[82nd] The Reaping - District 12

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gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

[82nd] The Reaping - District 12 May 31, 2019 23:22:14 GMT -5

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on May 31, 2019 23:22:14 GMT -5

"It is time," the Escort said as they 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!"

They 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," they announced, pulling out a slip of paper. They unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Red Stone!" They then reached into the other ball. "Cedar Halt!"

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, June 3rd, 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.

{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
leader of the crystal gems

gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

[82nd] The Reaping - District 12 Jun 2, 2019 9:00:26 GMT -5

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Jun 2, 2019 9:00:26 GMT -5

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(is it easy to keep so quiet? everybody loves a quiet child)

Reaping day always goes like this: He rises before the sun, when the baby sparrows in the rosemary bush outside his window start making their demands for breakfast. He makes his bed and a pot of tea. He sits on the stoop for an hour until the sky has gone from grayscale to technicolor. He cooks breakfast: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, tomatoes from the garden, a full pound of bacon. Even after his dad wakes up and has his fill, there's always extra. They play a few games of gin rummy and Cedar keeps score. Usually he lets his dad win, just to give him something. He brushes his teeth but not his hair.

When he leaves for the town square, his dad comes with him again this year. The old victor had made his return — to the Capitol, if not prominence — for the last Games, in the wake of the lazarus twist that had shaken him to his core. He'd spent the last few weeks waffling on making a return appearance. Certainly he wasn't needed, and there was only so much more digging he could do into the motives behind that quell... but no matter how hollow-eyed he looked every time he returned to District Twelve with one more ghost in tow, he'd only guilt himself harder for staying away. Arbor agonized over whether or not he'd go back to the Capitol again; at no point did Cedar doubt that his father would choose to return.

Which was fine. Last year he'd split the time between his grandfather's and cousin Evander's. He was okay on his own, but it was nice to be with family. This year he'd do a week at Uncle Cade's, too, who'd thrown his back out and could use the help around the house. Especially with Cain's toddler hellbent on climbing every table and shelf in sight, knocking everything in swinging distance to the ground. When everyone had gotten so old, Cedar wasn't quite sure, but he wasn't exactly sure when he'd grown up, either.

Standing in the crowd at the reaping, he tries to make himself invisible. Collar flipped up, shoulders hunched, Cedar wishes there were some way to conceal the fact that his jacket is fine linen, free of stains and holes. He feels eyes on him even when nobody is staring. Given as an infant from poverty to privilege in a district where the former is the default, the mere act of being feels like spitting in the faces of all those struggling. He earned nothing and was afforded opulence anyway.

Cedar Halt doesn't catch his name when it's read off the slip of paper.

He hears it in the chair clattering to the stage as his dad bolts upright. The first four phases of grief fight each other for dominance on the face of the victor who's seen — and not seen — the worst things life has to offer a hundred times over.

Cedar takes the fifth for himself, straightens his shoulders, and trudges up to the stage to accept his fate.

cedar halt accepts

rylan — the national

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Last Edit: Jun 2, 2019 20:47:05 GMT -5 by gm bourgeois decadence [aya]

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certified kindergartener
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Cameo {RIP Charlie}
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[82nd] The Reaping - District 12 Jun 2, 2019 18:21:49 GMT -5

Post by Cameo {RIP Charlie} on Jun 2, 2019 18:21:49 GMT -5

<><><>

A bleak shack used to be the framework of our home rather depressingly. Any form of color was absent from all corners of our living quarters. A savory aroma of cooking food seized to ever perfume the house. Simply put, complete dread was all that painted every surface and wall. Now however, after two elongated years of torture has passed, my sole pair of ancient heels clamper across the dirt path towards a shack of a different tune. Immediately the mouthwatering taste of Mycelium’s cooking infringes upon my nostrils in a manner that would have made my stomach cry with jealousy years back. Gentle decor welcome me past our front door with cheap materials coloring what was once grim beyond affordable repair. A warmth hugs my skin that was once so cold I believed that I’d never defrost.

It may still be a shack, but it’s no longer a shack of the dying - but rather of the ones who decided to finally kill their souls so that they could truly live.

Dedication to her craft appears to be distracting my Twin from even noticing my entrance, her eyes pierced upon vegetables that she’s slicing while others stew within a pot. Often a slick comment will alert of my intrusion home, while hesitation on disturbing her keeps my lips unseparated. Anger seems to be furrowing her brow against the concentration of her creation. Sweat brimming her forehead, sparkling against her pale skin that sounds to be glowing more than usual.

