title: i see the spark
characters: Enobaria, Romulus, Odius, and other OC characters
summary: The sun doesn't shine in hell.-—Enobaria-centric, for Kay.
a/n: sorry for spag errors and the overall lateness of the fic; it's more towards the later half of the month. this is supposed to be canon, and mostly some career headcanons, and i tried to keep her family relatively stable because not all families are unstable in district two, i hope. in my headcanon, brutus is a year older than enobaria; romulus is an oc, and so is odius, and so is digit.
disclaimer: i don't own anything besides the story idea; the original characters and everything else belong to Suzanne Collins.
dedication: this is for kay (gingerly moments) for junei gge
prompt: enobaria-centric, fantasy/supernatural genre
I. NASCENCE
Enobaria's first recollection of the Games involve sticky fingers and cotton candy.
Her eyes are glued to the television screen; the bright blue light emitted from the screen blurs for a moment, dissolving into the image of a Career, wooden-red brick in his hands, crushing the block onto his opponent's heads. It's a messy death and she closes her eyes for a moment, hands covering her face—her mother walks into the room and casts her a disapproving look, You shouldn't be watching this.
I shouldn't be, she smiles back, toothy grin. But I have to, Enobaria continues on, face turning aching serious for a moment, my trainer told me that the only way that I have a chance of winning the Games is if I watch the current ones—to get a feel for it all.
Her mother shakes her head, You're eight years old, Erin.
It's Enobaria, she hastily snaps. And I'm eight, so what? Lyme and Catelyn are seven and they're probably better than me. And you know why that's the reason? It's because their parents actually support them in their decision. Their parents are proud that their children have decided to take on an honourable role, and you're acting as though this is some sort of death sentence.
Well, you can't blame me. Twenty-three other tributes—who says that you'll be able to survive all that? And it is a death sentence. You don't need this; I don't understand what I've done to deserve this, her mother sits down, pressing her fingers to her temples. I've raised you right, I've given you everything that I could have ever wanted at your age, but you still want to do this.
Enobaria barks out a laugh, This is not for me. I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do—somebody needs to be brave, and the rest of District Two seems to be cowards sometimes. Like these times.
Her mother's eyes narrow, I don't understand who you're referring to, but watch your words.
Meryl and Mrs. Goulding. Charles and his estranged father. They're acting as though they're in permanent mourning.
Meryl's twelve-year-old sister is dead! Charles adored his older brother, and now, for what? Now that his older brother is dead, where does that leave him? I couldn't expect you to understand; you're not old enough to understand. Her mother sighs, You need serious help, Enobaria. I don't know a single other eight year old who has the same attitude as you. Have you ever considered being a normal child?
What do you mean by normal? Enobaria tilts her head to the side, pretending as though they haven't had this conversation a million times over; sometimes, she thinks that she just likes aggravating her mother. You're not a normal mother. You just came into this family a few months ago, and Dad, he was the one who was raising me all along. You can't pretend as though you're really my mother, because you're not—my real mother left as soon as you came around, you drove her out, and I was normal before that. I was, ask anybody.
You weren't normal! You were training for your Games or whatever nonsense that is—
Stop talking like a foreigner, she spits out. If you ever want to fit in around here, you need to learn a few things. Volunteering for the Games, being Reaped for the Games—and somebody not Volunteering in your place—that's a real honour. Enobaria repeats that in her mind every night; it's the motto of the Academy: Balidanam Vir Lakshanam, from the ancient language of Sanskrit, translating into sacrifice is a sign of the brave. It's an honour.
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.
.
It's only when she advances past Basic Ranks that the trainers start talking about the Games.
It's not essential that you learn about how to kill until you learn what you're going to kill with, how you're going to win; the Games aren't just about killing, they're about intelligence, cunning, and craft. Learning how to survive the Games will be your goal for the next ten years, until you're eighteen, and possibly, two of you will advance to the Games.
What does he mean, possibly? Enobaria whispers in her training partner's ear—his name is Romulus, and more often than not, he's a complete git, but he's useful too—tapping her foot upon the floor anxiously. Does that mean even if we train, one of us might not get chosen? Somebody else, somebody who isn't even in the Academy, might advance to the Games? That's impossible, that's what it is.
