Test7

Welcome everyone to the thirteenth Games in my series! In my last Games, the 24th, Scyler Meios of District 14 was crowned Victor! These particular Games will have a special Twist, so keep reading to find out more!
==Introduction==
The 25th Games will be a quarter quell that contains a Twist. The Twist will explained thusly: 
“To further serve their penance and to show the country that everyone was responsible for the brutality and death of war, each of the thirty Reaped tributes will be randomly partnered with a revived tribute. The Reaped tribute will be responsible for protecting and safeguarding their returnee, and those that fail in this regard will be punished. This punishment will range in severity depending on the nature of the infraction—up to and including the immediate death of the Reaped tribute.”
There you have it, folks! The Twist! Below I will offer some bullet points that should clarify some of the rules.
*There can be two Victors in the 25th Games, but only if they’re both partnered by the end of the Games.
*There will be a total of thirty pairs.
*It is imperative that the Partners work together as the Reaped tribute can and will be “punished” for allowing harm to befall their Returnee. 
*There is an incentive for the Returnee to keep their partner alive, though what exactly this incentive is will not be revealed until after the Ceremony.
*The Partners will be “randomly” decided. There is no limit on who may be partnered with who. It will not be decided based on gender or district—anyone may be partnered with anyone.
*It is entirely possible for traditional alliances to coexist alongside the partners.
*There will be a “Wildcard Round” where tributes who finished second place in the vote to return will face off in a battle arena to see which two will gain the honor of competing again.
==Rules==
1: There will be sixty Tributes. Thirty Reaped tributes and thirty returnees.
2: The tribute limit is currently one per user, though this will move up to two per user after twenty-four hours.
3: Each Tribute starts with $150 in sponsor money for their mentor (creator) to use as they see fit.
4: I will write Reapings, Group Training, and of course the actual Games
5: I will not accept any Tributes that have been in my previous Games
6: Reservations last 72 hours (this may be extended)
7: Tribute Form: 
Name:
District:
Gender:
Age:
Personality:
Backstory:
Height:
Appearance:
Weapon(s):
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Fear(s):
Bloodbath Strategy:
Alliance: (can be filled out later)
==Tributes==
District	Designation	Gender	Name 	Age	Height 	Weapon 	User
0 	Returnee 	Male 	Topher Celene 	17 	5’9 	Spork 	Hybrid Shadow
0 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	CosmicMilk 	 	
0 	Returnee 	Female	Zamara Nostalic 	17 	5’9 	Bow & Arrow 	Philosophical Msft
0 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	Mistymolla 	 	
1 	Returnee 	Male 	Cullinan Beryll 	18 	6’3 	Iron Shoes 	Nlby001
1 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	SpiritStormGamer 	 	
1 	Returnee 	Female	Artemis Grace 	17 	5’4 	Bow & Arrow 	Junior II
1 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
2 	Returnee 	Male 	Atticus Rockwell 	17 	5’10 	Sword, Bow 	DrXax
2 	Reaped 	Male 	 	 	 	 	
2 	Returnee 	Female	Jerica Straddler 	16 	5’7 	Axe 	Andy1854
2 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	Pervaza 	 	
3 	Returnee 	Male 	Teddy Bridges 	15 	5’5 	Shuriken, Trident	RedhairBlueeyes
3 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Mechonyx 	 	
3 	Returnee 	Female	Syren Song 	17 	5’7 	Trident 	Jabberjay78
3 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
4 	Returnee 	Male 	Flick Rivers 	18 	6’4 	Trident 	FrostyFire
4 	Reaped 	Male 	 	 	 	 	
4 	Returnee 	Female	Marina Mattel 	17 	5’7 	Trident, Blowgun 	Aerialchinook
4 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	Anonymous2400 	 	
5 	Returnee 	Male 	Philo Ventus 	15 	6’5 	Sickle 	Hybrid Shadow
5 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Aerialchinook 	 	
5 	Returnee 	Female	Corin Greer 	15 	5’8 	Sword, Knife 	Enraptured Misfit
5 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
6 	Returnee 	Male 	Xavier Woods 	17 	6’2 	Spear 	Attackcobra
6 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Philosophical Msft	 	
6 	Returnee 	Female	Rosalie Sonnet 	15 	5’4 	Chakram 	FrostyFire
6 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
7 	Returnee 	Male 	Killen Timmerhout	16 	5’8 	Axe 	DrXax
7 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Sindowne 	 	
7 	Returnee 	Female	Yewan Felling 	18 	5’10 	Axe, Hammer 	Poisoned Poetry
7 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	EternalLuna 	 	
8 	Returnee 	Male 	Rufus Silks 	16 	5’11 	Knife 	Hybrid Shadow
8 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	LC20712 	 	
8 	Returnee 	Female	Coco Joansi 	14 	5’4 	Knife 	Nlsoccer27
8 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	AlecGetYa 	 	
9 	Returnee 	Male 	Lyman Milton 	16 	5’10 	Sickle, Knife 	Hybrid Shadow
9 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Utgar 	 	
9 	Returnee 	Female	Emma Brynne 	16 	5’4 	Throwing Knives 	Karmaron
9 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
10 	Returnee 	Male 	Bronco Bagwell 	18 	6’0 	Axe 	Attackcobra
10 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Enraptured Misfit 	 	
10 	Returnee 	Female	Gracie King 	14 	5’2 	Whip 	Thena.arice14
10 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
11 	Returnee 	Male 	Chrome Kimathi 	18 	5’10 	Whip, Blowgun 	SpiritStormGamer
11 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Blake’s Friend 	 	
11 	Returnee 	Female	Shiloh Masego 	16 	5’8 	Scythe, Sickle 	Philosophical Msft
11 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
12 	Returnee 	Male 	Ash Vile 	14 	5’6 	Axe, Slingshot 	Sindowne
12 	Reaped 	Male 	 	 	 	 	
12 	Returnee 	Female	Kia Gage 	17 	5’7 	Knife, Axe 	Mistymolla
12 	Reaped 	Female	 	 	 	 	
13 	Returnee 	Male 	Luxio Sertralium 	15 	5’7 	Glaive 	Sindowne
13 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	Poisoned Poetry 	 	
13 	Returnee 	Female	Kiara Mitchell 	14 	5’2 	Throwing Knives 	Mistymolla
13 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	Karmaron 	 	
14 	Reaped 	Male 	Reserved 	for	VDiablino 	 	
14 	Reaped 	Female	Reserved 	for	FrostyFire 	 	
WC 	Returnee 	TBD 	 	 	 	 	
WC 	Returnee 	TBD 	 	 	 	 	
==Sponsoring==
===Sponsor Table===
 Caption text
User 	T1 	T2 	T3 	T4 	T5
Aerialchinook 	Winston Ainsworth $150	Gracie King $150 	 	 	
Anonymous2400 	Agnes Adgarpelgo $150 	 	 	 	
AlecGetYa 	Xavier Woods $150 	Azani Xinetta $150 	 	 	
Adfafla 	Riker Reed $150 	 	 	 	
CosmicMilk 	Atlas Oberon $150 	Everette Paisley $150 	Bronco Bagwell $150 	 	
Enraptured Misfit 	Ros Paulus $150 	Corin Greer $150 	Hessian Brune $150 	Taw Winthorpe $150 	
