:| Two-Tone |: {Cass}
Feb 1, 2016 14:38:30 GMT -5
Post by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ on Feb 1, 2016 14:38:30 GMT -5
Words. So many words floated around his head as the preparations came to an end and the next Games began. This Games would have a new set of head Gamemakers—the Capitol most likely wary of having a veteran GM after what had happened in the 71st Games—and it was the Azrael twins. The first twins to co-head the Games made waves when it was announced that they would take the controls for the 72nd Games, but Benson could only wonder what sweet words the Capitol had whispered to them to convince them to take the job. Only one thing was certain: it was not in Benson’s place to care.
No, with the Games about to start and the reaping just passed, it was time for him to walk around and become Gamemaker Benson Tiero once again. Truly the title was year-round, something that hung over his head like an eternal reminder that he had once killed 23 children, but the face that accompanied the title was reserved for when the tributes were most public. He could no longer hide, even if he was no longer head Gamemaker, when the Games were in full swing whether it was from other Gamemakers or the numerous assistants that would hound the Gamemakers, ready to soak in knowledge. Even the training center was no longer a sanctuary, not with the tributes and their mentors occupying the building. How could a man be a ghost when the lights were reflecting off every surface and corner the building provided?
It was madness. In the workplace, at the centre, in his home, papers constantly piled on his desk to remind him that it was that time of year again. His eyes could no longer see the color white without wanting to throw a rock at the wall, could no longer see black without dreading what the contents held. Perhaps that was why he had welcomed the break that was the Reaping. To see people, color, emotions, to remove himself from the lines and words that had terrorized him since he accepted the job. Learn from their emotions. Understand who they are—and then manipulate them so that the audience falls for it.
But he was not in charge. These 24 lives were not in his hands, not meant to be manipulated by the training he had received what felt like so many years ago. And still he watched to understand what the Capitol citizens thought of these children, how they would react when confronted with death. Six of them had volunteered, two from District 1. Six of them were siblings of tributes, one of whom was the brother of a Victor, four of whom had just watched their sibling die the previous year. Sure, the reaping was meant to be random and yet Benson couldn’t help but wonder if there was a cruel bone in the Capitol’s body. A soft knock interrupted his thought and he could see his assistant’s apologetic face peeking through the door. “Mr. Tiero—"
“Not now,” Benson cut him off, waving whatever urgent matter it was away. He had had enough of all this work, only wanting a moment of peace that he knew he would not receive. “I’m going out. Leave it on my desk and I’ll look at it when I get back,” he finished brusquely as he took no hesitation to grab the jacket off his chair and walked past his assistant. There was only one place he wanted to be at the moment and he allowed no words, no commitments to prevent him from reaching his destination.
It didn’t take him long before he had reached the District 1 floor of the training centre. It was only one floor up and even then, his office was close enough that he could make the trip by foot. It was where the District 1 tributes would reside until they were ceremoniously thrown into the arena, but more importantly, the District 1 mentors also resided on this floor. His hand went up to knock on the door of Opal Earnest and as soon as an opening was produced, he and the words squeezed through. “What do you think of the tributes for this year? Volunteers are becoming an upward trend and I don’t know how the Capitol is going to view it, though I suppose it’s only natural that the career districts would have volunteers—congratulations, by the way, for your two volunteers—and I can’t help but feel horrible about that Miristioma boy. If the twins are smart, then he will not live and to have a death sentence like that hung over his—"
Benson stopped mid-sentence as he looked around the room, realizing belatedly that perhaps he may have visited at an inopportune time. "Oh."
BENSON TIERO | CAPITOL | STUART TOWNSEND
