Ashley Ketchum (d10) (pocketmonsters) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-24 19:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - districts, district: family interview, tribute: 56th brock samson |
WHO: Capitolite Florianus Everblythe, Flint Samson, Lola Samson & the Brocklings
WHAT: Family Interview
WHEN: Day 11
WHERE: Samson home, District 2
STATUS: Complete
Well, at least this family will talk to me. Brock Samson might not have been as interesting a tribute as Jet Pearce had been with his curious condition and all, but after the previous year Florianus Everblythe knew he should be glad for a return to the typical. The parents — father and step-mother, he had to remind himself — greeted him with a smile and words of excitement about the interview. He was welcomed into the home, indisputably carefully tidied up for the visit, given coffee and rather bland biscuits the family honestly thought were fancy. They were all smiles. "Why," he moaned to his assistant when the parents were out of ear-shot, "why do they have to be so boring? This is going to be the end of me." Seconds later, Flint and Lola returned to the room, their eight other children trailing behind. They were all younger than Brock, and while the oldest three looked nearly identical to the boy in the arena, they all had one thing in common — the same eyes. His insipid assistant raised her eyebrow at Florianus. "Well isn't this creepy," he muttered. "But thank god. This I can work with." "So tell us, we all saw that kiss between him and Zipporah. Plenty of people in the Capitol have been worried that he gets emotionally attached and that it might make him weaker. What do you think about that?" (A snort came from Lola Samson, too soft for the camera to pick up. "Her?") "Brock's not like that. He'll fall hard for someone when he first meets them, but then one of us smacks him and he's over it." Forrest, the next oldest Samson, looked straight into the camera. "Besides, that was practically planned." "Oh?" "Brock's the strongest guy in the arena, but he knows that's not all it takes to win. It was my idea, actually. That if he felt like one of the girls starting to soften, that he should take advantage of it. Girls are emotional. Get one to feel attached and then she'll have his back until the end and hesitate when it comes time to kill him." "You sound like someone who's thinking of going into the arena yourself." Forrest shrugged. "We'll see." "I just love legacies," Florianus wailed, banging his head against the camera after excusing himself to go get more equipment. "Imagine eight more shut-eyed tributes in the arena and eight more interviews with this family. "Umm," the assistant offered. "What?" he snapped, reminding himself once again to fire her when they got home. It was all he could do to not bare his teeth at her as well. "Yes, I know it's not likely for all of them to make it to the final eight, but what if it did? No one would watch anything I do for years to come because they'd be bored to death. I'd be bored to death!" "You wouldn't be bored seeing that Flint year after year." To that, Florianus had no come-back. "And now, Mr. Samson, this one's for you." Florianus wiggled his ears at the patriarch. "What do you think about your son's chances for winning?" Flint straightened at the question, the camera on him. Fifteen-year-old Salvatore behind him nodded triumphantly, his expressions matching his father's to a T. "Brock has been heavily favored since the start of the Games, and for good reason. He's always been one of the strongest kids in the District, and you can see he's naturally good with weapons. And now with the other two boys from his alliance gone — there really aren't too many challenges for Brock ahead of him, save maybe something the Gamemakers cook up." "And of course, we know anything could happen," added his wife. "But there's no doubt in this household that my son is going to be a Victor." ("He better be!" came Forrest's voice from the background.) "You sound truly proud of him," Florianus yawned. "Well, no," said Flint. "Oh?" "Not yet. We'll be proud of him when he kills the last tribute in the arena and wins that crown. And if he doesn't?" Florianus waited. "Well, it's a good thing there aren't any runners-up in the Hunger Games." "Beautiful," Florianus sighed, wiping away a tear. Perhaps he wouldn't be doomed to failure. Perhaps the Flints would save his career. It was truly the most decadent show of real District Two culture they had seen in a few years from a tribute's family. Or, maybe it was only because it had come from a big, beautiful father of nine with squinty eyes, but Florianus was convinced. "Um… what's this?" "Shut up," Florianus said. "Let me revel in my victory." And then: "Wait, what?" Wrenching the camera from her hands he rewound the tape to see what it was she was talking about. "There," the insipid girl instructed. And he saw it. Right in the back, behind all the other closed-eyed children, stood Yolanda, age fourteen. The rest were clearly proud of their brother or too young to know what was really going on, but this girl, this girl was just glaring. It was— "It's so creepy!" He couldn't air that, he couldn't air this creepy girl staring at them all, clearly unhappy with her brother in the Games. "That's it, I'm done. This time I hope I'm eaten by the dragons!" |