EternalLuna 	Teddy Bridge $150 	Clara Rayner $150 	Quinlan Stralachi $150 	Robin Mangrove $150	Coco Joansi $150
FrostyFire 	Huxley Remington $150 	Flick Rivers $150 	Hypatia Anastasakis $150 	 	
MistyMolla 	Venus Holmes $150 	Saskia Wells $150 	Kia Gage $150 	Kiara Mitchell $150	
Mechonyx 	Artemis Grace $150 	Felix Waterson $150 	Tyhera Venetia $150 	 	
Pervaza972 	Melissa Gladiator $150	Killen Timmerhout $150	 	 	
Philosophical Msft	Zamara Nostalic $150 	Mok-Mok- Mayhew $150 	Shiloh Masego $150 	 	
Poisoned Poetry 	Topher Celene $150 	Yewan Felling $150 	Durran Sinclair $150 	 	
Karmaron 	Philo Ventus $150 	Emma Brynne $150 	Seraphienna Naismith $150	 	
Utgar22 	Syren Song $150 	Valor Forge $150 	Rufus Silks $150 	Jason Price $150 	Maria Spectrus $150
Sindowne 	Sky Tronarc $150 	Cantrip Celesta $150 	Lyman Milton $150 	Ash Vile $150 	Luxio Sertrailum $150
SpiritStormGamer 	Rene Armani $150 	Atticus Rockwell $150 	Aaliyah Dawson $150 	Chrome Kimathi $150	
VDiablino 	Wisp Flare $150 	Bella Mustang $150 	Vex Ryker $150 	 	
==Prologue==
TBD
==Wildcard Round==
TBD
==Reapings==
TBD
==Prologue==
Joc Price ascended a steep staircase inside the Tower and ran a hand through his thinning hair. People liked to say that the stress of being New Panem’s Minister of Finance was the reason for his hair loss, but he knew it was simply genetics. He’d been losing his hair since his twenties, and his father had also lost his hair young. Even his younger brother Jaquard had already begun to lose his hair.
Joc reached the top of the landing and paused to catch his breath. His youngest brother, Azrael, hadn’t yet begun to lose his hair, but then, Azrael was different from his family in many ways, his hair the least of it. 
A long, wide window stood to Joc’s right. One of the few inside the Tower, it presented a stunning view of District 14, the country’s jewel shining in the midafternoon sun. From this height, even the tallest skyscraper seemed minuscule.
“Truly beautiful, isn’t it?”
A man’s voice broke the sepulchral silence of the Tower and Joc turned to watch him approach. He was a wide, muscular man in his early-forties with steel grey hair and a strong jaw.
Martin Vissbruck, New Panem’s Minister of Defense. 
“Indeed, it is quite a wonderful sight,” Joc flashed the man a smile. Vissbruck was one of the seven Minsters who oversaw New Panem’s most important sectors, and while everyone knew he did not truly have final say over the country’s army—that matter fell to General Cypher Meios—his position still granted him a measure of respect.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before returning to their shared ascent of the staircase. As it was a mere week away from the Reapings and the start of a new Games, a meeting between all the Ministers had been called. 
Of course, Joc would not be able to attend in person. Mother had arranged a family meeting today as well, and he was expected to make an appearance at the throne room. 
“Have you seen it yet?” Vissbruck asked quietly as they walked.
Joc knew what he meant by it. The skyship which floated over the mountains above District 14. It was flagship of The City’s fleet, and it was a magnificent sight to behold. 
The aircraft looked like a ship of old, the kind which sailed the sea, but it was made of a strong, sturdy black material that looked far too heavy to fly as it did. Joc was no engineer, but even he knew that the thing defied current technology. 
“Not in person, no,” Joc kept his face neutral, refusing to display the awe he felt toward the ship. “But I’ve seen videos.”
“Videos do not do it justice,” Vissbruck shook his head. “The thing is magnificent. The cannons it holds are large enough to shatter fortress walls, and they even have a railgun on the prow.”
Joc tried not to let his dismay show. “Sounds formidable. Certainly our own military is capable of countering it.”
“Our Jetwings and Windmaster’s are far more maneuverable, true, but I am uncertain on how well their armaments would fare against that monstrosity’s armor.”
It was nearing a full year since The City had first returned to New Panem, and their fleet was here to help commemorate the anniversary. On paper it was meant to be a celebration of reopening relations between the two countries, but Joc knew that the real reason was simply The City’s desire to flaunt their own military prowess.
It, unfortunately, seemed to rival that of New Panem’s.
“I am certain Cypher is already coming up with plans to combat the thing,” Joc said quietly as they—finally!—reached the top of the staircase. “He is quite a shrewd and resourceful man.”
Vissbruck shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I suppose so… but I’m worried, Joc. This City isn’t like the rebels. They’re not a bunch of amateurs playing with weapons they don’t understand. The technology they possess is leaps and bounds beyond our own, and I fear what they are capable of.”
“I know. But one ship alone isn’t sufficient to topple our military.”
“I understand. But still… do you know what they call that monstrosity? The Citykiller.”
Joc did not immediately reply. Mother herself had always been worried about what lay beyond New Panem’s borders. It was a major factor in the rift that grew between her and Uncle Azathoth. He had wanted to expand, to seek out new trading partners and explore the world. 
Mother thought that foolishness. Discounting the original Agents, the world outside their borders had ignored them for hundreds of years. Whatever was out there could be capable of destroying the country completely. Mother feared that venturing forth would draw their attention and ire upon them.
Joc himself held no desire to see what lay beyond the realm. Once, when he had been but a child, a man was found floating near District 4’s shore. He wore strange clothing and spoke a foreign language, yet a linguist among Mother’s government found a way to translate his words. 
The man, clearly addled and nearly insane from his ordeal, had claimed to be from the far west. There was a great expanse of land out there, he had told them, and they were ruled by someone called the Black Emperor, who reigned supreme over the Black Sun Empire. 
The man claimed to be an escapee from the Black Emperor’s prison, a place where the prisoners spent their their days and nights screaming at things that only they could see. Things which the Black Emperor had planted in their minds. After explaining this, the man began to scream and had tried to claw out his own eyes, so they were forced to sedate him. 
The man had died the next day, and they learned no more, yet that memory had always stuck with Joc. He did not wish to see what lay outside the borders of New Panem.
Not at all. 
“Joc! Just the man I was hoping to see!”