He only smiles smugly down at her, That's exactly what it means. Also, don't get your hopes up. First of all, you're small for your age, second, I don't see that you've even picked a special weapon. There's no way they'll let you go into the Games, total humiliation of yourself dying in the Cornucopia.
Her eyes flicker with dread as she focuses back on the instructor; maybe all these years of training will never be enough. But, before you waste your time thinking about how to survive the Games, Odius drawls out, I can just tell you upfront. First of all, to get into the Games, you have to get picked—to do this, you have to be not only the best in your Rank, not only the best in your Academy, but extremely lucky. Unless you are intimidating, unless you show everybody else that you are the best, there's always the chance that somebody else will volunteer in your place, somebody less deserving.
Second, once you're there, you've gotta make them like you—no, not like you, love you. The sponsors are the ones who are going to give you food when you're starving, a match to light a fire once you're in the Career Pack (but if you're alone, of course, you know that lighting a fire will kill you), a blanket when you're dying of hypothermia. Smile, laugh, but remember to be intimidating. Wave, flirt, but don't get attached. Basically, don't act like a dead slug. Unless you're big, muscular, and tall: then do whatever the hell you want.
Third, once you're in the Arena, find your weapon—don't make a weapon. If you show your skill during the training sessions or when you're getting scored for points (which, perhaps, is the most important part of the pre-Game rituals), then they'll give you the weapon during the Games; it might be hard to find, but it will be there. Find your weapon, kill as many tributes as possible at the Cornucopia, and meet up with your Career Pack. They'll be your safety net until you're done to the Final Eight or Final Four, depending on how strong the alliance is. But don't trust them. Even if there are twelve tributes left, they could always turn their back on you; if they're sleeping, and you're on watch, kill all of them, if you can do it fast enough without any of them waking up.
There's nothing better than to eliminate all your competition at once, and plus, the Capitol loves a good backstabbing scandal. Especially if it's literal. And, in the end, just don't die.
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.
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Five years pass before an opportunity arises.
Enobaria's not the best trainee there, not even close—some of the other children are exceptionally talented (and the trainers have noticed this, taking them under their wing) and the rest of the trainees have parents who are more than willing to spend all of their child's trust fund's money upon training (because who knows if they'll live long enough to use that money?), and Enobaria thinks that she's probably the most unlucky person there.
She's dark-skinned and some of the other trainees swear that they see fangs in her mouth when she attempts to snarl at them: it's not a good combination; sponsors don't like fierce girls (at least not for now). They like pretty things with girly dresses who act like they're somebody they're not, and Enobaria's not willing to give up everything she is for this competition. You have to, Romulus, her ally, reminds her on Day 305 of the year, You have to learn some tricks if you plan on surviving.
Just go screw off and find another ally, she spits back, throwing out series of slide roundkicks (sidekicks are preferable, because they can't be blocked as easily, and thrown apart by a simple blitz move, but they're harder, and she's just tired; it's not like anybody's going to notice weak little her) at his face. The two of them, Romulus and her, had been paired together when they started training at the Academy—if by some miracle that they climbed up the ranks, they were to be in the 62nd Annual Hunger Games together. Of course, they were only around number 64 for pairs in the ranks, out of seventy pairs. It's not as though we'll make it any way.
He raises an eyebrow, Didn't think that you would give up so easily, Erin. She blitzes past him, punch barely landing on his chest, brushing against the heavily padded skin. Losing touch, now are you?
Romulus is actually grinning. Grinning. Enobaria has the sudden urge to rip out his throat and attempts to send out a sidekick; he quickly dodges and trips her, placing her in a headlock within a few seconds. I don't even know why I'm paired up with you, he says when he releases her moments later, and she's pretending that her breath is at normal pace.
Because you're a cocky idiot, she replies quickly, answer already rehearsed. She's thought about this several times over; Romulus isn't the worst trainee there, but he has the worst attitude—shows up late to classes, stays out late at night and is often spotted with alcohol (even though he's thirteen as well), constantly swears and talks back to the instructors—and that's something the trainers keep in mind when they're moving trainees up ranks. The two of them are still stuck at the bottom, Rank Five out of eighteen ranks. An insufferable prat, too. And if you really want me to keep listing your faults, I could go on forever.
