Thank you so much to my oh-so-punctual beta, Alien Emerald, for catching my typos and making sure that I didn't babble nonsense. (you nearly succeeded, too.) This is my first fic, so I sincerely hope it goes down well. xD
DISCLAIMER: I don't have the brains to dream up anything as awesome as The Hunger Games. Believe me, I would if I could.
Around him, the audience roared.
Quinn stared around at the stamping and cheering audience, red hot hatred welling in his throat. These cheering people were the ones who had changed everything. Ruined everything. And they just sat back and laughed and discussed in loud voices, betting on who would kill who and how.
They laughed out of fear. Not to laugh was to sign a death sentence in this place. This was the Capitol's moment, where they could rise to their full, terrible glory once a year and show just how easily they could extinguish a human life.
Something cool and light rested gently on his shoulder, a restraining gesture. Quinn whipped his head around, eyes narrowing, only to find tiny Karin touching his arm. She was built light and fragile, more like a butterfly than a fighter: tiny, pointed toes, gold-silk hair, a sharp chin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes set deep in a heart-shaped face. She, Quinn knew, was going to be one of the first to die. His eyes narrowed as he eyed the tiny, pale hand on his shoulder.
He was a Career Tribute, to put it bluntly. He had been training for this all his life. This was his moment, just as much as it was the Capitol's. He knew that winning would do nothing more than please the Capitol, and that wasn't what he was here for.
He didn't like Karin. Perhaps, as a person, she wasn't so bad; but she lowered his chances in the arena. No one would want to sponsor them, seeing her as a weakness. He ignored her pointedly, jutting his chin out and surveying the crowd with unreadable eyes. He did not speak to her. There was no point.
She had tried, at first, but there was no hope to begin with. Quinn owed nothing to her. He had been bred for survival. His parents' marriage had had nothing to do with love. He was born for the Hunger Games, and he was as close to a born winner as you could get – but even so, why did he feel such apprehension?
The throng loved him, though. He had good… what was the word? Conformation. He had been picked, from thousands, to compete for his life and for his District.
The dull, incessant cheering from the crowd caused opaque shapes to rise from their lips. Blurry orange triangles and blue blotches swam in front of his vision, but he was used to it. Synesthesia had caused him to be different from others, at a young age. He saw noise. Saw the clear shapes issue from each sound, and in turn, learned to recognize them like visions.
They were an aid, at times, enabling him to fully appreciate subtle sounds before others. But mainly, a pain – and Quinn would be the first to admit it. The shapes and the vivid colors were immensely overwhelming, distracting him and causing him pain.
He had learned to tune it out, mostly. After all, who was he to know that not everyone else had it? To Quinn, it was normal. It was a sense, like smell and touch, which he had been born with.
Karin's frail fingers were still on his shoulder, in what she probably thought she was a comforting fashion. He disliked the feeling, but didn't shoulder her off. He took a step forward, emanating confidence from every pore. The long, blue-gray cloak that Lo had fashioned for him swept around his knees, rippling green and silver like water. The crowd oohed and aahed, as Karin, in a similar outfit, trotted after him.
He increased his pace, feeling his expression slide into its usual blank mask. He wanted nothing to do with her. What was this touching thing that Karin had going? What did she find so necessary about brushing his back with her wrist, or resting her fingers on his neck? He put up with it out of sheer politeness. But he didn't want to put up with her touch.
His breath caught as the audience's noise increased. He tried to walk faster, but Karin was clinging steadfastly to him, waving happily to the crowd and blowing kisses. Shapes veered in and out of his vision, and Quinn doggedly squeezed his eyes shut, but they wouldn't go away. There were so many! So bright! All of them, closing in.
He bit his lip, feeling his throat tighten in fear. The shapes were smothering him now. He wouldn't let them take him! His movements slowed, like he was running through water. He was drowning in a pool of his own hallucinations. Why aren't any of the others reacting? he thought blindly, groping through the shapes. For once, he was grateful for Karin's touch; it was like an anchor to the world outside of the sounds.
And then it was too much. He was suffocating. He roared, striking out with one of his hands and shutting his eyes tightly. Rather than mute the noise, the crowd's sound level rose to a shrill crescendo, some panicking about his collapse and others clapping. He crouched down, cupping his ears in his hands as his whole body trembled.