A high, shrill voice echoed through the cavernous hallway and Joc suppressed a sigh as he turned around. 
Charon Whinges, the Minister of Education, was trundling down the hallway toward him. She was a pudgy woman with short hair dyed blue, a pair of large, thick glasses, and a multitude of bracelets and necklaces that clattered against each other with every step. 
“Oh, hello, Charon.” Joc did not want to deal with this woman today. “I must apologize, but I am really quite busy and have a meeting to attend.”
“I know, Joc!” Charon reached him and Vissbruck, setting two hands on her wide hips. “I will be attending the same meeting!”
Drat. Charon was one of the seven ministers, of course she was attending the meeting! “Right. I see.”
Charon joined him and Vissbruck as they made their way down the hall. As much as Joc yearned to excuse himself and be rid of the woman, there was nothing to do. The meeting room was on this very floor and there was no practical way to dismiss Charon. 
Vissbruck tapped away at his datapad and the trio began to follow the pale light which shone from cracks in the wall. A Guidelight, to lead them to their destination. Every floor of the Tower had Guidelights. You merely had to interface with its network and request one. 
“The citizenry of the rural Districts have really been quite irksome,” Charon chattered away as they walked, heedless of the annoyance on either man’s face. “They resist the education systems demands at every step. Really, can you believe they’ve tried withdrawing their children from school entirely?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Joc had too many things on his plate to worry about rural parents. 
“They vehemently oppose the idea that their children be taught our shared penance. Honestly! They want to radicalize the kids into believing they aren’t responsible for their ancestors actions!”
“How unfortunate.”
Charon continued to complain as they went, outlining her every issue and grievance as if it was the worst thing in the world. Joc zoned out halfway through her whining and tried to balance the fiscal budget in his head. Things weren’t looking too good in that department. Lots of high-value expenditures recently.
“Joc!”
He blinked, coming back to reality. “Oh, yes?”
“Were you even listening?” Charon stared at him through her overly wide glasses.
“Er, yes. You were saying something about…” He searched his mind for her usual complaints. “How the youth of today don’t fully understand the plight of underserved communities?”
Charon gave a loud sniff. “Quite right. However, I do believe that if our education system was given a larger budget we could very well begin to—”
Joc tuned out the rest of the lecture and just nodded and agreed with whatever the woman said. At one point she requested that he speak with his mother about directly involving herself in a dispute over… something, and he told her he’d get right on it.
He wouldn’t, of course, but he wasn’t about to tell Charon that.
Thankfully her endless whining came to an end as they reached their destination, a wide metal door set at the middle of a T-intersection. Two men stood beside the door in the middle of a conversation, and Joc wasted no time before interjecting himself into it.
“Mortimer! Carlos! How good it is to see you!”
The two men stopped and exchanged greetings with him.
“Ah, good evening, Joc.” Mortimer Murchinson was a heavyset man with a face as red and wrinkled as a sun-dried tomato, and Joc could think of no better person to serve as the Minister of Agriculture. 
“Indeed. I was wondering when you’d show. Liberty is already inside.” Carlos Bartolomo was a stylishly dressed man with long black hair and a neatly arranged goatee. The Minister of Transportation was someone who took great care to always look his best. 
“Good, good!” Vissbruck rubbed his hands together. “Since we are all gathered, then we can begin immediately!”
Charon gave another sniff. “Technically Matthew is absent.”
That reminder brought a somber silence to the group. Matthew Chron was Minister of the Interior and one of the most prominent men in the government of New Panem. However, it had been nearly a year since he’d actually performed his ministerial duties. His only daughter, Meta, had been Reaped for last years Games and perished inside the arena. 
The official word was that Matthew had been so distraught over his daughter’s death that he’d suffered a mental breakdown and had spent the last twelve months recuperating.
The truth was… less pleasant.
Joc only knew as much as he did because of his mother, but Matthew Chron had been suspected of treason. Mother had put him under surveillance and investigated any and all leads, but found no surefire proof of his guilt. Loath to let him off the hook, Mother had instead sent his daughter into the Games to die as punishment unless Matthew came clean and confessed.
He did not, and thus his daughter died.
Apparently the most recent Victor—Scyler—had gotten Meta to admit her father’s crimes while they were together in the arena, but failed to procure information on who he was working for. Since this was something Mother desperately wished to know, Matthew had been spared execution and simply placed under house arrest ever since. 
“I am sure Matthew will be rejoining us soon enough,” Mortimer said good-naturedly.
“If he was so worried about losing his heir, then he should’ve had more children!” Vissbruck shrugged. The man himself had more than a dozen children. 
Joc remained silent as the others began to either agree with or protest Vissbruck’s declaration. Joc currently had two children. A boy and a girl, Kazza and Little Jac. They were both back home with this wife Sarah right now, and he found himself desperately wishing that he too could be there. 
Work could be so tiring. Every day brought a new problem and no matter how hard he tried, the workload never got any lighter. It was extremely frustrating. 
“Aren’t you going to come inside, Joc?”
He pulled himself out of his thoughts and blinked at Mortimer, who was holding the boardroom door open. The others had already gone inside. “Oh no. I cannot. Mother has called a family meeting, you see, and I really must attend.”
Mortimer nodded. “Good luck with that, then.”
Joc thanked him and the man shut the door with a resounding boom. The sound echoed along the cavernous hallways before being swallowed by the silence which hung around the broad columns. 
Joc gave himself a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet before pulling up his datapad and requesting a Guidelight. This time the light was a golden color as it appeared along the wall, leading him to his next destination, the throne room. 
It was located in the highest chamber of the Tower, and that mandated the use of an elevator, so the Guidelight took him straight to one. Joc rarely used the elevators, but that wasn’t because he had anything personally against them. Most of the time he simply couldn’t find one.
“Destination, sir?” The attendant asked as he stepped inside.
“As close to the throne room as you can, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
Joc didn’t understand how the elevators worked. They didn’t just go up and down, they went sideways and slant ways, long ways and short ways. They seemed to traverse the entirety of the Tower and rarely could be found in the same location. Only the attendants seemed to understand their idiosyncrasies. 
There were no elevators to the topmost chamber, so Joc was deposited several floors down. He resigned himself to walking up several flights of stairs and thought of his family—his wife and kids. They were the true light of his life. Without them he was certain he’d have descended into a meaningless life of drink and excess long ago. 
His legs began to burn by the time he reached the topmost floor. The walls around him were made of the same black onyx-like substance as the previous ones, but there lines of golden artwork built into them. Thick carpets laid along the ground, and statues and other decorations littering the pathways. A pair of ginormous marble doors stood at the end of a long corridor, and a man was standing beside them.
“Jacquard!” Joc greeted his younger brother with a smile. 
Jacquard looked up and returned the smile. With his bronze skin tone, short dark hair, and green eyes, Jacquard looked much like a shorter version of Joc himself. “Greetings, brother. You’re the last to arrive.”
