Chapter 2: Enrique

"Don't," is the first thing his parents told him when she died.

The Games were mandatory viewing. He didn't knowing what to expect. Terrible, terrible violence. Kids killing kids. Is this what they sent their loved ones to, to die for the Capitol's entertainment? He figured these "Hunger Games" would be harsh, but this was crazy. Is this what they get for allying with the Capitol?

With the odds stacked against her, Ora soared through the competition. At first. District Ten was weak and Twelve got off easy the first round. He hated seeing her that way because he knew that wasn't who she was. But it was either rebel blood or her own. She was smooth sailing until the rock that was Fiorenza Campana came crashing through. District Two sliced her up. Mutilated her. He hated District Two. He hated the girl. Still do, even in death. You never forget your sister's killer.

His parents refused to fund the volunteering fees. Who could blame them? They lost family in the war and now Ora was gone. He was all they had. Even if they wanted to help, they couldn't. Ora's training cost an arm and a leg (literally speaking now). The boy had to pave his own way, doing whatever odd jobs he could come by. Did the dreaded night shift on the boats, worked for the Capitol's reconstruction crew. Four suffered a lot during the war, the sole naval force for the Rebels and eventually the Loyalists. There was plenty to clean up.

Word got around what he was doing. Everyone had their opinion about it. His schoolteacher begged him to focus on his studies rather than "those silly Games". The dock supervisor laughed in his face. His girl threatened to break up for the fifth time. They were too shook up from last year. People around here weren't as trusting of the Capitol now. They had a district to rebuild. Let One and Two fight it out. He didn't like the Games, but he had to go in. Someone had to. And seeing his big sis die like that...what brother wouldn't?

By the time he reached The Community Wellness Center, he was a household name. Enrique Segundo. Ora's brother. The few eighteen year olds serious about the Games hated him. The scar on his collarbone was no accident. Daniela particularly had a special rage for me. Her sister lost the chance to fight last year. She declared that she would go into the Arena and win, no one holding her back. The Capitolites picked up on our rivalry and fed into it any way they could. It was no surprise when the President chose us.

So they went to the Arena. Same place, same rules. Except this time, the Rebels were ready. Weren't so terrified this time. Somehow, they had trained after the first Games and came guns blazing for the second. Nine actually took out Daniela.

The Rebels weren't the only ones with a vengeance. Or fighting for their sister. When Pietro Campana stepped into the Arena, alarms went off. He's Fiorenza's brother. He knew my sister's killer. Yet instead of hating him like he was supposed to, Enrique liked him. From the brief moments they got to speak, he seemed like a respectable guy. He hated not hating him, and he knew it. 'No hard feelings' he told the boy. 'Me and you are in the same boat buddy.'

'No hard feelings'. Enrique kept that in mind when his sword tore through his chest and granted him victory. His brown eyes never stopped staring. His wide mouth never stopped screaming.

"Inner monologuing again?" A deep, raspy voice halts his thoughts. From afar, Laetitia lounges on the door panel. Smoke pours from her nostrils as she fumbles with her cigarette case. It is her ninth one in two hours.

A stout, balding Peacekeeper approaches her, avoiding eye contact. He looks as foolish as he feels. "No smoking, Miss Altezza."

A cloud of smoke is blown in his face. Laetitia adjusts his too-large collar and cocks her head back, a cackle escaping her throat. "Or what? You'll report me? Ha. And it's Madame Altezza to you. The divorce isn't final."

Argument over. She tips the butt on the man's collar and walks over to the table, not giving the fuming man a second glance. I would high-five her had I could stand her.

"Enrique," her grating accent pronouncing it wrong. "You mustn't focus on the Games too much. What's done is done. No knows that better than I."

"But I haven't-"

Long nails scrape against the tabletop. "No buts. Shape up boy. District Twelve is in fifteen."

