Chapter Two - Deadline: January 29th! To be created by Alex & Madhatter!

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Purle-Stream wrote:IGNORE

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Really? I always imagined you as a hopeless romantic person with purple hair...
But I wasn't finished, after about 2 minutes I realize the movie is really horrible, go back to the scary movie, get scared, switches back to the romantic comedy, and watches it until someone gets home because the scary movie was too scary and I'm affraid to go to the bathroom alone.

Love what you wrote, really! Cyrus is awesome, I'm used that he's all about Emmi-Belle...)

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Really? I always imagined you as a hopeless romantic person with purple hair...
But I wasn't finished, after about 2 minutes I realize the movie is really horrible, go back to the scary movie, get scared, switches back to the romantic comedy, and watches it until someone gets home because the scary movie was too scary and I'm affraid to go to the bathroom alone.

Love what you wrote, really! Cyrus is awesome, I'm used that he's all about Emmi-Belle...)

Yes Ronile, I have purple hair. Although that would be awesome.

And yes, Cyrus was very cold and lonerish before Em and the Games. They don't really get along until the Games themselves. Then, suddenly, no more sarcasm. Just Emmi-Belle...


Don't look at me like that Cyrus, you know I love you.

ronile wrote:You're not a bad person! *cheers up like the sims do*

(Topic related picture, Sage was cheering him up. Or at least trying to.)

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Really? I always imagined you as a hopeless romantic person with purple hair...
But I wasn't finished, after about 2 minutes I realize the movie is really horrible, go back to the scary movie, get scared, switches back to the romantic comedy, and watches it until someone gets home because the scary movie was too scary and I'm affraid to go to the bathroom alone.

Love what you wrote, really! Cyrus is awesome, I'm used that he's all about Emmi-Belle...)

Yes Ronile, I have purple hair. Although that would be awesome.

And yes, Cyrus was very cold and lonerish before Em and the Games. They don't really get along until the Games themselves. Then, suddenly, no more sarcasm. Just Emmi-Belle...


Don't look at me like that Cyrus, you know I love you.

She's cheering him up, that shows you the difference between them.)

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:You're not a bad person! *cheers up like the sims do*

(Topic related picture, Sage was cheering him up. Or at least trying to.)

lol at Emmi-Belle and Cyrus in the background...

Those two are really going at it.... I mean Sage and Jason, not Emmi-Belle and Cyrus....

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Really? I always imagined you as a hopeless romantic person with purple hair...
But I wasn't finished, after about 2 minutes I realize the movie is really horrible, go back to the scary movie, get scared, switches back to the romantic comedy, and watches it until someone gets home because the scary movie was too scary and I'm affraid to go to the bathroom alone.

Love what you wrote, really! Cyrus is awesome, I'm used that he's all about Emmi-Belle...)

Yes Ronile, I have purple hair. Although that would be awesome.

And yes, Cyrus was very cold and lonerish before Em and the Games. They don't really get along until the Games themselves. Then, suddenly, no more sarcasm. Just Emmi-Belle...


Don't look at me like that Cyrus, you know I love you.

She's cheering him up, that shows you the difference between them.)

Nawwww I love those two... But they die!!!

I'm sorry, I'm just... emotional...

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:You're not a bad person! *cheers up like the sims do*

(Topic related picture, Sage was cheering him up. Or at least trying to.)

lol at Emmi-Belle and Cyrus in the background...

Those two are really going at it.... I mean Sage and Jason, not Emmi-Belle and Cyrus....

Zoe died (I killed her to make room for Ashlon), and Jason had to take out his anger at someone, no?

I find it funny that Cyrus was sad, considering that in the RPG, he was the one who killed her...

Purle-Stream wrote:IGNORE


But, on a totally unrelated manor, I have added a new page to the blog, entitled 'Jabberjays'. Intrigued? Check it out!

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:

ronile wrote:

Purle-Stream wrote:I don't really like romance stories, I'm not much of a 'mushy' person.


Which is ironic, consdiering I wrote 'the' love story of the 30th Hunger Games... Speaking of which, I wrote my chapter thingy. I haven't taken the pictures, but I wanted you to read it, to make sure it's okay. That way, I can tweak it before I take the photos.