Something else maintains my silence however, as I attempt to softly glide to the cabinet that holds our secret compartment to hide money. “You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.” Her words are keen and few, while still she manages to set that guilt deep within my core.

The payment earned from tonight’s self-sacrificing, soul-killing, life-draining job is stuffed into that secret compartment of ours, before a sigh rumbles in a deflate of my lungs and I turn towards my twin. A mixture of sweet sorrow and pure anger seems to weave through her expression, as she remains focused on cooking. “I couldn’t miss tonight this year, and we shouldn’t have last year. All the boys are desperate for a distraction from tomorrow, and most of the girls are at home scared shitless too. I was able to make three times more than usual tonight.” Arms cross before me, defensiveness automatically encroaching upon my demeanor.

“Look, I get it. But we promised that this night is about us, and being here for each other. What about us? What if we’re scared shitless for tomorrow?” Abruptly a knife slams into the countertop, and though the reaping scares me scarcely - that knife drop surely does jostle me a bit more, and even more so her refusal to even glance my way. “What about me, Red? You are supposed to be here tonight for me!” Never has such neediness possessed my Sister, raffling me with a ton of confusion.

The tip of my bottom lip pierces between my teeth, unsure of how to handle a Mycelium that’s now overtaken by the normal emotions we haven’t digested for years - and my approach towards probably isn’t best. “And I’m here now, aren’t I? I could have stayed out until the sun rises and made more money then we would have made in a month, but I didn’t. And I was out making money for us, it’s not like I was doing it for a load of fun!” I feel as though a child being scolded for accepting playtime prior to completing chores.

“You aren’t getting it. Sometimes there are things more important than money.” Seriousness drops her tone, in a demeanor I’m familiar with - while with a manner that I’m not. Is fear of tomorrow truly rattling her, or is something else entirely? For once, I’m unable to read the twin who I’ve always shared thoughts with.

“Making sure we don’t go back to a life of starvation is the most important thing, you know that more than I do. What the hell has gotten into you, Mouse?” Frustration boils me over the edge, furious over my inability to understand the only person I comprehend more then even myself. My deep blue eyes of rage stare like daggers at her, patiently pleading for her to return even a gaze my way… And then she finally does glance up from the food, and those piercing eyes of her’s are pooled with salty liquid.

Instantly my heart drops with further guilt than she could have ever even wished for, and it drops slowly and surely, more and more, with every word that follows from her lips of shambles. “I needed you here tonight, a night I knew we’d both be home to tell you I’m pregnant. So you want to know what’s gotten into me? A baby, Red, a fucking baby.” Eyes bulge upon my expression to the point that it feels they may just fall out of my head, as if dumbstruck by how a baby is even made.

“What?” Confusion breaches from my lips, like the profession of our employment didn’t hang the chance of pregnancy above our heads every night we went to work.

~ ~ ~

“Red Stone!”

The name of my own imprints another reason of guilt for not arriving home earlier last night. Simultaneously to the color of my tittle being announced my heart falters a beat, just before pulsing as rapidly as ever before. With the call of my surname that finalizes my fate, my eyes whip towards my other half in fear of her stealing that fate of mine. “Don’t you dare.” I demand to her in a whisper, my stare tunneled upon her parted lips that are tempted to do the opposite of my desires.

Her eyes of identical color, aside from the lighter hue, meet with mine - her irises pleading with me to allow her to do so. Subtly I shake my head in rejection, feeling the eyes of the approaching Keepers whom are impatient towards my pause before accepting my call. “You can’t. You know you can’t.” The sensation of her hand squeezing my own takes me from my physical numbness, before I depart into it fully and let go of that grasp that’s kept me alive all these years.

A boy known by all joins me upon the stage, with hair that appears fresh from a bed of slumber - while the rest of him seems to glisten with a facade of confidence, or perhaps that’s simply acceptance. The energy of gentle chaos radiates from the stage restricted for past Victors, where his father refutes to agree to his Son’s destiny; just as Mycelium refuses to my own.

Still our eyes remain locked, despite the crowd drowning her and isolation suffocating me, and I see her head nod with the acceptance she’s sickened to give. Within her carries the light of our family that we destroyed in attempt to save it. Within me solely carries a fate of uncertainty, while I succumb to it nonetheless.