Karin's small, heart-shaped face swam into consciousness, and her mouth was moving, but the words didn't make any sense. Quinn! What's happening? Are you okay? Quinn! He tried to move, to tell her to get up and stop panicking, but he couldn't. Her face blurred out of focus, and then she was gone, and it was only him, the shapes, and the vague face of Sonata. And soon after that, there was just the darkness.
"Quinn. Quinn. Quinn." It was an annoying song now. "Quinn. Come back, Quinn. Quinn."
Quinn remained still for a few minutes, digesting what had happened. The voice was Karin's, he realized, as familiar shapes blossomed on the back of his eyelids. And he was… where? There was a sharp scent of bleach, linen, and antiseptic, almost succeeding in hiding the rank stench of sickness. But it was still there, lurking.
His eyes fluttered open on their own. The walls were a blue-green, made of something like stucco, with no windows. It was a long room he was situated in, with about twenty metal-framed cots, but the only occupied one was the one he himself was sprawled on. White blankets, towels, and cloths were folded neatly along a cart by the foot of his cot. The cot itself was uncomfortable in that it was too comfortable; his body sunk into its cotton folds like a warm puddle.
He stiffened, arching his torso and pointing his toes like he was having a fit of some sort. Evidently, they had been waiting for him to have one, and three white-clad women bustled in with purposeful looks on their narrow, tight-lipped faces. Karin, who had been sitting next to him and clasping his hand in both of her tiny ones, flew out of her seat and watched him closely with nervous eyes.
Quinn rolled his eyes. "Relax," he muttered, watching absently as purple zigzags wriggled after his words. "Someone needs to take a break."
Karin abruptly burst into tears, throwing herself at Quinn and wrapping her stick arms around his torso. "Quinn, oh, Quinn… I was so worried…" One of the nurses rapped her between the shoulder blades smartly.
"Give the young man some rest," she barked, her voice surprisingly similar to a military general. Quinn squinted at her nametag. Hello, my name is Freesia, it read in copperplate lettering. Quinn stared up at her impassively. "And you, young man, should know better than to pull tricks like that!"
Quinn sneered; he couldn't help himself. After all, it's not only villains who get the chance to be unpleasant. "Let me get out of here. I'll get out of shape. I need to be in peak physical condition for the Games."
The two other nurses departed discreetly, evidently being in possession of very accurate predictions of danger, while Freesia swelled with righteous indignity. "Young man! You shouldn't take for granted the generosity of the Capitol!" she remonstrated, affronted.
"For one thing, I'm Quinn. And for the other, the Capitol can go die, for all I care."
He leaned back moodily, his temper not improved by anxiety. Why was he here? What had happened? Had he been pulled out of the Hunger Games because of health issues? He was perfectly fit, he knew. His trainer had approved a form testifying the very fact. Freesia's voice issued a rough-edged maroon circle as he listened silently, not even attempting to interrupt her flow of speech.
"Well then, Mr. Smartass Quinn, you'd better not say that too loud. The only reason you're receiving such advanced health care is because of the Capitol's kindness. Would you prefer to be in a mud hole back in District One?" She didn't wait for an answer before plunging on. "No, I think not. District One's idea of medicine is cod liver oil." Freesia sniffed disdainfully, as if implying that they might as well be primitive barbarians for all cod liver oil meant.
"You, young man, need much more than cod liver oil. You have something none of us can place. Your health certificate may have to be examined more closely. You're lucky you're still entered in the Games – I wanted to remove you. Dr. Leland wanted to study you in more depth, but it's only because of some girl named Santa or something. She vouched for you, you know. The Capitol's enraged. You're in for it, I say. I…"
Quinn tuned out quickly and, even he would admit it, rather skillfully, and turned to thinking. The colors had been too much. It had happened once before, when he was really young. Was it going to happen again? He shivered. Probably. This was the Hunger Games, after all. But one question niggled in the corner of his skull. Why had none of the other tributes reacted? District One's applause hadn't been much louder than any other District; he simply couldn't understand why he had been the only one to crack under the pressure.
Karin watched with a tiny frown, as if wondering the same thing as Quinn. She seemed rather more attentive to the nurse, though, and even opened her mouth a couple times as if to ask a question before the relentless flow of words issuing from Freesia's lips forced her back.