I look upwards, to the gleaming and radiant sun, sitting gracefully in the sky. That sky seems so out of place, especially on a day like today. I guess that’s the Earth mocking us, enjoying seeing us in pain.
Pessimist.
I stand outside the square, watching the rest of the district pour in. I frantically search each person, trying to spot the figure of my father, but he is nowhere to be seen. I wait there, like I promised him I would, until a Peacekeeper walks up to me, a grieving look on his face.
“Get in there with the rest.” He says monotonously.
I pan down and gaze in horror at the baton in his hand. I look back up at him, and follow him to the enclosed area. I slip into the crowd, among the hundreds of others like me. Even though I am lost in a sea of seventeen year old boys, I cannot give any the title of ‘friend’. Which is sad in itself, since companionship is the only thing we have left in this sad excuse for a country.
While many of the people beside me blabber to each other how worried they are, I just grin. All of these people are so paranoid, they aren’t getting picked. In District Nine, the poor people are always chosen. Because they have to sign up for tesserae. Well, I guess the custom isn’t just for nine, I guess it applies to all the other districts, too. But in nine, many people steal grain on the sly. A few get caught, but most don’t. So we are pretty lucky in terms of tesserae, but for the other districts, well…
They’re not as lucky.
I don’t mean to mock the institution of tesserae, and laugh at those who are poor. I guess I know my odds of being chosen are incredibly low, so I am open to be as judgemental as I want. My father and I aren’t rich exactly, but we easily surpass the income of many merchants here. All because my dad is an avid inventor.
So when I see many kids grovelling, I snigger. Seriously, I don’t know how someone can succumb to tears just thinking of the Reaping. Toughen up, seriously.
Off in the distance, I can see the mayor mount the stage, microphone in hand. I look up at the seats and see the Capitol escort, and the mentor. Since there is only one living victor here, the tributes have to share the same mentor.
Shows how good we are in the Games.
After the mayor shares his rather boring speech, the escort hops to the microphone, in a happy daze.
“Boys and girls, men and women, it’s time to meet the tributes from District Nine!” She cheers.
I don’t even bother to remember her name. She sticks her purple hand into the bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper. With a look of pleasure on her face, the escort reads it to everyone in the square.
“The female tribute from District Nine in the thirtieth Hunger Games is… Pippy Ralin!” She cheers.
A small girl starts to make her way to the stage, her face as pale as a ghost. Until a figure leaps from the rope and races to the girl.
“Pippy! Pippy, no!” She cries.
The face of the girl looks familiar, but no name surfaces. But like many of the other people, we all turn to the girls making their way to the stage.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” The girl screams.
“No!!!” Pippy cries, as Peacekeepers push her away.
The girl walks rigidly to the stage, and stands next to the escort.
“Now, may I ask your name?” The escort asks.
“Emmi-Belle. Emmi-Belle Hansman.”
With a gleeful smile, the escort raises Emmi-Belle’s hand in triumph.
“District Nine, your female tribute!”
All you can hear is some soft clapping, not an applause worthy of the Capitol. The escort laughs awkwardly, before bounding to the male tribute bowl. She pulls out a slip, buried deep in the middle, and smiles to the crowd.
“Everyone, meet your male tribute… Cyrus O’Keefe!”
I freeze. Not on purpose, either. I find myself being pushed through the crowd, and to the stage. I stand next to Emmi-Belle, and she gives me a weak smile, no doubt mocking me.
I shoot her a fierce look and ignore her. That girl is not worth my time.

Really? I always imagined you as a hopeless romantic person with purple hair...
But I wasn't finished, after about 2 minutes I realize the movie is really horrible, go back to the scary movie, get scared, switches back to the romantic comedy, and watches it until someone gets home because the scary movie was too scary and I'm affraid to go to the bathroom alone.

Love what you wrote, really! Cyrus is awesome, I'm used that he's all about Emmi-Belle...)

Yes Ronile, I have purple hair. Although that would be awesome.

And yes, Cyrus was very cold and lonerish before Em and the Games. They don't really get along until the Games themselves. Then, suddenly, no more sarcasm. Just Emmi-Belle...


Don't look at me like that Cyrus, you know I love you.

She's cheering him up, that shows you the difference between them.)

Nawwww I love those two... But they die!!!

I'm sorry, I'm just... emotional...

You still have 13! *hint* *hint*