He grins and knocks the air out of Enobaria, sending a swift sidekick to her ribs. At least I'm not weak.
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.
Three hours later, the announcement is made—
There's a loud clamor of noise when class is dismissed that day; most of the students make their way to the dormitories, others pausing for a moment to catch their breaths, taking swigs of water from their matching metallic bottles. If you're still here, Odius, their wiry-framed instructor, then you can pass on this announcement to the rest of your classmates. Or not.
Romulus shrugs at her, joining the rest of the crowd; Enobaria narrows her eyes and joins him. So, I'll make a bet with you this time. Twenty coins and your next lunch meal says that this is about the Games. We're going to be volunteering or wearing some fancy sort of dress thing and passing out signed swords from the most recent Victor who came from District Two. It has to be that. It's been that the last three times.
Well, I bet that it's something different. Actually, anything else. He maintains eye contact with her for a moment, and she squints.
What the hell are you doing? She asks quickly, sneering. Odius's voice carries over the area and Enobaria rolls her eye, Nevermind, let's just call off the bet. He doesn't look like he's in a good mood anyway, and I'm not losing twenty coins. And a lunch meal.
So, Odius begins, I'm sure that all of you have heard of Victor. Not the victor of the Games, but we have a promising student named Victor, son of Jack Harkness, a transfer student from another district, but he's good—good as hell, promising too. We're thinking of taking him on if he accepts the offer; he has the chance of training at the Capitol with some of the more advanced students of District Two and most of the trainees of District One. It's your job to make sure that he decides to start training over here. If he doesn't, I'll make you guys do more suicides.
A series of apathetic groans echoes across the auditorium. It's not as though any of them care about suicides; compared to daily sparring sessions and cardio kickboxing workouts, suicide runs are nothing. That's not that bad, one of the students near the front of the gathering says, shrugging, We've done worst than that before. We do suicide runs on a daily basis anyway.
How about suicide runs in your sparring equipment? Odius corrects. The groans and other sounds of annoyance are more real this time, at least for the most part. Good, he twirls the knife in his hand, I'll see you all here tonight. Seven o' clock, be punctual, and dress nicely.
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So, Enobaria leans across his door frame, What do you think?
Romulus blinks for a moment, before bursting out laughing, You're wearing a fucking dress, Erin. What do you want me to say?
She scowls, My name's Enobaria and cut it out with the swearing. We're supposed to be on our best behavior tonight, and if you take me down with you, I swear it'll be the last thing you ever do.
Don't be like that, he grins at her, taking a swig of alcohol. You like nice, though.
Thanks? She raises an eyebrow, then rolls her eyes again. C'mon, we're gonna be late.
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.
They end up being thirteen minutes later, and it's completely humiliating because this Victor guy is halfway through his speech—yes, the one that he's rehearsed a million times over—when they walk into the room, and everybody looks at them as though something's wrong with them and Enobaria blinks rapidly because she's the only girl wearing a dress.
Oh, well. At least she made an impression. You've got an odd name, she pipes up when Victor walks around.
He stares back at her, broad grin of sharp yellowed teeth. Well, you see, I'm going to be a victor. My parents just knew that from the start. Your name has to mean something—when I go into the Games, everybody's going to root for me not because I'm talented, but I am, but because of my name. You know, I don't think there's even a chance that I could lose.
Enobaria raises an eyebrow, Cocky attitudes get you killed. My partner Romulus here, he's a bit like you.
He barks out a laugh, Who told you that, your instructor? He takes her silence for yes. Well, let me tell you one thing, your instructors and trainers can you tell you everything that you want, but its different out there, in the real world.
The Games are different than fighting in the War. Anyway, there hasn't been a War in years. You're lying.
The boy starts laughing, almost uncontrollably, You're just a child, how would you know? I've been in the war, two years now, I've supported my family, and now we're going to be living in the Capitol as soon as I win the Games. President Snow promised me my reward, and I'll go and collect it, and you don't know anything, so stop pretending like you do. He walks towards the door, and stops before he exits, You'll be seeing my name around.