With a sigh, Quinn tuned back into Freesia's lecture, just in time to catch, "… believe you fainted, somehow, but we don't understand why you were in pain. Not even physical pain. But apparently under enough stress to knock you out. We've done a scan, and you seem to be in good physical condition." She sounded grudging as she admitted it. "So. We don't know what it is," she concluded hotly, not too pleased that she didn't have a good answer.
Quinn yawned, not bothering to pretend he had listened to her. "Well, that's nice," he agreed sarcastically, straightening. He had training to attend. This show of weakness wasn't boding well for potential sponsors.
He stretched slightly, glad that Freesia had ceased talking; although she had kept her voice at a reasonable level, so the colors and shapes weren't too overwhelming, it was still confusing. Freesia scowled. "Get back down, young man," she commanded icily, and Quinn couldn't help thinking that perhaps it had been a bad idea not to get on her good books.
Flanking her, like a ghost, Karin nodded. Her big eyes were luminous in the half-light of the hospital. "Yeah, Quinn. You shouldn't overexert yourself," she whispered. It was, he realized, the first time she had spoken since he had woken up.
The tall, dark-haired boy shook his head at her. "We're missing training!" he hissed, completely ignoring the nurse. "This is giving us a disadvantage!" Without another thought, he swept out of the room, not looking back. Haughtiness, he decided, worked quite well.
It was only when he was at the hospital door, brushing aside shocked nurses, when he realized he was clad in nothing but a loose white hospital gown. Where the hell had they put his cloak, which Lo had so painstakingly made for him? Quinn gritted his teeth and looked down, prepared for the worst. The little Capitol emblem dotted the tunic's papery sides, circled by the words, "The Capitol: ruling with a fair hand!" Quinn hated that exclamation mark. He ripped his fingernail through the nearest one, so it became, "The Capitol: ruling with a f ha ". He blinked with satisfaction. Much better.
It was almost noon by the time he strode into the training center. The hospital gown truly was made of nothing more than cheap felt, and was torn and muddied. Quinn didn't hesitate before stepping into the tower. All work stopped. Twenty-two pairs of hostile eyes locked on him, ranging from polite disapproval to horror. One pair of eyes alit on him with an expression of ecstasy.
He must have cut quite a sight; a tall, tanned boy, clearly a career tribute because of his toned muscles. Dark hair, straight and just past his ears, blue in the sun. A sharp chin, a large, straight nose, two even, tawny eyes. Not particularly attractive, but definitely… capable. And cold, too. His face was grim and drawn, as it always was; but the sharp contrast was the ragged white hospital gown, just reaching past his knees, complete with the Capitol emblems.
The owner of the extra pair of eyes flung itself at him. "Oh, Quinn!" Karin sobbed, her arms hardly reaching around his waist. Quinn glanced down with disdain at her and pushed her away. She smiled through her tears, seeming thrilled that he had just brushed her off. "Quinn," she repeated happily, apparently not aware of the tiny knife she still had in one hand.
All of the tributes began to move once more, as if someone had clicked the "play" button, and Quinn moved silently to the camouflage section. The trainer looked a bit miffed that he couldn't get a properly enthusiastic student, but brightened slightly when he saw that Quinn wasn't too bad at camouflaging himself. Quinn found that he wasn't enjoying himself as much as he probably should. The prospect of the Capitol flashed through his brain.
He distracted himself by carefully observing the other tributes. A few stood out; the male for District Two, for one. He was huge; at least six and a half feet tall, with the muscles to match. His female counterpart was a well filled-out, sly-looking redhead, almost as well muscled as the male. Then there was the tall, skinny black-haired girl with dangerous green eyes from District Four, a lean boy, top-heavy but still with impressive leg strength, from District Three, an olive-skinned running type from District Nine, and even a stunning blonde girl who looked to be from District Twelve. Something about the wild look in her eyes reminded Quinn of Sonata.
Quinn had insisted earlier on private training; training along with Karin would just be too embarrassing, not to mention it giving him a disadvantage. A sick feeling welled in the pit of his stomach as he realized he had just thought that. The Capitol was turning him into some kind of monster. He wanted to win; he had to, really. But surely the Capitol didn't have the power to change him?
