Writers Games; Alliances

D12 Female - Seaver Parish - Task 6 [AnonymousRice4]

I’d rather stay in his arms forever, never letting go. But Caine gently pushes my arms until they finally give up, and I pull them away myself, leaning back on my knees to get a good look at him. I’m smiling, he’s looking stunned, but for a moment we’re kids again, playing in the streets of the Seam where we used to live. I see his small, seven-year-old face smiling at me as we splashed through mud puddles and trekked through the house, earning mother’s intense glares of disapproval. Father would always protect us from her though. That is, until he left. In a single moment the memories are lost again, I’m thrust to reality and my smile vanishes when I think of them, my old family. I have to remind myself I have a new one now, with Djaq, Rare, and Granny.
    “Seaver, I barely recognize you.” Caine murmurs after a brief pause. I smile again, and extend my hand to brush my fingers through his curly blonde hair. “Me too. You’re so big!” I giggle, and he pushes my fingering hands away from his hair.
    “How old are you now? Thirteen?” I ask, but then I realize that can’t be right. He must be older now. I’m fifteen, that makes him a year younger. Holy cow, fourteen?
   “Fourteen.” He replies with a grin. “And you’re fifteen. I remember ‘cause you always used to bug me about being the oldest. But now, look – ” He stands up, measuring a good five-foot ten-inches or so.
   “Wow,” I murmur, rising as well. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now. Even with the small lantern at our feet, the room remains darkened like night.
   “ – now I’m the tallest.” Caine grins, measuring his hand from the top of his head over the good six inches that separates our height. I swat his hand away, supressing a smile. It feels so good to have him back, even if we missed out on seven years of each other’s lives. Sighing, I pick up the lantern that was dropped to the floor, and wave it around our immediate surroundings.
   “Well,” I say disappointedly. “As much fun as this reunion has been, I don’t think Occisora is finished with us just yet.”
   “Who’s that?” Caine inquires while I begin walking in the only available direction.
   “Caine, do you know where you are?” I ask, a tightness wrapping itself around my throat. The same sensation pinches my stomach; I don’t think he even knows how or why he got here.
   “No.” He replies hesitantly. As we walk I stumble on several pebbles scattered here and there. The room has changed from what appeared to be a tiny one room-house to a long, tunneling cave. The walls go from wooden to stone, the floor doing the same.
    “Caine.” I halt us in our tracks, bringing the lantern to our faces so he can see the worried look in my eyes. “We’re in the Hunger Games.” I tell him. He looks stunned for a moment, then realization strikes and his jaw falls open.
   “The Hunger Games?” He asks, almost as if he is unfamilar with the concept.
   “Yeah, remember those? Every year Mom made us go to the Reaping, we wore our best and stood outside the lot while two kids inside were chosen.” I recall those days vividly. For seven years I’d blocked out any memory concerning my mother. My father had been a good man, I was free to speak of him around the house, but Caine? The recollection of her favorite grandson, taken away at such a young age, was too painful for Granny. No one could ever even speak his name, or she’d cry out in agony. I wonder if Granny sees him here with me now, if the Gamemakers are even televising this part. I wonder if she’s crying, right now, in the arms of Djaq or someone she loves. I hope so; I hope desperately that she’s with someone who cares for her, and that she’s not alone.
   I suddenly snap back to reality, trekking through the cave with my brother.
   “Oh, yeah, I remember. And that one year Nelly got picked, remember that?” I nod gravely, remembering the red-headed thirteen-year-old who used to watch six-year-old Caine and seven-year-old me. One day she was reaped, and we never saw her again.
   We were both silent for the longest time after mention of Nelly. There wasn’t a shred of meanness in her. She had been the daughter of a previous mayor, who lived retired in the Seam across the road from us. Poor girl, she was always smiling, and now that I understand more vividly the details of the Games, I can say whole-heartedly that she didn’t deserve any of it. However she died, she didn’t deserve such a death.