He silences with a scoop of food, rolling his eyes when the woman's not looking. Today's lunch: anchovies, jarred cherries, jerky and sun-dried tomatoes. Tasteless war rations. Immediately forgetting her advice, Laetitia moans on about her woes and worries interrupted only by her incessant cough. Madame Laetitia Altezza is part of his Victory Package deal. 'To act as escort, stylist, and mentor' stated President A.R. Snow's letter. Of what duties she has he's not sure because the elderly woman hasn't done much. There has been talking. Lots and lots of talking. He knows a lot about Laetitia. She's a diehard Loyalist. She hates all the districts, Four included. Two of her grandsons died in combat. In his grief, Mr. Altezza left her for their maid. Volunteering as escort was her way of 'shoving it to those bastards'. Her words not his. Her favorite color is olive. If the Victory Tour was on Laetitia 's life, he'd ace it with flying colors.

Unfortunately, it's not.

As with all their conversations, this one is entirely about her. The new Victor hasn't told her about the nightmares, or the panic attacks. She wouldn't care. She made that clear when she told him to get over something that happened just eight days ago.

He does find perks to Laetitia's blabbering. Through the head nods and mumbles, he's given time to think. For the Victory Tour, Enrique is to be paraded around each district and land in the Capitol for his Introduction Party. Laetitia expects a personalized speech for each stop. He have nothing so far. What should he say? 'Thank you for letting me kill your children. All this is your fault. Have a great day!' Last year was awful. Two districts tried assassinating Maximus. Four districts broke into riots. By the time he reached Four, an entire squadron surrounded the guy. If that's how they treated the first Victor of The Hunger Games, how in Panem's name will they treat the second?

Eight days ago, he killed four boys and one girl. Now Panem's prized killer is headed to their district to chat about it.

The Capitol works in mysterious ways.

A loud buzz is emitted from Laetitia's side. "I'm so over him and...Oh! It's time! It's time! Enrique. Boys. Prepare yourselves. District Twelve is rough around the edges."

The incredible scent of coal and filth engulfing the train does not help any. Laetitia's claws dig into the boy's skin as she pulls him from the chair and to the door. The train stops. Doors open. A swarm of Capitolites are waiting. He breathes through his mouth and dives in. Cameras, crew, yells, screams. Faceless hands grab at him. A small yelp leaps but it's drowned by the chaos. Peacekeepers, for once being useful, push the horde away, giving the boy room to move. District Twelve has no real train station, just a few railroads smackdab near the main square, so the stage isn't far. When he gets there, he wishes it was.

Sitting side by side in simple wooden coffins are Private Gordon Heist and Private Thistle Barron, District Twelve's former contestants in the Second Annual Hunger Games. His entirety freezes at the sight of them. What...what are they doing here? This didn't happen last year. What is the point of this?

Rough hands shove him to the center. The mayoress, in a dingy dress suit, throws him scraps of paper. Laetitia motions for him to begin. He's so close to the bodies I can smell the mothballs on them.

It's showtime.

"District Twelve." he has to squint to read the illegible handwriting. Most of the words are misspelled. "What an honor and welcomed surprise to be standing here today."

He shouts out his speech, no microphone to use. The Victor adjusts his collar one time, two times. He's sweating pounds out here and it's not just from the hideous tweed suit he's wearing.

"The Hunger Games is the ultimate test of bravery. Of skill. Of humility. And most importantly, of sacrifice. I, Enrique Segundo, embody those very qualities. Brave warriors of each district rose to the challenge. But it was District Four who reigned supreme. No other district would...huh?"

sale out to the Capitol like the Loyalists did.

He reads over the sentence twice to make sure he's seeing right.

Behind him, a throat is cleared. The click of a lighter isn't far behind. "Problem, Enrique?"

"Nope. Smooth sailing," he whispers too fast. If he recites these words aloud, he will be tried for treason, Victor or not.

Well shit. He says the first thing that comes to mind. Cameras are still rolling. "Would show their loyalty to the Capitol."

The crowd is silent. He's in the clear.

He perseveres through the speech, the cue cards getting worse with each flip.

How pathedik to see traytors slawter their own kind.

"How inspiring it it to see such noble boys and girls fight for their beloved country."

I should be killed for the crimes I've comited.

"No doubt I deserve the fame and fortune that is of being a Victor."

Some day the Capitol shell fall and we will be the ones with the last lauf.

