The Fourth Annual Writer Games: Canon

The Games | Females

District One – Dioria Rose

Dioria Rose prefers rose to cherry, crimson to scarlet; she likes her reds bright and vibrant, full of life and colour. When she wears lipstick (the absence of which now chaps her lips – how hadn't she realized that she was so used to slathering on makeup every day?) it is never dark. Red is the colour of life: it's the human heart and the blood it pumps, the love that pushes us forward, and the passion that greets each challenge we face. So, red must be bright. Because life, despite its twists and turns and occasional miseries, is a bright thing. It's the best gift we receive. Current and garnet and merlot are too grim, too dull, to ever represent such beautiful a thing as life.

Until now, Dioria has taken life for granted. She still does, though it's now being counted down with each second before the gong rings and the Games begin. Other tributes must be panicking now, thinking about the grim reality of their mortality. Next to her, the girl from Ten pulls at the bottom of her jacket, a sad look on her pretty face. Does she regret not bringing a token, or is there nothing she'd want to remember? Dioria can't imagine not having a trinket to ease whatever few nerves she may have. Even something as simple as tying her hair up with Chanel's ribbon helps her sharpen her focus.

Around her, the world is dying. Likely, this is a cheap trick on the Gamemakers' end, designed to remind the tributes that they, too, are facing their demise; it bears no effect on Dioria's cynicism. The Hunger Games are a fight to the death, and she volunteered for them. She's felt her proximity to death from the moment she won her Reaping Tournament, but it doesn't matter. Her fate is in her own hands. Any reminder of the stakes simply keeps her fresh.

If she were an outlier tribute, she doesn't know where she'd go. Neither side of the arena looks promising, and though the trees behind her seem just a touch livelier than the ones across from her, they look as though any of them might crumble and crush tributes passing beneath them. This puts tributes from Seven at an immediate advantage, she notes. If anyone would be able to tell which paths are safe, it's them. Dioria makes a note to avoid the forests. The Cornucopia will be as good a place as any to camp out, and so long as her pack doesn't dwell too long when hunting, they should be able to avoid venturing into the woods for more than a few hours at once.

As the countdown drops to fifteen, a strange scent fills the air. It's sulfurous, almost, but not quite. The smell has the right strength to it, but its tint is bitter rather than sour: grey, not brown. Dioria grimaces, but doesn't hold her breath. In One, the streets are filled with the smells of vendors selling their perfumes. Lavender, cinnamon, and vanilla fill the air. But Dioria will not shorten her breath just to avoid anything unpleasant. In eight seconds, she will need to run. There's no point winding herself before the Games have even begun.

As if responding to a cue she doesn't recall giving, the gong resounds with an echoing crack! and the frenzy begins. Out of the corner of her eye, Dioria sees the girl from Ten – Sale? Mabel? – running into the forest. Smart girl. She's a pretty thing, Dioria realizes, blonde and soft and not all that different from the twelve year-olds in One. If things had been different, if she'd been born somewhere other than Ten, she might not be here. Or, if she were here, it wouldn't be this year, and she'd be ready. But she isn't. She's from Ten and she's twelve years old. The girl is at the bottom of the feeding chain, and she made the right call. She will have to run and hide.

Until someone finds her, that is.

Perhaps the thought should bother Dioria. Surely, nobody would blame her for feeling uncomfortable at the thought of a dead little girl – but this is the fifty-first Games, and at this point dead children are a fact. The possibility of Dioria's death is normal – insignificant, even – and the same applies to everyone around her.