Oh man, the words just keep coming. This is one of the longest chapters I've written. Thanks so much to my two reviewers from chapter one! I wasn't expecting any readers for a while at least. Hope I don't disappoint.
They bundle us into the Justice building, the Peacekeepers, with iron grips on both my shoulders. I want to run, to fight off their burly hands, but I grit my teeth and go where they guide me – down the foyer, one right turn and through a towering pair of mahogany doors. I haven't even left the District and I've never seen so much luxury in my life. The doors swing open to let us through, and the Peacekeeper lets go of my arm to gesture me to a chair.
He closes the doors behind him.
I'm alone. Surrounded by such opulence I feel sick. The floor is rich gold veined marble, the wall trim a matching gold. Deep wine-red drapes hang floor-to-ceiling over the windows. The chair I'm sitting on is made of some rare, deep red wood, the cushion in matching wine-colored velvet.
I don't know how long I sit on my hands. Waiting. Then the doors open again, and it's Cicer peeking through, tentatively, probably as intimidated by the luxury as I am. Calla and Cassie are tucked under her arm. Someone barks for them to enter.
I stand up to greet them, tears finally pricking at my eyes. The doors slam shut. Cicer races forward for me, gathering me in a hug so tight I feel like I might disintegrate.
She pulls away to lean her head on my shoulder. "Why, Avan? I would've- she's my sister-"
"Shhh," I whisper as Calla latches herself onto my leg. "Better me than you. Your family needs you, Cice."
Cicer is dripping tears into the fabric of my reaping dress. Sobbing thoroughly now. "I could have made it back, couldn't I?"
"Better me than you," I say again, and we both know it's true. I look over Cice's lean frame and five-foot height, think of the way she coughs uncontrollably when she walks for too long. Next to me, she looks even smaller. "Besides, Papa can manage Al and Aster without me," I say, pulling her close again. "You're all they have."
I think she's resigned herself to it now. It's not like I can take it back.
Cassie holds her sister, face stoic as she nods to me. Calla is still wrapped around my leg. "Come back," she says, eyes big and earnest. "For us."
"I'll do my best," I say, and kiss her forehead.
The doors burst open. The Peacekeeper's voice is monotone. "Time's up." And then they're taken away.
Aster is next. He walks in quietly, does nothing but grasp my hands tightly. Almost a minute passes before he murmurs, "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I say automatically.
"I should have stayed at home more. Helped you out instead of running off. Worked harder and earned more, maybe."
"That wouldn't have done anything to help the Reaping, Aster." I quirk a smile.
His face is still solemn. "I know. But I'll try my best until you come back, okay? I'll cook for Alsike and Papa and earn enough in the fields to support us. Maybe I'll try some heavy lifting."
I'm choking up again. "You do that, Aster." I don't bother correcting him – if I come back. He might have to support them until Al is all grown up and then – when Papa is too old to work.
"I'll come back, I will," I tell him, and then I hold his hand and sit in silence until the Peacekeeper barges back in. Aster walks out and doesn't look back.
I know the farewells usually last an hour, for everyone to finish up. I expect some of the other Districts have tributes popular enough to get visitors all through the hour, but here in Eleven we usually keep to ourselves. I lean my head back on the chair and expect to wait out the rest of the time.
There's a knock on the door. I startle as it's pushed open to reveal a girl, maybe a couple of years younger than me. Her features are vaguely familiar, but I'm sure I don't know who she is.
"Hello," she ventures. "Avan Brunnel?"
"That's me," I answer warily.
She doesn't sit, just stands near the door. Her soft voice carries well enough for me to hear. "My name is Penny Fallow."
I recognize her when I hear the name. I remember seeing her face on the screen throughout last year's Games, clenched to hide tears as she stood with her mother. Holding her infant sibling. Last year's tribute from Eleven was eighteen-year-old Peri Fallow, victim of a drawn-out, vicious torture from the Two boy. All she did was poke out his eye when he tried to rape her. I don't know how Penny refrained from digging out his other one when he came by on the Victory tour.
