[...] I'm so pathetically intense. I just can't be any other way.
The chairs had been meticulously arranged in six rows, each row consisting of four chairs.
Tempest, with her keen eye for positioning, had managed to secure a coveted spot right at the very front.
From this vantage point, she had a clear view of her father, Tobias Galdur, engaged in a deep and animated conversation with none other than Dean Casca Highbottom.
Tobias, a formidable presence in the corridors of power within the Capitol government, had earned his stripes as the Secretary of Defense in the aftermath of the war. His responsibilities extended beyond the confines of the Capitol, as he frequently shuttled between there and District Two, where he held sway over policy-making and the peacekeepers.
There was an undeniable aura of authority that surrounded Tobias Galdur, a magnetic force that compelled others to bend to his will. Whether it was the piercing intensity of his gaze or the sharp snap of his fingers, he possessed an uncanny ability to persuade others to do his bidding.
And as he shot his daughter a sly wink, Tempest couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that her father had utilized his powers of persuasion to secure something invaluable from Dean Highbottom.
Something that would undoubtedly prove advantageous for her in the upcoming mentor project.
Dean Highbottom, the creator of the Hunger Games, oversaw the mentor program. He seemed detached and lost in his own world, his dreamy gaze indicating his reliance on morphling.
Once physically strong, he now appeared frail and his recent haircut and suit only emphasized his decline. Despite his fame, rumors circulated that the Academy Board was losing patience with him.
He slurred his words as he announced the names, struggling to focus. Livia Cardew eagerly claimed her assigned district, reveling in her victory of receiving the District One tribute. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol.
After a decade had passed, a noticeable trend became apparent. The well-fed and more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 consistently produced a higher number of victors, thanks to their circumstances. Additionally, the tributes hailing from districts 4 and 11, renowned for their expertise in fishing and farming, proved to be formidable contenders in the Hunger Games.
With each passing moment, her anxiety grew. One, two, and even four had gone by without any acknowledgement of her name. What had her father said to the Dean? And why hadn't she been matched with the District One tribute? The idea of being paired with a weak, malnourished tribute filled her with dread. How could she possibly hope to defeat Coriolanus with such a disadvantage?
When the Dean stumbled upon District Eleven, Tempest let out a sigh of relief.
The mentorship program, designed to provide equal opportunities based on merit, had been tainted by manipulation and deceit.
Tempest had a hunch that it had been her father's doing; the selection process had been rigged behind the scenes. Against all odds, she found herself assigned to mentor the boy from District Eleven, and a sense of gratitude washed over her.
As the farming district, this provided great promise. His hands are likely calloused from tending to crops, his body lean and strong from the physical labor. He should be well-nourished too, having access to the bountiful harvests of District Eleven. Tempest couldn't help but feel a surge of hope. With his experience and physical prowess, he would be a formidable contender in the upcoming Hunger Games.
Coriolanus had always been envious of Tempest's success. Her intelligence, charm, and natural leadership abilities seemed to effortlessly propel her to the top of their class. And now, with the news of his selection as a mentor for the Hunger Games, Coriolanus couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy.
As Tempest raised her eyebrow playfully, Coriolanus could see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She knew exactly what this silence meant - that he had been assigned one of the District Twelve tributes. These were the underprivileged, the forgotten, and the weakest of the lot. They were often the first to perish in the brutal arena.
The realization only fueled Coriolanus' anger. How could he, with all his ambition and potential, be saddled with a tribute who was destined for failure? It was a cruel twist of fate that he couldn't bear to accept.
But he knew better than to voice his frustrations in front of their fellow students. If Tempest had no such restraint she would have reveled in his misfortune. She always liked having the upper hand, especially when it came to Coriolanus.
She would have taken great pleasure in gloating about his unfortunate assignment, relishing in his discomfort. But she knew it would've been wildly inappropriate to act in the way Livia did. So, instead of gloating, Tempest chose to raise that playful eyebrow, a silent acknowledgement of Coriolanus' predicament.
It was a subtle reminder to all the times she had beat him. He couldn't help but resent the fact that she seemed to effortlessly navigate the challenges that came their way. It only served to highlight his own shortcomings.
As anger surged within him, Coriolanus flared his nostrils, trying to suppress the messy emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that lashing out or expressing his frustrations would only undermine his position as a mentor. He had to maintain a facade of composure, even in the face of adversity.
And so, Coriolanus chose to remain silent, his lips tightly sealed, in the presence of their peers. He would bide his time, strategize, and find a way to turn this seemingly disadvantageous situation around.
The spectators were comfortably seated by now. Towards the rear of the platform, the curtains were pulled back, unveiling a massive screen that extended from the floor to the ceiling.
The gathering witnessed the reaping, which was broadcasted live from every district, starting from the east and making its way to the west, captivating audiences all across the nation.
Thus, the first district to hold the reaping was District 12.
As the seal of Panem appeared on the screen, accompanied by the resounding anthem of the Capitol, everyone in attendance stood up respectfully.
Gem of Panem,
Mighty city,
Through the ages, you shine anew.
Those around Tempest fumbled over the words, making her laugh beneath her breath. She could hear a few students singing all the verses in a forceful voice, as though to let all around them hear that they indeed knew the words.
Blessed Be the Ordinary
Tempest had muttered this, mostly to herself, all in humored timing.
As the reaping commenced, they watched the screen intently. After witnessing the tactless performance from the female tribute from District 12, Tempest noticed a hint of unease on Coriolanus' face. This was understandable, considering the insanity she had displayed for all of Panem.
"Tough luck," she quietly muttered to him. "It's doubtful a mentally unstable tribute will last more than ten minutes in the arena. Looks like you won't win the prize money."
Coriolanus turned his head sharply towards her, his eyes filled with intensity, as if she had somehow tapped into his innermost thoughts.
"Or perhaps she will capture the attention of the Capitol. It's not just about winning the games, it's about winning over the crowds," he whispered back harshly.
"And you believe she will win them over?" Tempest could barely contain her laughter.
Coriolanus too wore a grimace, as if he knew deep down that she was right. "With my assistance, absolutely."
"I think you have far too much confidence in yourself, Coriolanus Snow. Your past track record consistently falls short of victory. It seems the only obstacle in your way is—"
"You," he accused.
"I was going to say yourself," she mused. "But I much prefer your version."
Her smile had a way of driving him to the brink of madness. He feared that if he looked at her for even a moment longer, he would become just as unstable as his tribute. Yet, he couldn't tear his gaze away, as if missing even a single second of her presence would mean losing this moment forever.