   “Whoa, Caine look!” I shout, suddenly forgetting Nelly and the good ol’ days as we come across a small, wooden box placed perfectly on top of a mahogany stand. I give Caine the lantern and we hurry over, gazing over the box carefully. On its lid are carved the words “Trust is such a fragile thing.” I glance at Caine. Assuming he and my mother made it safely out of Panem, that would mean he’d been living safely tucked away from the world without access to a television, thus he’d been without access to the Games Feed. He has no idea what we're dealing with – who we're dealing with more specifically. The only question I ask myself now, is what plans does Occisora have for us?
    “Well, open it.” Caine speaks impatiently. I shoot him a warning glance, telling him he shouldn’t.
   “You have no idea what you’re dealing with here Caine, I do. I have an idea of what Occisora is capable of. This is probably a trap.” Caine rolls his eyes, the tell-tale sign that he doesn’t care what I have to say, that he somehow knows better.
   “Who is Occisora anyway? You keep mentioning her.” He says with frustration lacing his voice. He is just how I remember, even at seven years old he used to roll his eyes, sigh, and then change the subject to mask his extreme irritation. I sigh, studying the box while I formulate a reply sufficient enough to cover all the wrongs she’d done to us already.
   “She’s a really bad person. The new Head Gamemaker, you don’t trifle with her. She has this way of-of manipulating you into revealing who you really are,” I run my hands along the smooth wood, refusing to look at Caine. “and what you’re really capable of.” I mutter distastefully. Caine wears a frown, and looks to me in questioning.
   “What do you mean by that?” He asks suspiciously. I sigh and give up searching the box for booby traps.
   “I’ve had a few run-ins with her face to face.” I reply. Caine only presses the matter, much to my chagrin.
   “What happened?”
   I hesitate to respond. “I killed her.” I spit like poison, eyeing his face for a reaction. His expression remains unchanging except for a slight twinge in his lower lip, which I immediately recognize as his tell for being deep in thought.
   “Then why is she still a problem?” He asks, innocently confused.
   “Because, what I thought was her was really a hologram or something. She wasn’t actually there to kill.” I reply, sounding disappointed in the fact. Caine remains silent as I gaze at the box again. I suppose the only thing left to do would be to open it. Gently, so as not to set off any unseen traps, I touch the corners of the lid. It slowly, carefully, steadily begins to rise with my hands which grasp it gently. At last the lid is all the way open, revealing its contents, without any traps being sprung on us. Satisfied with my accomplishment, I smile at Caine and dive my nose in for a closer look. I pull my head back and frown, confused by what I find.
   “What is it?” Caine asks ignorantly. I step back, allowing him the chance to gaze into the box. He reaches in and wraps his fingers around the stem of a broken wine glass and holds it up.
   “Weird.” He says simply, and returns the stem to its broken counterparts.
   “Like I said, she likes to play games. Mind games.” I say dramatically, taking the lantern from him and proceeding down the dark chambers. As we walk in silence I contemplate the meaning of the broken glass, and the words, what could they mean? “Trust is such a fragile thing.” It seems so eerie. She must be sending us some sort of hidden message, but what could it mean? Who should we not trust? Should I not trust Caine? The sudden thought that he could be just another Capitol mutt made to look like an older version of my brother suddenly flashes through my mind. But it can’t be, could it? He knew personal details about our life, like the bit about Nelly. Then again, the Capitol would always have record of former reaped tributes. They could’ve found Nelly’s name and asked around. They could easily discover she used to care for the children of working parents, and that she cared for us. But, I can’t shake the feeling that Caine is real – I want to be able to remain objective and to see that he has the potential to hurt me, but I just can’t. He’s my brother, he would never harm me.
    My body freezes in place at the sound of something in the distance; Caine hears it too, and stops. It’s a clicking sound foreign to him but all too familiar to me. I recognize immediately that Occisora is heading our way from the tunnel ahead of us. My instincts are to run. But something catches my eye as the sound grows louder.
    “Caine!” I choke on my words, capturing his attention as he attempts to flee.