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Surely enough, three and a half years later, the announcement reads—
"VICTOR HARKNESS, VICTOR OF THE 61ST ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES," reads the gold and scarlet caption from the projection on the television. "THEREFORE WE MUST OFFER OUR SINCEREST CONGRATULATIONS TO DISTRICT TWO YET AGAIN."
Or at least that was the way it was supposed to be. Instead, the announcement reads: VICTOR HARKNESS, DEAD. He was the seventeenth to be killed in the 61st Annual Hunger Games; the Bloodbath that year wasn't so much of a Bloodbath as it was a game of poisoning and fakes, clever and cunning; needless to say, it wasn't a Career tribute who had won the games.
Instead, it was a tribute from District Three—a short, lanky looking boy; he looked like he was fit, or at least carried himself like he was, and looked unsure upon the stage, daring down at the population of District Two who, Enobaria thinks, looks as though they're slowly plotting his demise. She shrugs, and knows that within a few months, he'll become the Capitol's toy.
She talks to him briefly during the Victory Tour—going through all the Districts, all the way up to the Capitol. He looks different now; the battle scars on his face are more emphasized; a few years back, he would have concealed them to give off a more innocent expression, but perhaps his role as Victor in the Games allow for him to show his inner brutality.
You're that boy, she acknowledges, arms crossed. A few years back, Enobaria would have felt scared, almost threatened; being in the same room as a Victor, who was allegedly declared to have gone insane three days after the Games, but she knew how to defend herself. What are you doing here? This is private property. The two of them are standing in the middle of one of the Training Centers, him arms dangling by his sides in an almost awkward fashion, her twirling a knife in her hands and wondering how long it would take for her to rip his heart out of his chest. You're not supposed to be here.
He steps closer, and she backs up, legs pivoted, daring for him to make another move. I just wanted to talk.
I don't even know who you are. She talked to his victim a few years ago, but back then, she was a weak little girl, and things have changed. At least that's what Enobaria likes to tell herself; there could only be one reason she had moved up the ranks to Rank Fifteen this quickly.
But I know you. Or at least, I've heard about you.
From Victor? He mentioned her in the interviews, Viktor, he mentioned the names of a few people from the Academy who he believed were promising; maybe he was helping them? Enobaria didn't understand him then, and she didn't understand it now—nobody should be trying to help anybody else when everything is a competition. I don't have time for this, she says, reminding herself: she doesn't have time for distractions, not if they last for one minute, not if they last for an hour.
He told me to tell you something. Ask you something, rather. Digit pauses, as though he's drawing out his words for suspense; it doesn't suit him. Is it worth it?
Light flickers throughout the room and Romulus walks in with a group of trainees—Enobaria thinks that she's never been more glad to see his ugly face. Digit, isn't it? Romulus speaks up, You're not allowed to be on private property unless Peacekeepers are escorting you. So, before we have to call down our instructor, you should leave.
Can't defend yourself? Digit sneers, suddenly uncharacteristic behavior, but they always say that the Games don't change a person, they reveal the person's true nature—and humanity's true nature is self-preservation, grief covered up by anger. I mean, I know that you're not one of the top students, but at least you can defend yourself against somebody from District Three.
They don't end up fighting, of course. Fights aren't allowed, and the rules are more important than anything else.
II. GROWTH
Three weeks later, she actually gets good.
Maybe it's a combination of the extra training private sessions—late nights and rooms with dim lighting—, some newfound confidence, and the fangs that are growing in the back of her mouth, but she gets moved up from the bottom thirty to the middle thirty. Still not good enough for the Games, but she's getting there, maybe.
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.
.
She's Enobaria Golding; she likes sparring, knives, and midnight.
At least that's what it says on her application. It's some sort of mandatory requirement; for most of the lower ranked trainees, who have absolutely no choice of even making it into the Games, to have a second option—Peacekeeper training. All of you have already been trained to work for the Capitol, Odius drawls out, slight smirk, so it doesn't really matter if you choose to be a one-time warrior or a defender of Panem for the rest of your life.