Joc frowned. “The very last?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone else is already here? Even cousin Azusa?”
Jacquard nodded. “Even she showed up on time. You’re the only one yet to make an appearance.”
“Huh.” That was atypical. Azusa was always late. “Well, I had a meeting of the Ministers to attend, plus those staircases… very long and winding.”
The two brothers chatted amicably as they approached the doublewide doors. Jacquard paused as he grabbed the handles. “Sarah and the kids not coming?”
“No. They chose to stay home. You know how Sarah feels about the family.” Mother had never liked Sarah. Though she hadn’t done anything to try and prevent their union she always made biting comments and Sarah had never grown comfortable around her. 
Jacquard merely shrugged and pulled the doors open. 
The throne room was a sight to behold. Two lines of columns, tall as forest trees, marched down either side of the echoing space, carved from polished green stone fretted with glittering veins of silver. High above, the ceiling was painted a rich blue-black, marked with a galaxy of shining stars, constellations picked out by golden lines. A deep pool of dark water filled the space before the door, perfectly still, reflecting everything. Another shadowy hall below. Another shadowy night sky beyond it. 
Dozens of long tables spread concentrically around the lake, each one occupied by members of the Price family. Aunt Aizling was there, seated alongside her children, Jacen and the chronically late Azusa, and Jacen’s own children, Mazda, Azta, and Steve. 
Further along sat Uncle Jacson. He was attended by his youngest son Azazel, and Uncle Azathoth’s only child, Azaiah. They waved at Joc as he made his way past. 
A great stone throne cast from the deepest, darkest stone sat at the far end of the room, beyond the lake and columns. A long set of stairs led up to it, where another sat atop her dais, legs crossed and hands spread along the stone armrest, fingers tapping absently as she watches her family mingle and socialize. 
Joc waved to her in greeting and she responded with a slight tilt of her head. 
“The presence of the Citykiller has put her in a foul mood.”
Joc turned to see cousin Aztec approaching him, wine glass in hand. Like all of Uncle Jacson’s children, Aztec was fairer-skinned than Joc himself, with a creamy pink undertone and blond hair the color of straw. 
“It was meant as intimidation, no doubt about it,” Joc said quietly. 
“True. Wonder why they’ve returned after all these years away?”
Joc didn’t have an answer. Just baseless speculation and guesses. Nothing worth sharing, at any rate. “Suppose we’ll find out eventually.”
Aztec left as quickly as he came, and Joc wandered the room, observing his family members and listening to the gentle music played by a team of musicians atop a small stage in the background. His sister Azereth was there, accompanied by a handsome young man whose identity he didn’t know. Azereth was constantly switching partners, so he’d long given up learning their names.
He cast his eyes around the room, searching. Aztec’s twin daughters, Azula and Azura, were in the corner intertwined around each other as always. A large group of children—half a dozen of them named Azalea—were running around the lakeshore playing some game with a ball. Cousin Steve was beginning the process of starting some sort of card game with the younger men, and Jacquard was sitting with his family, his wife Emilia and their children, Big Jac, and little baby Jacqueline.
But where was…? Ah! There!
Azrael was leaning against the far wall, one foot braced against it, knee extended as he sat with folded arms and stared out at the room in stony silence. If there was one thing Joc could say about his youngest brother, it was that he certainly knew how to brood. 
Azrael was a large, broad-shouldered man who stood more than six and a half feet tall. Today he wore his long dark hair loose, and it spilled down to his shoulders, framing a stern face which was dominated by a long white scar which spread from his eyebrow to chin.
Joc remembered the day he gained that scar. It was during the finale of the 16th Games, when it came down to Azrael against three Careers. People liked to say that Mother had rigged the Games for her son, but Joc knew that was nothing but slander. Had it truly been rigged, they never would’ve put Azrael in a situation where he had to fight three trained killers in a one-on-three battle.
“Brother!” Joc approached the younger man with a tentative smile. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”
Azrael turned his dark eyes upon him. The long scar drew all of Joc’s attention. What he remembered most of that day was the fear he felt when the boy from District 2’s axe had carved a path into his brothers face. 
It had been a brutal, grisly sight. The mere fact that a scar was the only remainder of that wound was a testament to the skill of the doctors whom immediately attended to him at the Games conclusion. Without their intervention… 
Joc didn’t like to think about that.
“Have you ever dreamt of a white corridor, brother?”
Joc blinked, taken back by his brother’s sudden question. “Can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”
Azrael looked down at his hands. Big, wide hands that had personally killed ten children inside the arena, more than any tribute ever. “Because I dream of it every night.”
Well, that was passing odd. Who dreamt of such things? Joc’s own dreams were usually drab, boring affairs. Mostly just him doing mindless work while being lectured by his intellectual inferiors. “Indeed? What happens in this corridor?”
“I see bubbles. They show me things. Things that have been, things that will be, and things that never will.”
“Oh, really? Anything else?”
“I meet people. People who are long dead and ones who still live. Sometimes they speak to me. Other times they run.”
Joc began to think that perhaps his brother wasn’t all there. Azrael had taken quite a blow to the head in the arena. Maybe it messed him up more than he let on. “Yes, well, they’re just dreams. Don’t let it get to you, alright?”
Joc couldn’t afford Azrael to lose his mind. Otherwise who else would replace Mother when she eventually retired? Jacquard made it clear he held no intention of ever becoming President, and Azereth herself would run the country into the ground. If Azrael couldn’t do it, then that left just Joc himself, and he did not want to deal with a job that stressful. 
If only Mother could live forever and prevent that…
The doublewide doors were flung open and a group of black clad men strolled into the room.
The music came to a screeching halt as everyone stopped and stared at the intruders. There were four of them, three dressed in thick black clothing that somewhat resembled the uniform of the Cards, and a fourth who similarly wore black, but his was a suit cut in a post-modern style. The three in the back wore masks, but the fourth man had his face exposed, revealing feathery blond hair and a pale smiling face.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mother’s own face was a thundercloud as she glared down from her throne. “Who dares intrude upon our family gathering?”
The blond man gave a low bow. “I greatly apologize for the intrusion, Madame President, but I was told that this is where I could get an attendance with you.”
“And who are you to demand an audience?” 
Hidden side doors opened and teams of Agents swarmed into the room. Mother must have hit the panic button the moment the mysterious men arrived. 
“Who am I?” The blond man chuckled. “I am none other than the Supreme Guardian of The City itself!”
A broad-shouldered man emerged from behind the throne itself. Clad in all white, he work a mask decorated with a detailed portrait of a crowned man, and carried a multitude of weaponry on him. King, the only Card who resided in District 14 full time.
Joc felt himself relax. If King was here, then there was nothing to worry about. The man could probably kill everyone in the room by himself. 