"I think I know what you're here for," I say slowly.
She smiles. "He's mentoring this year. The newest Victor always does. If you get the chance, kill his tributes. Personally."
It smacks me in the face. I haven't thought about killing yet – I know I'll have to, but the thought is still foreign. Now I think of blood coating my hands. I think of avenging Peri Fallow – if Amadeus's tribute this year is just as cruel. I might not mind.
I nod to Penny.
"Make it hurt," she says, and smiles. Then she's gone.
The rest of the hour is as drawn out as I expected it to be. I close my eyes, try to think of nothing. Thoughts come unbidden. Do I have a strategy? Will I work with Ree? I wince, thinking of him. I wish I didn't know his name, so I could forget he's a person, and that he deserves to come out of this alive as much as anyone else. My motives are purely selfish. I am coming back home. I think I could make it.
When they push me out of the Justice Building, the square is empty. Today is a day off work – everyone's families will be gathered at home for a feast, happy they're safe for another year. Back home, they'll be organizing a night of dancing, expecting all of us will be coming home safe. I hope they don't break tradition this year just because I was reaped. They should celebrate losing only one child instead of two.
I'm packed into a car. I thought it would be like the truck – roaring and jerky – but the ride to the train station is surprisingly smooth. I'm alone in this car – the driver is separated with a partition so I can't see his – or her – face.
Since entering the Justice building I haven't seen anyone else. Not Ree, or Saffron, or even the mentors. I'd wanted to talk to them, if only just to take my mind off the fact that I'll be leaving the district within the hour. Leaving – and maybe never coming back.
The car pulls up at the railway station. The minute I open the door, there's a camera in my face.
Thresh comes to my rescue. This is the first I've seen of him since I passed him going into the Justice Building. He holds off the cameras with one hand while guiding me with the other.
"Smile," he mutters. I try, my face feeling stiff and odd. It's a good thing my tears have all dried.
The walk from the car to the train feels longer than it is. Ree is behind me. He seems to be hounded as much as I am. Finally the door to the train is sliding open and Thresh is pushing me in. The rest of the entourage – Ree, Lark, Chaff, and Saffron – follow. I don't have even a moment to gather myself before the train starts to move, slowly at first. Then a blur so fast I can't tell one thing from another.
"Well," Saffron says, clasping her hands. "Now that we're all here-"
"I'm going to have a drink," says Chaff, and vanishes into the next car. Saffron looks awfully put out. I almost feel bad for them. Chaff is probably no help with the Games. I can't blame him, though.
"Now that we're all here," Saffron repeats, slower. "I think we should take a moment to introduce ourselves."
Lark gives a barely-disguised roll of her eyes.
"Lovely! I am Aurelia Saffron, but please call me Saffron. I am your escort and greatly look forward to working with you during the Games!" She's so exaggerated, every movement and syllable made larger and louder than it should be. Her eyes, too, are huge. Surgically altered, probably.
"Lark Spencer," says Lark with no feeling after fifteen seconds of Saffron's delicate glaring.
Thresh says nothing. Poor Ree looks out of his depth. Saffron is slowly losing her enthusiasm.
"Avan and Ree?" She looks at us questioningly.
I nod tentatively.
Resignedly, Saffron turns and leads us to the doors that open into the next car, where Chaff disappeared moments ago. The minute they slide open, Ree gasps. I feel the same astonishment on my face.
I've never seen so much food in one place. Not even at the feast at home. A table runs along the wall, piled with dishes I never could have dreamed up. The smell is heavy in the air, but neither Saffron nor Thresh look tempted. Lark, however, is eyeing the table with something like disgust.
Ree's already made his way over to the table and is staring down one of the larger pots. I can single out the smell immediately. Some sort of meat stew, delicately spiced. There are rolls of bread piled next to the pot.