The thirty or so of them stand in silence; this is not what they were trained for—not being in the Games. Since the age of your five, you were told that if you can work as hard as possible, you would win glory for your district, everlasting gold and glory (and maybe some confidence in yourself), but nobody ever prepares you for this: when you don't make it, when you don't get in. This is crap, Romulus speaks up, echoing all of their thoughts, and Enobaria sends him a sharp jab in the ribs.
He shuts up temporarily, as Odius sends him a lackadaisical glance. It doesn't matter what you think, it matters what the Mayor thinks. He doesn't need any more masons and storekeepers, he needs Peacekeepers and desperation. Which you are. All of you here, you're all desperate, poor, or poorly trained, or some combination of the three; that's the only reason you didn't make it. Now, for all of you who want to fill out the second part of the application, you need to...
Odius's voice drags on as the afternoon grows damp with humidity, and Enobaria slowly moves across the room, step by step, wondering if her absence would be noticed; before leaving the room, she mouths to Romulus from across the room, I'm not going down with you.
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Were you asking me out or something?
She spits out her water; it lands mostly on his face and Romulus almost winces—like a baby, Enobaria notes in her mind, but she's stuck somewhere between an expression of disbelief and confusion and knowing. You're a prat, you know that?
A moment of a thousand emotions flitters across his face, and then disappears, hiding under a cocky grin. He pauses for a moment, as if in deep thought. What do you think you're doing? Enobaria snaps, You know the rules; the open-door rule. I'm not getting thrown out of the Academy for something as silly as breaking the rules.
You're not breaking the rules if nobody's there to enforce them.
Stop being a smart-ass and answer my question before the Peacekeepers return from their drinking rounds.
You know about that?
I know a bit more than I let on.
Look, this is important, so just listen for one minute without freaking out—
Are you going to ask me out? Because if you are, that's a bit messed up, and I will have no thought about knocking you out if you voice your opinions like that. So just save it—
Romulus only rolls his eyes, I don't even like you, Enobaria, especially not in that way. You've kicked me too many times in the ribs for me to even like you. Just listen, okay? I'm leaving. She gapes. The Academy, not the District, course.
That doesn't make it any better! What do you mean you're leaving? Did you get kicked out? Oh, god, I always knew that one day, Odius would get fed up with your crap, and you know what? What you said today, that must have been the tipping point. Now, what am I going to do? You're my training partner; I'm way too old to get a new training partner.
You're so self-obsessed, you know that? When I tell you that I'm leaving, you don't ask me why I'm leaving as though it's not because I got kicked out, but maybe because I have personal reasons? It could be that.
Leaving without being kicked out is cowardly; I'd rather be self-obsessed than cowardly.
Yeah, well that'll be your downfall, now won't it?
What's that supposed to mean—you know what, I actually don't care. Why are you leaving, though?
My mum, she died.
Enobaria raises an eyebrow, You have a mum?
Fine, he acquiesces. I won't leave.
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.
Romulus drops out of the Academy three weeks later.
Something about his dad dying—along with his mum, as if that wasn't horribly tragic enough, and how he has to take full responsibility of his younger siblings—it's an excuse, that's what is, Enobaria thinks. People don't die around here.
He stops by one last time before leaving; I'm leaving, Romulus announces, as though it's the biggest deal in the world.
Enobaria only rolls her eyes because she saw this coming three weeks back. Yeah, I know. Everybody knows. Your parents are dead and you have to take care of your siblings.
It's not as though I want to leave! He sputters. It's not my fault that my parents are dead.
Course not. But you wanna know something? Nero Caerellia, Rank Fourteen, one floor below us: his brother was killed in some sort of riot and his parents were arrested by the Capitol. They're probably dead now. But he's not
You don't understand, Erin.
Fuck's sake, it's Enobaria! And I do understand, so stop pretending that just because I'm a few months younger than you and a girl, it means that I'm completely clueless about the world.
You are, though, that's the thing. If you become a Victor from the Games, you become the prize toy of the Capitol for the next twelve months after the Games, maybe even longer if you killed a particularly large number of people or caused some tributes really gruesome deaths. But it doesn't just end there. Living in the Victor's Village, you're understand constant supervision from President Snow. Constant.
