A companion piece to "Shattered Beauty" from Gloss's point of view.
Warning: contains violence and implied forced incestuous relationship.
There is so much going on in my head as I stand on the pedestal in the arena that I don't pay attention to the numbers flashing over the Cornucopia at first. My hands are shaking, my legs heavy with lactic acid. I feel the invisible cameras lock in onto my face, so I conjure a smirk to at least feign confidence for the viewers.
I'm a Career—vicious, deadly trained killer. And I'm every bit as afraid as the youngest kid in the arena.
Seven. That's the score I got in assessment. Not the worst result, but it doesn't win you many sponsors. The rest of the numbers goes by in a blur. Let the Hunger Games begin.
Seven. The district of the guy I agreed to team up with in the Training Center. Now all that's left of him is the bleeding gash on my thigh. I guess he's gotten impatient with waiting for others to kill me. I only regret I wasn't the one to stab first.
The wound festers overnight. It hurts to move and there's no supplies to treat me. Luckily the girl from Three knows what to do; setting up these little wires around the Cornucopia to electrocute anyone that comes near our hideout.
Three days pass and no medicine arrives. I have to up my game for the Capitol. Luckily, my sister has taught me how.
She tastes of apples when I kiss her, but that's all I feel. There's no passion to what we do, but we have to fake it for the cameras. I owe it to my family back home, to my sister fixed to the screens in the Training Center. She'll play it tough, but there's no way she isn't just as terrified as I am. She's simply gotten too good at pretending.
The ruse works and my medicine arrives the next morning. It takes me two days to recuperate.
The girl from Three falls asleep in my arms each night and I don't even remember her name. Buzzy ... Buzzer...? We look convincing enough, I suppose; the Capitol folks keep the goods coming. She helps nurse me back to killing shape.
On the dawn of the third day, I put a knife in her neck, just to be sure.
All the faces blur before me. Who's dead and who's still alive? Who did I kill?
Only the announcements keep me updated. Their names are just a number. I don't remember their voices, their personalities. I'm not sure they ever had any. They're all just dead meat to me.
It doesn't matter who I killed and who died by someone else's hand. If I win this thing, they'll be all my victims and their deaths will be mine to live with. If not, I'm a winner either way.
The parades are tiresome, but I freeze my face in a fake smile. It's not too hard considering all the cosmetic changes they made—I can barely move any other mimic muscles. They ask me about my feelings and I foolishly say I can't wait to see my sister.
Oh how bittersweet those words become now.
"What a sweet boy." says Pluton Helsing—the Pluton I've heard so much about. The Pluton whose neck I want to wring so badly. That Pluton. Finally in flesh. My hands twitch for the pressure on that supple Capitol neck; I can only imagine the music of the last gasp of the fiend. I would make his dying moments airless struggle, long as I could make it. After all that's been done to my sister he deserves no less.
All just idle fantasies if I want to keep my family alive.
"What a sweet pair, the two of you." he continues and nonchalantly ignores the scowl I don't trouble myself with hiding. "But a sweet face has decreased in price these days, I'm afraid. You have to ante-up your game. I know just the thing…"
The horror in Cashmere's eyes is inconceivable. Within them I see shattering the remains of her pride, the last pretenses of control torn asunder at the suggestion.
"Of course, you can refuse, but as you well know… defiance has its price." The vicious grin turns his face from pampered dog into a predator.
The knuckles of my balled fists crack with anger.
She is my sister. I should feel protest, revulsion, defiance at Capitol's twisted politics and plays. But all I think is: this is how protection feels like. There is nothing I wouldn't do for my sister. Even betraying the laws of nature.
The strands of hair turn to puppet strings in my hands.
When I try to talk about it, apologise, she cuts me off with a wave of her hand. "Anything to survive," she says. There is no resistance in her voice.
We've become too accustomed to being puppets.
Another thing they gloss over.
A/N: I'd like to thank Sassy Lil Scorpio for suggesting I write an alternative piece from the point of view of Gloss. Late, but finally out! I hope it turned out well.