"Go on," Saffron encourages me. "It's all for you." I briefly wonder what they'll do with the food we don't end up eating. There's enough here to feed fifty people. I don't want to know. Likely it'll make me lose my appetite, and I want to enjoy this bounty while I can.
There's a table in the middle of the car, set for eight. I pick up a plate and move over to the table. Immediately a red-robed servant – an avox, I think – hurries over and stands beside me. I glance at him. He's staring straight ahead, not at me. When I reach out to spoon some of the meat stew onto my plate, he takes the ladle before I can and takes the plate to serve me.
"It's okay," I say cautiously. "I can do it myself." He gives me a pained sort of look, but backs off. I hope I haven't cost him anything.
My plate piles up. Some of the bread, something that looks like a salad, but with ingredients I've never seen and a kind of baked vegetable that's dripping with cream. Then some pastries – a flaky bread shiny with sugar syrup, a small gilded pot of rich brown cream.
I sit at the table, opposite Ree. Thresh sits at my side; Lark next to my District partner.
Before I can plunge into my meal, Thresh speaks up next to me. "I think you can work." Simple. It feels deeply encouraging, though I'm not sure how he means it. Does he mean we have a chance at winning the Games? Or that we can work together?
"Are we going to talk?" I venture, gingerly tearing at some bread. "Strategy, I mean."
Lark appraises me for the first time this afternoon. "Hmm. You're not bad. Tall, decent-looking. Where do you work? You look like a plantation girl to me."
"I am," I reply. "I work the fields and in the factory."
Lark nods like I've answered an important question. "Like I said, not bad. You've got some muscle on you. Must be decently fit. You got any skills?"
I pause. "Weapon skills?"
"Those aren't the only ones that matter." Thresh doesn't look up from his plate.
I know that well enough. "I'm …" I trail off. I don't know what to say.
"That's fine," says Lark, but she looks a little exasperated, like she's giving up on me already. "You can find out during training. Ree, what about you?"
He wastes no time. "I can climb and I can swim. And oh, I can run a lot too. I'm in the running club at school." He must be from one of the larger towns. I haven't heard of running clubs before.
Lark tries to look impressed, but I can tell what she's thinking, looking at him. He won't make it out. Not with his earnest, innocent face, his lean body, awkward gaze. Still, she carries on the conversation, listening to him talk on and on about his school and his friends and his mother.
Thresh doesn't say anything through the rest of the lunch. Once or twice he pauses his eating to stare thoughtfully straight ahead, but not for long.
I think I've overstuffed myself. My stomach, empty since morning, rolls and I think I might be a little sick. Still, I lick the last remnants of my dessert out of its cup. I've had cocoa before, but nothing as rich and sweet as this.
"Excuse me," I say, and get up.
"Going to rest?" Lark asks. "Your room is the next car over."
I thank her and move on. The cars are connected through a narrow flexible passage. When I stand on the bridge I can feel how fast the train must be going. My stomach pitches again and I hurry into the next car, pushing open the door. A plaque embossed with 'DISTRICT 11 FEMALE TRIBUTE' rests at eye level.
The room is just as luxurious as the rest of the train, but sleek and simple. My feet meet dark grey carpet, soft and springy. The walls are a soft white, and a single large bed takes up the most space, covered with a tan blanket and two large pillows. Across from me is a window that takes up the entire length of the room.
I see a door at the far end that must be a bathroom, and push it open. It is. It's also the fanciest bathroom I've ever been in. Figuring I might as well take a shower, I close the door behind me and it locks on its own.
I shed the Reaping dress. It's so dull compared to the Capitol-bright things I've seen today. Still, it's home, so I fold it and set it on the counter so I can ask someone to wash it. I pull off my undergarments and step into the shower.
A press of one button sends a jet of boiling hot water straight at my chest. I yelp and shut it off. Another button yields a flurry of soapy foam onto me. The bubbles melt and slide off. It takes me a few minutes to get a steady stream of water from the showerhead at the top of the stall. Another minute to get it from freezing cold to a bearable temperature. I hum as I clean off, one of the plantation songs that we sing to pass the time.