Listen up, I've been training too damn long to give up now, but listen close. Did you ever think that I'm, that we're, not just training because of the Capitol? That we're training because it's for ourselves?
Romulus only shakes his head and looks at her pitifully, I hope that you'll understand one day. The sooner, the better for your sake.
And then he leaves and Enobaria scoffs and pretends not to feel hurt, because damn it, Romulus was always one for drama.
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Sometimes, she thinks about her fangs.
How they're growing a little longer every day, how she accidentally killed her new roommate and left her odorous carcass at the garbage dump behind the Academy, how her reflexes are suddenly faster, muscles suddenly stronger.
She stocks up in books from the library—restricted section, of course—and looks like a senile idiot, arms full of vampire related books; Enobaria almost sighs with relief when she doesn't sparkle and burn underneath the sunlight, that she actually can eat garlic, and sadly enough, her wounds do not heal within an instant. That would make training a lot easier.
Enobaria decides not to tell anybody about them, though, not just yet. It's not too late for them to take her out of the Academy.
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I'm ready, she grits out, black eyes flickering with rage—it's not the first time this particular trainer has asked her the question; Regulus asks it over and over, and god damn it, she's ready to kill.
The blood pounding in her veins—the blood pounding in their veins; when her teeth dive into their fresh human skin, there will be applause: nobody will comment on how Enobaria should be put in the West Wing of an asylum. They'll be intrigued by this new way of killing. It's messy too, lots of blood, but it doesn't have to be. Whatever pleases the Capitol and their sponsors, she thinks, will be fine.
You're not, he shakes his bald head. He's bald and twenty-two. What does that say about him? She thinks about this often—what will happen after she wins the Games. Whether or not she'll actually have a life—maybe she'll be lucky enough to go in the Games multiple times? A life of being a Peacekeeper would be particularly boring; she's seen the Peacekeepers. They don't do much besides make false threats and wear heavy equipment. Killing is something of a natural instinct to her, and there's point in using that natural instinct after the Games.
She's seen the magazines all the way from the Capitol. They're full of earlier years' Victors being paraded around in stupid costumes; the younger you are, the more frilly, pink dresses you have to wear, but that's not how it's supposed to be.
Or maybe it is. Enobaria shrugs: it'll be worth it, in the end. Thirteen years of training, in preparation for seven to eight days of ripping people's throats out, and then the rest of a pitiful existence being the play toy of the Capitol—the play toy of the President and his Cabinet. Unlimited riches, silks, adoring fans: what would that be worth? Absolutely nothing. You're not listening to me, Regulus says, as though this is something new.
Enobaria blinks rapidly, I am.
Good, he smiles, yellow and crooked teeth on display. Then you wouldn't mind telling me what your strategy is going to be for the Games, in full detail? You only have eight more months until the Reaping, and it's true that you're in the contention for being female tribute—
What the hell do you mean I'm in the contention? she snaps. I am the contending female tribute for next year's Reaping. Next year's my last chance, my only chance, to be in the Games.
He shakes his head, annoyingly pitiful expression, You're not the only eighteen-year old female tribute in all of District Two who feels the same way. There are other ones, who pay more, who train harder; you have your special gift but that's not enough for survival. Without any sort of blood, whether it's human or animal, you'd die out in a few days.
Enobaria knew that it was a mistake to tell anybody about the fangs. Who else is there, then? It's Maia, isn't it? The girl who had transferred from District Seven—special case sort, because the only reason why children transfer is because they're either extraordinarily rich or they have connections with the Capitol, but it was neither in the girl's case. She just had a passion for killing—and seemed to be pretty good at it. Apparently she had been an asylum West Wing case before the transferral, which wouldn't earn her too many sponsors if the news was leaked out. Which, knowing the Capitol, it would be before Maia even reached the training center. Jordan. Terra. Domitia. Who?
Domitia, actually.
Enobaria rolls her eyes, All she has going for her are her knives. What if there aren't any knives in the Arena? And even if there are, sure, she's really good at knive-throwing, but give her a sword, give her long distance shooting, she'll fail. Miserably.