He knew that his hatred of the Capitol might seem irrational to a passerby. The Capitol had killed his sister. Pretty little Sara, everyone had called her. She was always cheerful, always enthusiastic. Everyone had loved her – even, although he would never admit it, Quinn himself. But the Capitol had taken him from her, only a year ago. She was chosen for the Reaping. At only twelve years old, what were the odds that it would happen?
He had been fifteen, then. The next year, he had simply been picked. Just plucked out of the blue. It couldn't have been fate; Quinn believed in no such thing. But it was eerily like it. His name had been put in twenty-seven times, but as high as that number may seem, it wasn't much compared to the hundreds.
Quinn turned up his nose at the lavish feast they had laid out for the tributes. Typical Capitol sucking-up. After practically inhaling a mug of something hot and bitter tasting, he trudged back to his room. It had been a long day, after all.
The shower, he discovered to his distaste, was more of a foamy rain than a proper shower. Still, he had to admit that the hot water felt good on his sore muscles. In the end, after arbitrarily pressing the first buttons that came into his line of vision, he was sprayed with a thick cloud of grape-scented fog, while foamy white lather poured onto his head and dripped into his eyes. A sweet, floral scent issued from some tap or other, while a soft hissing noise rose from the faucet as it squirted some kind of translucent, purple-ish gel onto his face. The noise was a pleasant one, and in turn, created pleasant shapes; mild yellow circles, soft blue-green rectangles.
Finally, after a jet of scalding hot water nearly burnt him after Quinn pushed down a lever of some sort, he felt it time to get dressed. But… He craned his neck, trying to peer through the sudsy bubbles. Where was the off button? He pawed around blindly on the wall, his hands, smeared with slippery goo, slipping and sliding on the tiled wall. Shit.
He could hear soft footsteps, and then a nervous giggle. "Quinn! What are you doing?" Karin asked nervously. Quinn scowled, for once glad that the thick white foam covered most of his body.
"Having a shower. What does it look like?"
He had decided, rather graciously, that he would allow himself to speak to her when not in view of an audience. He tried to muster a dignified expression, but they don't come naturally when one's drowning in one's own shower.
Karin giggled, as if he had said something naughty. What was it with her and giggling, anyway? "Well, I want a shower, too, if that's okay." Yeah, sure, it's okay – if he can get out of this stupid thing! "So, ah… tell me when you're done…?" Her voice trailed off uncertainly. Another giggle. She was, Quinn decided, grating on his nerves.
"Sure, whatever," he muttered, waiting for her to leave as alternating streams of icy and boiling water hit his cheek, after some button he had pressed. For some reason, she didn't, and instead leaned against the doorframe, watching him with her big, dark eyes. The word awkward comes to mind. Quinn paused for another few minutes, and then barked, "Well?"
The tiny girl looked abashed, and then scurried out of the room, hands clapped over her mouth. Quinn snorted.
It really was a beautiful room; even he had to admit it. The Capitol had outdone itself. Even the bathroom was about fifty square feet, gleaming white and black and oozing richness and prosperity. Tiles lined every inch of the floor and walls, and hazy, stained-glass windows were located discreetly every dozen feet or so. Upon closer inspection, each windowpane was a lavishly illustrated scene of a death from the Hunger Games. Quinn's upper lip rose in disdain.
There were two sinks, each about the size of a bathtub, made of polished marble. And then a bathtub the size of a swimming pool. Quinn was sorry to note that they didn't have a swimming pool the size of a house, but it would have fit well with the décor. A chandelier, dripping crystal and glass and gold leaf, cascaded from the ceiling, casting a rich, golden glow over the tiles, which reflected back the glimmers. Probably intentional.
His fumbling fingers arrived on a round button, engraved with the blocky white characters, "OFF". Quinn grinned triumphantly, hitting it with unnecessary force. The shower shuddered to a reluctant, grinding halt; streams of water gargled and died, the soapy bubbles bouncing gently from a compartment in the ceiling popped, thick white lather whirred and rotated furiously until it stopped, giving his head the appearance of a soft-serve vanilla ice cream.
A towel instantly slid along the rack until it was practically brushing his nose. Quinn accepted it warily, and the towel rack whirred with approval and slid back to its normal station.
He threw himself onto the bed, still wet, and wordlessly flung the damp towel at Karin's door. Her concerned, heart-shaped face peered around the doorframe, and then she picked it up obediently and trotted towards the shower.
It had been a long day.
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