  “What?” He asks hastily. “We should go before whoever that is catches up. I don’t want trouble.” I reach back and pull his arm, forcing him to stand beside me as I look at the wall. Hanging on a nail embedded in the stone is a picture, framed in delicate white wood with ivory carvings winding up the sides. I recognize the photo as being taken during the feast. I see tables filled with food, tributes and their families laughing or enjoying their meals – but the focus of the picture is on Occisora, and the blonde girl who seems familiar standing beside her table. Occisora is smiling, like she’s only happy to be talking to the girl. I notice she wears a pink dress, which in my opinion goes horribly with her strawberry-blonde hair. As we linger I suddenly remember why the blonde beside her looks so familiar; it’s Mira! I remember she trotted up to Occisora’s table and spoke briefly to her, but now I wonder what it was about.
    “Seav, come on! We should go.” Caine insists. But I can’t move. The clicking of heels gets louder and louder but never seems to be coming closer. Anyway, below the picture there is another stand, this time there is a basket full of yellowed envelopes which look like they’ve been sitting in this damp cave for days. I carefully finger one of them until it flips over and I see the name written on the back. I gasp. It reads Seaver Parish, Twelfth Floor followed by my room number and the address of the Training Center. It must’ve been dropped off for me there a long time ago.
   I pull it out and rip it open, immediately my eyes scanning the paper inside for some sort of clue as to who it’s from. I gasp, again. I recognize the handwritten words as belonging to Granny. Sure enough, at the bottom there’s her signature. She talks vividly of the great many things Occisora gave to them after the feast. There were so many leftovers she was able to share plenty of them with her neighbors. She writes about trunks left in hers, Djaq and Rarity’s rooms with canned goods and plenty of new clothes inside. She longs for me to come home, she put down, and can’t wait to share these “blessings” with me. I feel overwhelming joy for the gifts they received and so desperately needed, but the thought of Occisora doing anything good is next to impossible to believe. I gather the other letters as the echoing of heels stops, and Caine and I run in the opposite direction, back to the door from which I entered. However, the second we turn around something drops in front of us from the ceiling. I almost scream, and press back into Caine, gazing at the horrifying marionette dangling mere inches from us. It resembles Occisora, and holds a puppet in one hand, a sign crudely painted in bold red ink that reads “Puppet Master” dangling above her. I study the smaller puppet in puppet-Occisora’s hand; it bears striking resemblance to me, with its shortened blonde hair and blue, button eyes. It’s so detailed the creator even included the butterfly chain wrapped around my wrist and the laces on my boots. I suddenly feel as if I’m not even controlling myself. As if, like the puppet, Occisora is pulling strings and making me dance for her. I feel like fainting, I feel like crying, like screaming, like killing her all over again but above anything is the desire to reach up and cut my strings, freeing myself from my master’s control. I feel like if I don’t cut the strings before the Games are over they’ll be permanently sewn into my arms, my head, my legs. I’ll be controlled for the rest of my miserable life by Occisora Crudelis, the cruelest woman in the history of time. And that thought – it's almost unbearable.

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Questions!

1. What sound alerts people to Occisora's approach?
  A. is it the click of her heels?

2. What is in the afore mentioned box?
   A. A shattered glass.

3. What did Occisora give to the families of the Tributes to take home with them?
  A.  The leftovers from the feast were divided among the families and bagged for them to take home, plus a chest filled with canned foods and new clothes were left in each of their rooms.

4. What color dress did Occisora wear to the feast?
  A. Occisora wore a pink dress to the feast.

5. What is Occisora's preferred color dress?
  A. Silver.

6. Who, according to Occisora, is the puppet master?
  A. According to Occisora, President Snow is the Puppet master.

7. When do you call a woman Mrs, Ms, or Miss?
A. When a woman is married, she is referred to as Mrs, and she belongs to her husband. If she is unmarried, she is called Miss, and belongs to her father. A Ms belongs to no one and is still unmarried.

8. Does Occisora like to be called Mrs, Ms, or Miss?
  A. Occisora prefers to be called Ms, as she belongs to no one.

9. What is the meaing of Morus Fortibus?
  A. Morus means foolish, Fortibus means brave.

10. What does Occisor Curdelis mean?
  A. Occisor means murderer, Crudelis means cruel/hardhearted.