At least she has a skill. What are you supposed to have for you?
Well, she bares her teeth, grinning.
You can't tell anybody about that, Regulus warns.
Why not? They should be rooting for what I truly am—I don't really have any weapon talent, after all—
That's your problem! Anyway, if anybody found out about your special gift before you won the Games, you'd be in the West Wing, and nobody here would do anything about it to get you out, understand me? Good.
III: SOLLICITUS
Last day of class, Odius announces to the forty or so of them that are gathered.
It's sort of sentimental, really—the forty of them (originally, it had been eighty) have grown up together, from the age of five, to the age of eighteen—but they're not sentimental people, so they don't show it, instead, just standing there, waiting for some sort of stupid inspirational speech before Tribute preliminaries.
Well? He raises his eyebrows. Start your laps, like you have every single day!
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The preliminaries start off as badly as they could have.
She trips on her feet, ends up getting the wind knocked out of her twice, and her hair ends up in her face on more than one occasion; Enobaria swears and knows that she should have gotten the distraction chopped off.
In the end, she's Reaped, though; it works out just the way she thought it would. She's eighteen—nobody stands in her way.
There's this pesky redhead who almost makes a move to Volunteer and Enobaria nearly knocks over the girl—this is her chance, this is her moment, this is her spotlight, and nobody's going to take the attention away from her.
IV: THE AFTERMATH
I don't want to talk about it.
There's a buzz of excitement surrounding Panem's newest Victor—ambassadors from China and North Korea arrive at the gates, before being rudely shut out; Panem has a strict anti-foreigner policy—and everybody wants an interview. Of course, there's even more cause for excitement when said Victor decides to make a public announcement that she does not wish to have any interviews.
It's an outrage, that's what is, one of the ladies on the streets spits out in a moment of rage, before her face returns to normalcy, instead of a gnarled expression, probably in recognition that she's on nationally broadcasted television, and oh, what an exciting moment this is! I mean, it's an outrage, because I would love to know her viewpoint. What she thought of the Games.
She's not the first tribute to make a scene like this, another woman says. Then, wryly, I expect that she'll be the last.
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.
She had never been the Capitol's darling.
Victors were supposed to be pawns of the Capitol—Enobaria wasn't ready for this. She knew, back from the beginning, from training at the Academy, that there would always be an after but perhaps during those eight days in the Games, it seemed as though there might not be an after; that the Games might be the end of everything, the end of her life.
And know that it's over, it seems as though life has no true meaning. The scars are haunting, and she sees them everywhere—she snaps at the children in the streets, who play toy soldiers with their inflatable plastic swords; she nearly kills one of the paparazzi who sneaks into her penthouse at night, and that scandal ends up all over the papers (as if the Capitol wasn't mad enough at her for not being picture-perfect already); just everything's wrong.
It's different.
In a way, though, life is better after the Games.
She's got more food—her family's never been particularly poor compared to some of the lower Districts, but it always helps to have the extra money around. Her father's remarried; Stepmother 2 almost looks kinder, but Enobaria knows better. There's not a single person in the world who's completely good; there was this girl that reminds her of her stepmother, back in the Arena.
Female tribute from District One, blonde hair, waifish figure, said Oh, wow, that's lovely a lot, maybe a bit of a nutcase; Enobaria had grown strangely protective of the girl. Five days into the Games, when they were down to the Final Five, Enobaria had woken up to see the girl plunging her knife into her district partner's throat.
I'm moving out, she announces two months into the year, at family breakfast. It's an excuse, really. Family breakfast. Nobody wants to talk about the Games, they're trying to pretend as though it never happened—but before the Games, they weren't like this. They weren't a normal family, and that was okay, because nobody had a normal family in District Two. That was just the way it was.
Her father only nods, Back to the Capitol, are you? They bought you an apartment, I heard, a penthouse, just like the one that you stayed at when you were on that Victory Tour of yours.
Her stepmother has a completely different reaction: bursting into sobs.
Enobaria stands awkwardly over the table—with the father who doesn't know how to care and the stepmother who cares too much and the little baby who's always upset at everything—and leaves quickly. She's outgrown her home; she's the one who's changed.