When I emerge, I look for one of my threadbare towels out of habit. Then I see a flashing light on the wall next to the shower door. When I place my hand on the square panel beside it, something runs through my hand and I'm dry from head to toe.
The Capitol must spend a fortune on just convenience.
I step out of the bathroom, taking a peek first to make sure nobody's there. I'm about to put my Reaping dress back on when I see a wall panel that's different from the rest. A closet? A touch on the side of the panel confirms it. It slides open to reveal a plethora of clothes, from fancy dresses in plastic garment bags to silk sleeping shorts.
I pull out a green cotton blouse and a pair of pants that remind me of the factory uniform – this not as drab a grey, but made of a similar thick material. They have undergarments in exactly my size, too. I'm tempted to ask Lark how they know.
After I dress, I pull open my room door to see if anyone's out, but the car is silent and I figure everyone must be in their rooms. Retreating, I head to the window. The bed is right against the wall, so I sit and press my face to the glass. I can't make anything out but the blur of colors is relaxing. The sun is still high up, reflecting off the ground so everything looks bright and unforgiving. The green has given way to browns and the occasional grey, so I imagine we must be passing through District Ten, provider of livestock. I wonder if their reaping has finished. Which two children will be joining me in the Arena. Which two children I might have to kill.
How many children have sat in this spot before me, thinking the same things? Peri Fallow would have used the same shower, opened the same closet. Did she sit on this bed imagining all the ways she could die, or did she want to try and fight? Lark would have been in this room once, too, nearly ten years ago. What was she like? The same cocky woman, or a girl terrified for her life?
I don't want to think about that. Peri Fallow, here, alive, with no knowledge of how she'd be killed. The eighty-seven female tributes since the beginning, on this train ride to their death. No, I don't want to think about it at all.
On the bedside table is a tiny panel – about the size of my hand. I pick it up, look around and spy the flat screen set in the far wall – a television! Back home we have clunky, preprogrammed ones - but only in the proper houses, not the shanties - that switch on and off whenever there's required viewing.
I switch this one on. It must be programmed to go straight to the Games channel, because I see Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith in the Capitol studio, and on a smaller inset screen I can see what can only be the Reaping. There are little banners running across the bottom of the screen – things like START SPONSORSHIPS NOW and REAPING ODDS.
Caesar laughs at something Claudius has said and the screen flashes with the words TRIBUTE RECAP. This is my competition. My stomach is turning, but this time with nerves.
District One's seal flashes on screen to reveal their town square. It's so covered in golden decorations that the sun reflecting off the stage is blinding. The people in the square look happy, even excited – but that's normal for a Career district.
I don't even catch the name the escort calls out for the girl because a voice is already shouting "I volunteer!" and the owner of the voice, a tall, lithe girl with platinum blonde, almost silver, hair is jogging up to claim her position. "Satin Garnett," she says sweetly into the mic before her escort can even ask her name.
The same thing happens on the boys' side. The escort starts to unfold the paper when a deep voice interrupts. Then a boy – tall, leanly muscled, with the same shock of white-blond hair as the girl – vaults straight on stage from the ground.
"Sheen Garnett," he says, and I realize with shock that they're siblings.
The commentators seem to pick this up too, because the recap plays their surprised reactions.
"Brother and sister!" Caesar's voice is saying, laid over the cheering from the District 1 square. "It's been a long time since we've had a pair like that, isn't that right, Claudius?"
"Yes, yes," Claudius agrees, and he looks elated with this development. "The last ones were the pair from Three in the Seventy-Ninth Games, I remember clearly." The tribute's faces pop up on screen, the same pictures they must have shown in their arena when they died. Both of them sullen and with pinched faces, identical black hair and pale skin. The boy looks much younger than the girl, though.
