AN: This story is told from two points of view: from the minds of protagonists Jady Strouch and Pax Odair. The chapters alternate points of view. The first chapter is told from Jady's POV, and the second is told from Pax's, etc. Eventually I'll figure out a clever way to indicate with the chapter titles who narrates which chapter, but until then, here's the clunky Author's Note explanation.
I don't feel like myself. It is as though someone placed a camera behind the eyes of a stranger for the Capitol to broadcast. If only I were at home in front of the television… It's cold. Taffeta is not the warmest of materials, but it's the fanciest of what we can afford. I admit, the dress itself is quite flattering. Deep green, with a waist that somehow manages to hide my protruding tummy, yet hug my flaring hips. Mim's trembling fingers did a remarkable job.
She' the only reason why I'm here in the Capitol, to celebrate the life of a man who left the world five years before I came into it. Because he was Mim's son. My Mama's brother. My Uncle Chaff.
Apparently, he was a hero. Twice over. A victor in the Hunger Games, and a martyr in the Revolution. Mim and everyone in the Capitol can't seem to let me forget that. But all I can see when I look at his most recent footage, no matter how hard I try, is a maimed drunkard. I feel a pang of guilt for my thoughts until my eyes flash back up to the monitor as they show clips from one of the last Victory Tours. Uncle Chaff's stump arm is wrapped around the middle of a shaggy-haired man, and his good hand hoists a cup of something, which certainly can't be orange juice. Cackling, they slur obscenities at each other.
"Why on Earth would they show that?" Mama mutters to Mim, who shakes her snow-white head. She replies, "I'm guessing all the shots of him are like this."
Out of respect for the dead, and our family's mortification (which burns the color of cherry-wood through our nut-brown cheeks) most everyone limits their reaction to an endeared smile. Most everyone. A young man with hair the color of sand and sun does little to shield his snicker. His eyes are the color of lemongrass, and the only thing in sight redder than his winter-kissed cheeks are his pouting lips. He is beautiful. He is Pax Odair.
I recognize his face from many of the broadcasts of the Memorial Tours. I can remember at least once or twice a time when he responded to interviewers with a hint of civility, but more in the forefront of my mind is the incident in which Pax flippantly obliged the camera crew to stop asking him to talk about a man he never met. In the year to follow, he tossed a rock at one of the camera men, knocking out both the lens and the man himself. Since, they've re-run his previous footage every year.
The year he threw the rock, Mama clicked her tongue and sighed, "Shame, beautiful boy like that. Just as handsome as his father. Probably end up just like him, too, at this rate. Minus the heroics." Mama then went on about Finnick Odair, the victor from 4, and the night he aired President Snow's dirty laundry out for the whole of Panem, taking other aristocrats along with him. "Almost stepped on my jaw," she said with a quirk of the corner of her mouth. Apparently, the treacherous Snow forced Finnick Odair to sell his body to the highest bidder, a trade that would lead to his own undoing when Finnick's lovers paid him in Capitol secrets.
Part of me feels pity for the fate of the tragic victor. However, the cool smugness on his son's face as he doesn't even attempt to hide the mockery he makes of my family elicits an evil thought: Laugh at my uncle all you want. At least he wasn't a whore. I regret the words the instant they roll around in my mind, and avert my eyes. His father is dead. His mother is mad. I figure I can cut him a break.
This ceremony has been painfully long. And I despise the way I look on camera. Not physically, as Mama and Mim have worked wonders on me compared to my usual state. But it is the fact that every time the camera finds me, my expression says that I would rather be having teeth pulled than have the entire nation examining me. With the Memorial Tour interviewers alternating between Mama and Mim, I've managed to avoid the cameras. Until now.
I envy Pax Odair. Even foaming with rage and beaming projectiles, he always looks like he was born for the camera. Even more so, I envy Moira Vara, daughter of Cecelia Vara, another victor lost in the 3rd Quarter Quell. Despite having been a toddler when her mother died, she always seems to have the most to say about Cecelia of anyone in her family, and pushes back her bone-straight auburn hair a million times while saying it. One would think she'd learn what a ponytail is by now. I catch a glimpse of her catching a glimpse of Pax's laughter. Her knee conveniently touches his as the clip of my uncle making an ass of himself becomes suspiciously more amusing to her, so much that her hazel eyes absolutely twinkle. I don't think I'll speak to her at dinner.
I nearly sigh in relief when the screen goes black. I assume that the program is over, stopping at District 11 since none of the none of the victors from 12 died at the hands of the old regime. Everyone begins to applaud, including me, but my eye catches the puzzled look on old Plutarch Heavensbee's face. He is Panem's Secretary of Communications, and he is not applauding. No sooner than my brow creases, the monitor clicks back on.
A face. A shiny, red face. Puffy at the cheeks and chin, yet still not exactly plump. Almost like a corpse doused in rouge and oil. Barely distinguishable between an ugly man and an uglier woman. I go with man, by the length of the hair, and the collar bound with a tie. His hair is black as coal, and almost soaked with whatever slicks it back. What is this thing?
The crowd is stunned silent, even those who this face appears to mean something to—Paylor, Heavensbee, the rest of their cabinet. In an accent I can't place and likely have never heard before, he speaks.
"Good evening, Citizens of Panem. Madame President. My apologies for interrupting your… festivities. On the other hand, I suppose I reserve that right, since I am footing the bill."
His face alone causes my stomach to knot, but it's his voice that makes me shift uncomfortably as I ask Mama and Mim with my eyes What the hell is going on? They appear just as lost. Whispers erupt amongst the officials. Heavensbee says something to Paylor, something I can't make out, but the woman waves him off, her eyes fixed on the screen.
He continues, "For those among you who do not recognize me, I am Cobart Zane, Chairman of Eutopia." It seems that to most of us, that means absolutely nothing. "Twenty-five years ago, when your little fledgling republic was crawling up on its feet, myself and the Eutopian government—" I can't be the only person in the audience who is unaware of another government. "loaned you a substantial amount of money. And we gave you twenty years, which I believe is a generous allotment of time, wouldn't you agree? Now, simple math, Madame President. If we loaned you the money twenty-five years ago and gave you twenty years to repay it— and the interest— then by how many years is your loan delinquent?"
He pauses, as though expecting an answer. Could he hear President Paylor if she gave him a response? Is the event bugged? He lifts something to his wafer-thin, scarlet lips (a grotesquely deeper shade than Pax's). A tea cup. He's having tea while he hacks into our broadcast. Who is this man?
"Five years." I hear the clink of the china. "Madame, you ignore my cordialness. You take it for granted, even. And that simply will not do. So, I do believe we've reach a fork with three roads. Panem pays its debt within two months' time. Now, before you protest, do hear out options two and three: You agree peacefully to the annexation of Panem as a colony of the Nation of Eutopia."
'Annexation' is not a word I hear in every day conversation, but I'm pretty sure I know what it means. And it sends needles up my spine.
"Option number three: We declare war."
As the word escapes his lips, the crowd is in an uproar.
"You have two months to the hour to reach a decision, President Paylor. This is one deadline you won't want to miss."
And just like that, the talking face disappears.
My eyes scan the row. Mama and Mim wring each others' hands. Without trying, my eyes find Moira Vara. Her hand is clasped dramatically (yes, even given the circumstances) over her mouth. Beside her, Pax Odair still stares blankly at the blackened screen. The rosiness has drained from his cheeks, making his lips appear even more blushed as they hang open dumb in disbelief. The only logical thought I can process is this: So that's what it takes to wipe the smirk from his pretty face.