In a way, life is worse after the Games.
He visits her two weeks after she's situated into the penthouse.
Romulus, she smiles faintly.
He doesn't smile back, only raises an eyebrow, I didn't think that the newspapers were actually serious about that.
Well, they were, she snaps back. So unless you actually called me for something useful, you might as well leave. Enobaria sighs, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Come inside, the company would be useful. So, how're you? How's life back home - your brothers, sisters?
They're at my aunt's place; she'll take care of them until they're of age, and after that, I guess that they'll have to make it on their own. And, no, they're not training for the Games; none of them, I won't allow it. His eyes are half glazed over and she thinks that he's staring right through her; the past few weeks, through the mandatory interviews and unappreciated visits from President Snow and his Cabinet, it seems as though everybody sees her as Victor, and nothing else; not a person, not an real human being, but a Victor.
And Enobaria would like to think that she's more than that—she knows that she's more than that. She had had a grief counselor a few weeks back and a psychologist visit the previous week, and they had all gone like:
(How are you today?
I'm fine, she smiles thinly. I'm doing fine. How are you?
I'm not here to talk about myself, I'm here to talk about you. So, what troubles you today?
This isn't fucking confession. I don't even know why you're here; I didn't call you, and if President Snow called you, well tell him to screw off, because I don't need some person checking on me every day to see if I'm okay, okay?
Okay, the woman smiles, well, that makes it a lot easier. I see that we have an easy diagnosis here: either anger issues or something like Post Tramautic Stress Disorder. It's okay to be stressed out, after all that you've gone through, but try to take all the stress and put it away in the corners of your mind. You're a Victor, Enobaria, take pride in that.
There's nothing prideful about being a Victor.
So, you don't like the money? The penthouse, here at the Capitol? The way that your district is now going to be well-fed for the next year? How you've inspired kids throughout your home district to take up the honorable craft of training? Enobaria doesn't say anything in response, simply closing her eyes. Enobaria, darling, you need to focus. Enobaria?)
And then she fell asleep, and the psychologist/grief counselor/interviewer pretending to be one of the two would go report Enobaria's inconsiderate actions to President Snow, who would threaten to kill her family, but oh, wait, he had already done that. Still, I'm sure that life at a penthouse beats out living in the Academy dormitories, he cracks a smile, must be nice here.
You can have the penthouse, if you want. Her eyes flicker to the red flashing lights, and the small whirring sound of the video cameras set up in every possible place throughout the room. Here, let me show you the roof; there's this great view up there.
.
.
.
The view's not that great. It's sort of ugly, really. Everything looks so fake; it's just buildings and then there's some trees, but are those even real trees? And the temperature, it's too perfect. There's no humidity and no rain—
That's just the Capitol, she shrugs, I haven't been here for too long, but I know enough to know that they don't like imperfections in their system. Imperfections like rain and humidity are delegated to the lower districts. Anyway, I didn't come up here to show you the view; they have video cameras and recording devices down there, and every word I say will end up on television.
You're not that important.
Thanks? Anyways, tell me the truth. Life after the Games has to have gotten better for the district; wouldn't they have more food now, and gold and riches and everything they could dream of; that's probably pushing it a bit, but still—
Pushing it a lot, actually, he looks down, avoiding eye contact. Here's the thing: you've been back home when somebody from District 2 wins the Games. You know what happens to all the food.
Since I can remember, I've always been in the Academy. Even if there were two Victors from our District, they wouldn't give us a morsel more of food; you know that we had to have proper diets and nutrients, and god, I'm sort of sick of all that crap. I'm not even sure why I started training in the first place; maybe there's something glorious about having a special skill and being the best at it, but there's nothing glorious about killing people in their sleep, or killing
She collapses into his arms, and not for the first time, breaks into sobs, then wipes them away moments later, as though they were never there in the first place (because the newspapers are always watching, and she doesn't want to be this weak, broken thing, she can't be, and the Capitol couldn't have their latest Victor be sad, now could they? There's no reason for a Victor to be sad in their minds) and smiles vaguely, I'm fine.
He nods, I'm fine, too.