“Why was I not told of your arrival?” Mother continued to glare down at the blond man and his retainers. It was the angriest Joc had seen her in a long time. "Why did you presume barging into my quarters was the proper way to announce yourself?”
The Supreme Guardian laughed and gave a little bow. “I apologize, Madam President. My men and I came from the roof. We used our Icarus boots—which The City invented, I may add—and descended from The Citykiller high above to enter from an access panel that I remembered from when I was last here.”
That caused a stir among some of the gathered people. When he was last here? Joc frowned. When was this strange man ever in the Tower?
“Madame President, this man is dangerous and unpredictable,” King stepped forward, placing himself between Mother and the assembled men. “We should have him immediately detained for questioning.”
“Do you know something of him, King?” Mother voiced the very question that was bubbling in Joc’s head.
The white-clad man gave a slow nod. “He is Joker. The original Joker. The one who came to this country with Those Who Don’t Exist.”
The crowd broke into a mass of furious whispers. Joc himself could scarcely believe it. One of the original council members? A leader among the group of individuals who came to Panem from across the sea and overthrew the Capitol, forever changing the world? This small, slight man was one of them? 
It boggled the mind. 
“King,” The Supreme Guardian said the name like he was trying it out. “King… so you’re the one to carry that title now, are you? I must say, I’m disappointed. The original King was an awe-inspiring man. His very presence would fill you with intimidation. You are but a pale imitation.”
King’s entire body was covered, so Joc could not anything which would show his reaction, but he did not imagine the man took the slight well.
“You claim this man was one of the Founders?” Mother asked quietly.
King nodded. “There is no doubt. This is Joker, also known as Dimentio.”
The Supreme Guardian laughed. “True, true. I am Dimentio. As you are no doubt aware, me and my cohorts slipped away after the War’s end. We took the Cellular Rejuvenator with us, which explains my dashing youthful visage.”
Joc always had a hard time believing that Those Who Don’t Exist, the forbears of the Agents, had a means to combat the affects of aging. But this man—and King’s reaction to him—seemed to prove those stories true.
==Reapings==
===District 0: Venus Holmes===
TBD
===District 1: Rene Armani===
TBD
===District 2: Melissa Gladiator===
TBD
===District 4: Quinlan Stralachi===
The sun beats against my neck as Elmyr and I exit the small, stone building I’ve been living in for the past few weeks. The day is hot. Humid. Already my clothes begin to stick to me. I squint up at the blue sky as Elmyr locks the door behind us, then sticks the keyring back on his belt.
I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone. It was one of Dad’s teachings. I didn’t always listen. I trusted when I shouldn’t have, then bad things happened.
I won’t make that mistake again.
“Looks like it’ll be a hot one today,” Elmyr says cheerfully, glancing at the sky. 
Too hot. Especially around all these buildings. They trap the heat and make the air hotter than it should be. I prefer the forest. Cool water. Plenty of shade. Not much people.
Elmyr notices my lack of cheer as we walk. “The Games won’t be too bad,” He says, then pauses as he realizes how dumb it sounds. “I’m sorry. What I meant to say was, things could be worse.”
“I know.” I could still be stuck in captivity. I could’ve been killed by Iola. Arrested for murdering Claudine. Many things could have gone wrong.
“You have a chance to survive the Games,” Elmyr continues. I am not good at social interaction, but even I know he is doing very bad job at being reassuring. “your death isn’t guaranteed. Becoming Victor would give you everything you wanted.”
“I know.” I don’t have any doubts. Am not second guessing this decision. Elmyr and his Peacekeeper’s sting operation might arrest Iola, but it might not. And if it doesn’t, what happens to me? Her organization is powerful and long-reaching. I do not think I’d be safe from her, even if Elmyr managed to get me that pardon he promised. 
So, to be safe enough to return to the forest, I must win the Games.
A crowd gathers around us as we draw nearer and nearer to the harbor, and the stage which will be assembled there. There’s quiet chatter among the people. They’re interested in the Twist for these Games. Living legends from the past will be competing alongside newcomers. Partnered with them. 
A thought strikes me.
“What if someone else volunteers?” I ask aloud.
Elmyr glances at me. “Before you do, you mean? Oh. No need to worry about that.”
“Do the Academies not have volunteers?”
“Not this year,” He shakes his head. “Their two best students are only seventeen and waiting for next year, while the others…” He trails off.
“They think this year is too dangerous,” I finish the thought. The 25th Games will have sixty tributes. Double the normal amount. There’s the possibility for two Victors instead of one, but that’s still bad odds for anyone who isn’t fully committed to the Games.
“Having cold feet?” Elmyr asks as we pause at a traffic light. His words are not unkind. He seems to want what’s best for me.
But I’ve been wrong about that before.
“No. I need to volunteer. Iola will kill me if I don’t.” She won’t let me get away with what I did. And if I don’t win the Game, then I can still be charged with Claudine’s murder. Elmyr is trying to get enough information to convict Iola and get me pardoned, but what if he fails? I cannot be locked up.
There would be no worse fate. 
Elmyr accepts my words and falls silent. Good. The man is kind and cheerful, but he still has me on a leash. And that leash is chafing me raw. I want to be free. Need to be free. 
Winning the Games will be the only way to make that happen.
People stare at me and Elmyr as we cross the street and reach the harbor entrance. A checkpoint manned by bored Peacekeepers await us. My skin crawls. How many people in that crowd work for Iola? Her reach is longer than I’d have thought. I fear Elmyr and his raid won’t be able to put an end to her. 
“Name… Elmyr?” The Peacekeeper looks up at my chaperone and frowns. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed…” He trails off as he spots me standing beside his colleague.
“This is Quinlan,” Elmyr says. “He’ll be volunteering.”
I remain silent. Peacekeepers are bad. Dad warned me of them. They work for the government, and the government wanted Dad dead. He always told me that if something were to happen to him, then the government was responsible.
Eight years ago Dad died when our cabin caught fire.
I know the government must have been responsible. Maybe even the Peacekeepers. Not Elmyr. But others. His friends and coworkers. Some might even recognize me. 
I squirm uncomfortably at the thought.
Elmyr says some more words to the Peacekeepers, then we’re waves on into the harbor. 
I gasp when I spot the stage.
It is suspended over the harbor itself, attached to land by some thick cables and connected via a long, thin staircase that runs between the milling crowd gathered before it. 
The stage itself is see through. It is made of some sort of crystalline material that sparkles and shimmers in the sun, reflecting light at dozens of different angles. 
“Impressive, huh?” Elmyr chuckles to himself. “Bet they don’t have anything like this in your rinky-dink forest cabins.”
I stifle a flash of anger. Elmyr doesn’t understand the majesty of a forest. If he did, he’d never say such a thing. “The forest is better than anything you’ve built here,” I blurt out. “And even then, everything here has been built out of items taken from nature.”
