Writers Games; Alliances

D6 Male - Vulcan Shrine [cardshark07] Task 1

I stand there impatiently waiting for this damn reaping to end. It's dumb. How can the Capitol sit at home and send us into an arena to die? And no one truly wins the games. Someone comes out physically crippled or mentally insane. Either way, the trauma is more sufferable than a kid actually being slaughtered for entertainment.

Other kids stand anxiously, some as pale as the clouds, ready to faint or puke any second. Others are full of fear, crying and whining, terrified of being chosen to get murdered by other children. There are a few who stand calm and collected, either showing bravery for younger siblings or are not worried of being picked due to the odds.

Odds. The Hunger Games motto: May the odds be ever in your favor. Ha. It's a joke. The odds are never in our favor. There isn't a real winner who walks out of the arena. Alive or dead, you lose either way. And even with the districts, we don't have the odds either. We die of starvation, disease, and live in horrible conditions while the Capitol is entertained by our suffering as they indulge themselves in their feasts full of extravagant foods.

Our trashy escort scampers onto the stage. Other kids try to make jokes out of her outfit to ease the tension, but she's a joke herself. Doesn't take much to realize that her hideous, bright yellow hair and her poop brown of a dress with rainbow streaks is absolutely horrendous.

"Welcome welcome, Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!" Her squeaky voice echoes throughout the square.

"Now let's start with the females, shall we?" Silence is answered. No one enjoys these games. Only Districts One, Two, and Four enjoy participating and fighting for glory and fame. Us outlying districts don't care since we aren't as rich as the career districts.

The escort strides her way over to the sphere full of female names. I swear, all she needs is a toilet for a hat. It would match her urine colored hair and her poop colored dress.

"Raelene Versille!" She Hollers.

A young girl appears out of the fourteen-year-old section. She looks highly nervous, but then again, who wouldn't be? I don't think I would be all that nervous. If anything, I would be pissed.

She takes her time going up to the stage. She seems unsure of herself and can't believe this is happening. She looks weak but I've seen her around before and she's highly social. If she makes herself likable, she might be a threat in these games.

"Raelene Virsille, age 14." She murmurs. She takes her seat as the Capitol escort strides her way over to the male's reaping ball.

Her hand swishes around, allowing slips of paper brush up against the ball. Her long nails finally pick up a single slip, and placing it in her prickly fingers. She then heads her way back to the microphone and announces a name: "Vulcan Shrine!"

No. This isn't possible. My face hardens like cooling lava as I clench my fists. I feel blood simmer through hands as my nails dig into my palms. An ember of rage boils inside of my heart. No, not an ember. More like a raging volcano that is dispersing fires at extreme heat. That is the level of my rage at this very moment.

I gently make my way up to the stage. I'm doing my best to contain the rage. Usually I'm not one to care, but I'm not foolish either. The games start as soon as your name is announced at the Reaping. Other tributes start to observe you, wondering who they should target first. Also the sponsors watch your every move, and sponsors help keep you alive. If I'm going to win, I need to contain the raging fires inside of me.

"Vulcan Shrine, age 18." I mumble. It is so hard to not let my vocals take over and shout at every single damn person in this awful country called Panem. I am honestly angered with every single citizen in all of the districts and all of the damn citizens in the Capitol, but especially pissed at this damn escort for picking my name out of the reaping ball.