with gold and secrets. They're just like-

She retreats into the mansion to finish her drink.

The media's labeled her as "An enigma, a sculptor, a prodigy." Emerged seemingly out of nowhere, yet graduated University at 18 years old, top of her class in Biomedical Engineering and Computer Science (they always seem to leave out her minor in sociology). Worked summers in the top research hospital in the country and suddenly jumped to the graphics department in the Hunger Games right out of school.

And then at age 19 she changed again, as a top environmental technician in the Control Room, expertly weaving the ecosystem with those living in it. And those worldbuilding skills are top-notch. A key player in the development and maintenance of the 65th Jabberwocky and as a chief designer of the Rancor's 68th habitat, her assets in back-end production as well as her balancing act between code and biology were crucial in her selection two years ago (Promoted at age 23 she beats out Whip and Fortissimo as youngest to be elevated to Gamemaker).

There are many who wonder why such a young woman has been selected as Head Gamemaker for the 70th Hunger Games - a Quell nontheless - but in an exclusive interview with Ceasar Flickerman, Garnet, accent on the e, said the following.

"When the game begins I think it will be a bit clearer."-

She turns the television off, and the room falls into darkness.

Sleep won't come tonight.

M I R R O R

She looks worse for the wear this morning. Just under her paper pale skin (hangover's a bitch) one could see that it's tinged with pigment stains from a decade of dyes. Charlie's a tiny wisp of a figure, standing at 5'3" and 107 lbs. Flyaway hair is bleached so platinum it's almost white, slightly damaged and curling at the ends. Her hands, delicate with piano-fingers, graze her shoulders, her ribs, the nape of her neck where an ugly scar rears its head from a botched tattoo removal surgery. It races down her back and if one wished they could forever wind their way through the maze of its ridges and valleys.

As she gets ready for work, Charlie wonders if she still has the tattoo. She hasn't thought about "her" for quite some time. She probably would have lunged at Charlie's throat the minute she set eyes on her, jealous thing that she was. Is. Could be.

When Charlie gets into the limo, Xenia hands her a glass of orange juice, the glass stem too elegant to contain such a basic liquid. Charlie sniffs the contents. She was right.

F R E S H

At work she's a whirlwind of oxymorons. Silent yet Overpowering. Tries too hard to get the hang of the ropes and gets burnt in the process. Rash and Impulsive yet her ideas are still thought out. Spots of cluelessness. Sparks of brilliance. Some hate her. Some love her. She's not sure which category she places her own self-opinion. There's a reason she's been paired with betting extraordinaire Warren Whip, she just can't figure it out yet. The deadline is looming, this is much more than a test.

F L A S H

He snaps a picture of her outside of her penthouse, just snapping and snapping and lurking just beyond the perimeter of trespassing and sightseeing. Charlie covers her face and scampers inside - it's 3 in the morning why is he still here? Flashbacks to cameras and expensive photo equipment. Rose gel light covers and booming music. A tattoo that explodes in rainbow across her ribs. Hands shaken, money exchanged. Children laughing. Mother's sneering. Jacklyn screaming as she tears the crystals from her skin. Not as good as Septima, Never as good as Septima.

When she turned 17 Septima Garnet (accent on the a) changed her name and never looked back, removed the dyes from her skin, the stain from her back, the weights from her life. She hopes they never find her, dragging her back to the hell where she was shackled into becoming a walking billboard for up and coming designers (At 15 the woman in sea foam green dressed her in a pencil skirt made from actual pencils). Her most vivid memory is of Jacklyn with her identical tattoo, crying and blaming and screaming as her tears were mopped and crystals gathered and bloody craters patched up by her younger, smarter sister. That's what Septima Garnet was for, after all. A punching bag for emotions run rampant, lucrative business deals, dreams that weren't hers.

Her dream was freedom. Her dream was control. And now she has it.

I fear that this bottle won't be enough.

O T H E R

FACECLAIM: Maja Brodin
Head Gamemaker for the 70th Hunger Games
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