===District 5: Winston Ainsworth===
TBD
===District 6: Rosalie Sonnet===
TBD
===District 7: Cantrip Celesta===
TBD
===District 8: Hessian Brune===
TBD 
===District 9: Jason Price===
TBD
===District 10: Bronco Bagwell===
TBD
===District 11: Maria Spectrus===
TBD
===District 12: TBD===
TBD
===District 13: Durran Sinclair===
I stand before a floor-length mirror, gently adjusting my tie as I work to create the perfect image. Everything must be straight, well pressed, and completely in line. Not a single inch of fabric out of place. 
Perfection. What does it look like? Well, that’s easy.
It looks like me. 
The Sinclair family has a long lineage full of great and noble men, but they will all pale in comparison to myself. I am a radiant sun that encompasses the sky and burns its image into the retinas of everyone who gazes upon me. 
That is, after all, what Father wants most. 
I take the time to apply gel to my hair and comb it neatly into place. I flash my reflection a smile and snug my red jacket around my shoulders. Red on gray. My color choice for today. Bold, but not too flashy. Elegant and sophisticated, but not overbearing. As an added bonus, the red matches my hair while the gray pairs with my eyes. A delightfully devilish combination, if I do say so myself. 
It takes some time, but I eventually get myself into a presentable shape. Today is Reaping Day, and that is one of the most important days on the calendar. After the festivities I will likely join Father on an incursion to District 14, where we shall politic with other influential families and groups. 
Ah, the tasks of a Sinclair are never done.
The hallways are quiet as I emerge from my room and make way through them. My entire family has rendezvoused here at our main villa in preparation for Reaping Day. It is not often that we all get a chance to meet up, but today’s holiday presents that very opportunity. 
The villa is richly appointed, large rooms divided into subsections by thick curtains and decorative latticework, everything very much in the style I know is currently popular with the New Panemian elite. The rooms are airy, natural light filtering through windows set high above. Mosaics cover several dividing walls. 
I can hear voices coming from the kitchen as I bypass one such mosaic.
“Man, I’m telling ya! My new single is a hit. A hit. It’s selling like hotcakes!”
I sigh and rub one finger against my left temple. Already I can feel the impending headache. My oldest brother Askin has always been a supreme annoyance, never more so than when he’s had a taste of success.
“And what exactly does that phrase even mean, dear Askin?” I stride into the kitchen with a flourish, lips pulled back into a small smile. “Selling like hotcakes? Tell me, do hotcakes sell particularly well nowadays?”
Askin frowns at me from his spot perched on a stool between the kitchen table and counter. Like per usual, his hair is scruffy and his clothing askew. Father expects us to dress and behave in a proper, respectable manner, but Askin has always found a way to skirt the border of those demands. 
“Askin probably doesn’t even know what a hotcake is!” Fulton pipes up from the table itself. My other brother’s clothing is impeccably styled and fits him like a glove. Dependable and strong. The two best words to describe Fulton. 
“It’s a type of pancake!” Askin snaps at him before turning his petulant gaze back on me. “And my new single has charted, bro. That’s more impressive than anything Durran has ever done.”
“I am North Wing County’s youngest representative ever,” I say with another smile. Oh, blackmail and bribery combined with a little passion can get one quite far. “And I am poised to move onto bigger and better things in due time.”
“Sure, sure, small potatoes, bro!” Askin slaps a hand on the counter and immediately recoils with a yelp of pain as his flesh connects with the hard marble. 
Fulton breaks into a round of laughter, but I merely keep my polite smile. It’s never been hard to make Askin look a fool.
A newcomer enters the kitchen. At first I think it’s a servant, but as the young woman approaches the cupboard and takes out a loaf of bread, I realize that this person is no one I’ve ever seen before. 
I glance askance at Fulton and Askin, wondering if they share my astonishment. As neither comments on the woman’s presence, they evidently do not. 
As she takes two slices of bread and slides them into our toaster, I can contain my confusion no longer. “Will someone please explain to me why this woman is making herself breakfast in our kitchen?”
Askin hops off his stool and throws an arm around the young woman. “This here is my catch, Stella!”
“Styla,” The woman corrects, pushing down on the toaster button. Nothing happens.
“Stella is the smartest, hottest, and most gorgeous woman in all of New Panem!” Askin gushes. “She is simply unmatchable in every category. She’s just like that girlfriend of yours, but better!”
“Celestia is my fiancée,” I say coolly. The woman—Askin’s “catch”—is still struggling to get our toaster working. I walk over, pick up the cord in one hand, and plug it in. “And I can see that this Styla of yours is every bit your match when it comes to mental acuity.”
Askin frowns, then his face contorts into anger as he catches onto the not-so-veiled insult. But before he can snap off a retort, a newcomer enters the room. A small, young girl of just six years. 
“Watch your language!” I give my brother a stern warning and turn to ruffle my little half-sister’s hair. “Good morning, Nesmith. Are you excited for the Reaping?”
“Ehhehe! Yes!” She giggles and does a little twirl, showing off her yellow dress. “Mama says there’s gonna be a party afterwards, and that Askin is going to perform!”
Well, I see that someone wants to torture District 13’s populace. Askin performs under the stage name DE-MAN-DIN as a DJ slash rap artist. Honestly, his music sounds like the last screams of a dying animal to me, but he has had some limited success, so clearly good taste isn’t as popular as I’d like to think. 
“And I get to meet your fee-awn-say!” Nesmith sits herself at the table and gives me a glowing smile. “She must be really nice if you love her!”
“Celestia is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever seen.” I hadn’t realized she and Nesmith have never met. Then again, it’s hardly surprising. Nesmith rarely leaves home, and Celestia is the second youngest daughter of one of New Panem’s most prominent families, so they wouldn’t exactly have many avenues to interact. 
“See, Askin,” Fulton says with a grin. “Even Nesmith remembered that Celestia and Durran are engaged!”
Askin opens his mouth, sees the look on my face, then wisely chooses to shut it without speaking. Nesmith and Celestia are two topics he’s learned not to push me on. 
“Did Father say where he wanted us to meet him?” I turn my attention to more integral matters. 
Fulton nods. “Yeah. Out front. He says we’re going to meet up with your fiancée and her father before attending the Reaping.”
“Well then, what are we waiting for? One should never be late to an appointment with Father.”
——
We stand near the outskirts of the Reaping Square, talking quietly amongst ourselves as we await the arrival of Halstaff and Celestia Valii. Fulton and Askin are absorbed in a conversation about the National New Panem League. Hockey talk. Not my forte. 
Nesmith and Curie are off to the side. Nesmith is talking excitedly about the balloons and festivities, but my stepmother only nods along in silence. She has been withdrawn and despondent for more than a year now. Her and Father argue quite often, and I’ve even seen bruises along her arms at times, but…
Well, it’s none of my business.