"Ohhh, oh no, is this what I think it is?" Caesar puts his hands over his mouth in mock despair. "They're twins! That's our second pair of twins from District 1, after twin Victors Gloss and Cashmere. This will definitely take this year's Games to a whole new level. Hopefully One can bring back another twin this time, that's bound to bring in a lot of sponsors."
The end of his dialog is cut off so the screen can show District 2's seal. The square in Two is nowhere near as decorated as One's, but the crowd still looks animated. I can see last year's victor, Amadeus, in the back of the stage. Even from here, through the screen, he looks menacing. I suppress a shiver.
The escort calls a name, and a girl about my age walks coolly up the stairs. The volunteer calls out before the girl can shake the escort's hand. She looks like a good match for Amadeus. Black hair cut in a sharp line at her chin, black shirt and pants that accentuate her attractive figure. Steel grey eyes that look more deadly than a knife.
The fact that Amadeus looks very smug is setting off warning bells in my head.
Again, the boy is called, and the volunteer replaces him. And I see what Amadeus is so pleased about. The boy looks like a tank. He must be six and a half feet of hulking muscle. When his arms cross, they bulge like sacks of grain.
Caesar on the commentary sounds almost scared, too. "That's a fearsome pair from District Two! Pandora and Nero. Oh, I am certainly placing bets on Two this year."
"We're only two districts in, Caesar," Claudius jokes, and they both laugh.
I feel sick. What is Penny thinking, back home?
District Three is cut short; with barely any of the suspense they gave One and Two. There's a pair of older kids this year, which is comforting enough. It's always sad when there's a twelve year old reaped. I think even the Capitol feels bad.
They linger a little more on District 4, but it still skips by faster than One and Two. There is a pair of volunteers again, tanned, toned eighteen year-olds that look strong but not vicious.
District Five passes the same as Three. There is a thirteen year-old Reaped, though, a little girl with mousy brown hair that looks shorter than even Alsike.
Six comes out with a brute of a boy that looks more dangerous than even Amadeus. He's got this crazed glint in his eye, and even his partner looks scared of him.
Seven has a pair of younger ones, maybe both fifteen years old. They don't look too upset, though. The girl is even smiling.
Eight and Nine cut by fast, neither producing anyone of note except Nine's girl, who has to be pulled up to the stage sobbing and, when she faces the camera, is so devastatingly beautiful that even Caesar goes silent. I think of the Six boy and Nero – will they do to her what Amadeus did to Peri? I don't think for a second they're not capable of it.
Ten cuts by faster. I don't even have time to catch the names of the tributes, but they are both so underfed that I don't want to watch another second.
At last – it's Eleven. I bite my nails as I watch us jostle in the crowd. They have a bit more coverage of us, even zoom in on my face as I stand on stage next to Saffron. I look more confused than anything. Then, when they call Ree's name, I look apathetic. I'm almost thankful for that.
"A volunteer from Eleven, that's new this year," Claudius Templesmith remarks. They don't say anything specific about me.
Twelve looks like they have a fighting chance this year. Ever since Thresh's Games, I think, Twelve has been training their tributes in whatever way they can. They're still underfed, though, but they don't look as frail and helpless as they used to. There's a tall olive-skinned girl and a merchant-class boy who stand proud on stage after volunteering for a pair of crying twelve year-olds.
The recap ends, switching back to the studio feed. "Stay tuned, folks, for the tribute parades tomorrow!" They end with a little banter, and then the program segues into advertisements for all kinds of useless things.
I switch the television off. The image of the boy from Six's twisted eyes flashes like floodlights in my head. The sly faces of the twins from one, the piercing eyes of the pair from Two. I think about the tiny girl from Five, who will be a bloodbath death, I'm sure of it. I think of the pretty girl from Nine, who will die the kind of death nobody deserves. I think of Penny Fallow at home, watching the Reapings and seeing Amadeus look so pleased.
I think of the injustice of it all and I finally let the tears come.