Father himself stands apart. Isambard Sinclair is a tall, physically imposing man whose mere presence extrudes power and prestige. For years he was my idol, the very image of what I wanted to be. He still is, in a way, but recent events have shown me the cracks inside his armor. Flaws. Weaknesses. 
I can see the impatience in his dark grey eyes. As I told my brothers, Father is not a man who is keen on waiting. Few would dare make him wait. Few could get away with such a thing.
Halstaff Valii is among those few. 
Father himself is deeply important man. As Chief Crime Commissioner of District 13, he is one of the most influential individuals in the District. But Halstaff Valii is above even him. Halstaff is the patriarch of House Valii, one of the Great Families, and he is one of the most powerful men in all of New Panem who has ties to the President herself. His eldest daughter, Emilia, is married to President Price’s second son, Jacquard. 
Those very connections are what makes my engagement to Celestia such a huge boon to my future political ambitions. 
As Sinclairs, we must strive to be the absolute greatest of our time. Their first success came many years ago, vanquishing the traitorous Dracari family and terminating them from Panem. Since then… our closer ancestors have failed us. Whereas before we were seen as heroes, we now may as well be ants on the ground. That is why I request you all to be your best: Trying isn’t enough. We need to reclaim our glory, and for that we need to make a mark in history.
One of Father’s daily speeches recites itself inside my head. I know it word for word. Lofty goals are my ambition. My dream. The first step is becoming District Representative. The ultimate goal is…
Becoming President of New Panem itself.
“Well met, Isambard!” A deep, resonant voice draws me out of my thoughts. Two individuals have appeared whilst I was distracted. 
Halstaff and Celestia.
Halstaff is a tall, physically imposing man whose similarities to Father only heighten the differences. While Father’s physicality stems from his stoutness and borders on heavyset, Halstaff is lean and muscular. While Father’s burgundy hair has gone gray with age, Halstaff’s hair is still a vibrant blond. Father’s face grows wrinkles when he smiles or laughs, Halstaff’s face always remains completely smooth. While Father’s presence extrudes power, Halstaff is power itself.
Though he does not show it, I can tell that the difference upsets Father greatly. 
“My dearest Durran, it is mighty wonderful to see you again!” A soft, musical voice stems from behind Halstaff. His daughter and my fiancée, Celestia.
She is the very image of beauty itself. With curly golden blonde hair, sparkling sea-green eyes, and the fairest skin in all the country that enhances the freckles that bridge her nose and cheeks. Today she has adorned herself in a dress of the purest white—a color no doubt chosen to symbolize vestal purity—and she carries a matching parasol to keep the sun off her delicate skin.
“Ah, my dear Celestia!” I bow smoothly and take one of her hands in mine, bending to give it a kiss. “Our every meeting is the salve that soothes my heart.”
She titters with laughter and I can sense Askin shuffling behind me. Despite what he said earlier this morning, he knows that his street rat is nowhere near the same level as Celestia. Trying to compare the two would be akin to saying that a dim lightbulb holds the same intensity as the sun. 
And yet… I do not truly love the girl. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I certainly hold some level of feelings for her. But love? Hardly. Truth be told, I am uncertain if I’ve ever truly loved anyone in life, let alone this woman I’ve only known for ten months. 
Still, it would scarcely behoove me to let anyone know that.
Celestia makes some demur comments and ducks her head shyly behind the parasol. This is all an act, I am sure. I’ve seen the girl snooping through peoples drawers and looking at their screens often enough to notice that she’s far more than her appearance indicates.
Halstaff and Father are having a quiet conversation behind us. I’d much rather be listening to them than exchanging pointless pleasantries, but I can’t exactly just disengage myself from Celestia and stop to eavesdrop. As I’ve learned from both Father and my own short experience in the political world, appearances are everything. 
“Celestia! You’re so beautiful!” Nesmith comes running up to us and does a little curtsy. 
“Oh my!” My fiancée twirls her parasol. “Durran, who is this delightful little fairy?”
“This, dearest, is my stepsister Nesmith.” 
The two girls ooh and awe over one another, exchanging compliments and laughing at each other’s jokes. They seem to be hitting it off splendidly, which I never doubted. Everyone loves Nesmith. 
“Let us head onwards to the square,” Father suddenly speaks and our little group starts to move. 
Our own personal guards follow along behind us, dressed in simple black suits and ties. They’re invisible. Hardly noticed. But they’re extremely deadly. It would be a foolish person indeed who attempted to strike at us. 
Celestia chatters like a magpie as we walk. Speaks of unimportant, boring things that are very much what a girl her age would be interested in. Perhaps too much so. Is it just an act? Or is Celestia truly interested in the most stereotypical of activities?
Father and Halstaff continue to speak as we walk. Small snippets of their conversation are carried to me by the wind. I hear several mentions of The City and I perk up with interest. 
Those outsiders have been the talk of the political world ever since their arrival, though hardly anyone seems to know anything about them. Perhaps Halstaff would know more, however. His connections are fairly high. Indeed, what if Celestia…
“Have you heard much about The City, my dear?” I ask as we walk. The streets around us slowly begin to fill up with people as we near the square. 
“Not much, no.” Celestia shakes her head. “Only that their dreadful airship is constantly floating above our homes.”
Ah, yes. I have heard reports of that. Their massive dreadnought Citykiller has been resting in the mountains above District 14 since their arrival in New Panem. An effort at intimidation, everyone says. A clear display of their military might. 
“Your sister hasn’t said anything about them?”
“No.” Celestia twirled her parasol. “I don’t speak with Emilia much at all.”
I leave the discussion at that. I am unsure whether she is being truthful, but I assume she must. I see little reason for her to lie to me on this particular topic. Of course, just because I don’t see the reason doesn’t mean there isn’t one. That’s the problem with political quagmires. There’s always a reason you have yet to find. 
Several citizens approach me as we walk. They ask me about my future plans or request my aid in some matter or other. I laugh and smile with them. Promise to look into their problems. Hint at my next move. The people love me. They all leave with smiles and happy faces.
Celestia makes a small giggling noise as they finally leave us alone. “My, you’re popular with your “backbone” class, aren’t you?”
The backbone class. The name I gave the working class during my campaign to become representative of North Wing County. I can still recite the speech I gave them word for word.
Why is it that the working class are often referred to as the lower class? That implies they are beneath us and don’t deserve fair treatment. It even shows with the rest of the candidates prioritising the wealthy and middle class. What they fail to realise is that without the working class, those of us in privilege would never be able to stand on our hind two legs. In honour of the working class who helped me learn and develop myself, I would like to propose that we change the status quo from the lower class, to the backbone class. Today, for now and until the end of my life, I will advocate for you, our backbone class. I will pledge my political journey to uplifting you every step of the way. Clearing up streets, more funding for public schools, removing every godforsaken pothole. All I need you to do is vote for me, raise your voices, and demand what you deserve. My wish is your command.
I splay my hands. “What can I say? My constituents adore me.”
“Your relationship with them won’t make you very many friends in District 14.”
I expected as much. It’s not as if I hold any real fondness for the working class myself. I merely realized the untapped potential their numbers held. Swaying them to my side was the easiest path to victory. “Surely they won’t begrudge me helping the small folk.”
Celestia makes a noise that could be a sign of amusement. “Many people think your fondness for them will put you in Hartford’s camp. The Freedomist’s expose similar ideology.”
“I hold no fondness for Xander Hartford, believe you me.” Though considering the massive momentum the man has built, aligning myself with him may just be the quickest path to success. That is, of course, assuming President Price doesn’t find a way to—ahem—tamp down on his movement. 
Celestia flashes a radiant smile. “Oh, I know. And so does my Father. If he thought you were a Freedomist he’d nabe have allowed our betrothal.”
I smile and offer some simpering words, but I don’t truly believe her. Halstaff Valii is the type of man to hedge his bets and choose the strongest side. It’s a family trait and how the Valii’s survived the dissolution of the Capitol when many others didn’t. 
The people around us turn into a crowd as we near the square itself. The streets are clogged with vehicles. Peacekeeper transports and limousines. I watch as one long black car pulls up and a chauffeur opens the door and a young boy exits. 
Cronus Harlow. The heir to House Harlow and the younger brother of my recently deceased friend, Easton Harlow.
Celestia notices my attention has been diverted and pauses to follow my gaze. “Rumor says President Price has withdrawn her support from the Harlow family,” She says conversationally. “Evidently she believes them to have been… inadequate inheritors of House Noble.”
Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. “What?”
Celestia tilts her head. Green eyes blink at me. “My! I forgot you were close with Easton. My apologies. I did not intend to upset you so.”
Easton was a friend, true, but I mostly intended to use him as a political ally. Someone to help me climb the ranks. His death in the arena threw all that planning away. “Why would Price withdraw her support?”
“Oh, I haven’t a clue. I’ve merely heard rumor.” My fiancée twirls her parasol and hums softly to herself. “But,” she says after a pause, “I don’t believe she isn’t very fond of the possibility that the Byte family inherits any of the estate.”
“Then why not support Cronus in the legal battle?”
“Because Hartford is vehemently backing the Byte’s. She has too many squabbles with the man as is, and hardly wants another. Far simpler to simply depose of both sides and allow someone else to inherit.”
Something about that statement feels off to me, but before I can devote any true brain power to picking at it, a squad of Peacekeepers begin to approach our little group. At first I think they intend to check us in for the Reaping, but they bypass Celestia and I and head straight for Father and Halstaff.
“Isambard Sinclair,” The leader of the squad, a tall, heavyset man, is the first to speak. “We would like to discuss something with you… in private,” He adds with a glance at us.
I can see a flicker of surprise in Father’s eyes. Whatever this is about, he had not anticipated it. “Of course,” He says smoothly. “I always have time for our loyal protectors.”
“This conversation may take some time,” The Peacekeeper says with a meaningful nod. 
Halstaff nods. “Very well. We shall continue on.” He snaps his fingers. “Attendants, with me! Come, Celestia.”
The tall, imperious man strides off, followed by his guards and staff. Celestia gives my hand a quick squeeze then shuffles after her father, leaving me alone with my brothers, Nesmith, and Curie as Father walks off with the Peacekeepers.
“What is that about?” Askin scratches his head.
“Is Daddy being arrested?” Nesmith asks.
“Of course not!” I ruffle my sister’s hair. “It is likely just a mundane matter. Father deals with things like this all the time.” 
He most assuredly does not. Father may be the Chief Crime Commissioner, but I’ve never seen him surprised by Peacekeepers like this before. Something is amiss here, but worrying the others would hardly benefit the situation. 
Fortunately, we arrive at the checkpoint before the conversation delves into deeper questions. I am the only one of Reaping age, so I am separated from the others as we are herded into line. I find myself surrounded by other eighteen-year-olds as I stand before the stage. I know none of these boys in the slightest. Most of them are of the “backbone” class, and I’ve never truly interacted with that sort.
“Good morning, District 13!” Our District Representative—the position I would very much like to hold one day—speaks into the microphone. Esteban Glock is a wide, paunchy man with thinning dark hair and a sweaty face. “I welcome you to yet another Reaping!”
Esteban isn’t alone in the stage. Several other figures of note surround him, such as New Panem’s Southern Governor, Arthur Lysander. The tall chestnut haired man is smiling politely as Esteban addresses the crowd. Lysander is a staunch supporter of President Price and—unlike Miribelle Cross—he is not wildly unpopular with his constituents.
Lysander is flanked by two other people of note. Deputy Commissioner Lovelace of the Freedomist Society, and Queen, our local Card. The two couldn’t be much more different in appearance.
Lovelace is a stooped man wrapped in white bandages. Evidently over fifty percent of his body is covered in burns he suffered during an accident, and his one good eye squints at out the crowd from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Despite his appearance, he is a politically powerful man. His position in the Freedomist Society is second only to Xander Hartford himself. 
Queen, on the other hand, is a voluptuous woman dressed in white and gold, with long tassels hanging off her elbows and shoulders. Her face is concealed by a white mask. The uniform looks completely impractical, and that’s because it is. I know from firsthand sources that this is merely a uniform worn for festivals and events, not actual combat. 
“But of course,” Esteban has continued with his speech. “Today is not a typical Reaping. We shall also introduce two returnees to our midst. Two brave children who once lost their lives in the arena of old. I give to you, Luxio Sertrailum and Kiara Mitchell!”
Polite applause as two teenagers are ushered onto stage. The boy has dark shaggy hair and a most peculiar pair of golden eyes. He gives the crowd a long g look and then slowly shakes his head. 
The girl is a short and skinny, with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. She looks relatively young, so I am unsurprised to see that she’s only fourteen-years-old.
Honestly, I haven’t much opinion of the pair. Despite having trained for them, the Games aren’t really something I care much about, and these two teenagers dredged up from bygone days aren’t going to change that. 
So I don’t spend much time examining the pair. Instead I find myself thinking of ways to have Esteban replaced. I would make a perfect candidate for District Representative, and it would serve wonderfully as my stepping stone to an even higher position in the government. Blackmail and bribery helped me secure my current title, so perhaps it would work well here. If only…
“Seraphienna Naismith!”
Oh. Esteban has pulled a girls name from the bowl and the crowd is looking around for the unlucky sap. 
===District 14: TBD===
TBD
==Interlude==
TBD
==Training==
===Ros Paulus (District 2)===
TBD
===Vex Ryker (District 14)===
TBD
===Everette Paisley (District 9)===
TBD
===Luxio Sertralium (District 13)===
TBD
===Kiara Mitchell (District 13)===
TBD