"Bless the Capitol and all its mercy."

Now it's time to talk about the Tributes. I give the card one lookover. I guess not. Curiosity gets the best of me and I find myself reading through the entire thing.

Gordon was a good boy. A brother. A son. A friend. A fiter. He faute bravely in The Enlightenment, a noble member of Team Brimstone, and in The Hunger Games. Several of the Capitol's cowards fell by Gordon's hands. Thistle was gentle off the feld but a force of nature on it. With a sharp eye and sharper aime, she could take down anything the Capitol threw her waye.

Let not there deaths be in vain. Mark these words, for we shell rise again and onor all those who have fallen to the Capitol!

Tattered pieces of cloth make up the crowd. Less than last year, security reasons, but the effect is the same. They don't want to be here. He killed Gordon. He was his last kill before Pietro. Arguably the best Rebel fighter of my year. At the front of the vigil is his family. A mother, father, two sisters. All Thistle has left is an old man and a scraggly mutt. He killed their greatest Tribute and their greatest shot at winning the Games so far. They're pissed and can do nothing about it. Peacekeepers have them surrounded. They're not afraid to shoot.

He gives each Tribute a long stare. What is he doing here? These people are in mourning and he's bragging about it. He's taken away someone's child. Someone's brother. He's no better than Fiorenza. No better at all.

"Enrique, are you done? You're embarrassing us on live television." Laetitia is by my side now, teeth gritted into a smile. "Finish up or get off the stage dammit!"

He watches as the families are escorted away, Gordon's to the left, Thistle's to the right.

Let not their deaths be in vain.

Without another word, Enrique stumbles to the nearest sit. Laetitia says a few words which garners two whole claps. He doesn't know if the speech was appropriate or even made sense, and right now he doesn't care. He wants to go home.

But they don't go home. Instead, he's shuffled around the district on a tour no one wants to complete. They're on foot, no vehicle to use. There isn't much to see. Twelve wasn't known for their tourism. Its inhabitants, barefooted and covered in coal dust, roam the dirt roads without reason or purpose. The vagrant and the shackowners are indistinguishable. Laetitia looks ready to faint. Twice he steps in something brown and moist. The odor sticks to his rented shoes long after its been flicked off.

No one makes eye contact, not even the children. People scatter in their wake, grimy children shushed and silenced as half-dead animals are herded back inside their pins. He doesn't care. He didn't want to talk to them either.

Leaving what the tour guide called "The Seam", they enter the upper-class area. It's no better over here. Hollow-cheeked merchants sit slouched over empty shelves and cases. He purchases a dozen stale pastries, a satchel, and incenses out of pity. Twelve has always been this bad, well before The Dark Days. Thirteen had the graphite stuff going for it.. Ironically, these deplorable conditions came at an advantage during the war. Because of their few weapons and fewer resources, hardly any battles were fought on Twelve soil. Never had any official troops either; the few who were able-bodied joined Thirteen's army. Once they were blown to pieces, Twelve's involvement in The Dark Days was over. The taxes must be killing them.

"Victor Segundo! Victor Segundo!"

A tiny thing of a child hops in front of them. He's dirty, shirtless, and smells. A plastic cup is shoved in Enrique's hands. Peacekeepers position their guns.

"Coins sir. Just a few coins to buy a meal for my family sir. Please!"

"Well, um, I don't know little boy-"

A hand slams down on the child's face, smashing him to the ground. What little coins he had gathered scatters across the ground. Already a crowd is forming. The tour guide throws the small child into the air and tosses him out of our way. The beggar boy grabs for whatever coins are left and runs off into the distance without another look back.

The tour guide is still yelling long after the boy has disappeared. "And stay back! Those damn Hawthornes. Always harassing folks."

"Figures," deadpans Laetitia. "Tour's over. Thank you for that experience. Now, a party awaits us at the mayoress' estate. Come along. I heard there will be alcohol."

"So I told my husband: "It's either me or her!" The bastard chose her! Could you believe it?"

Feigned responses are thrown Laetitia's way. She's either too oblivious, too selfish, or too drunk to realize they're not interested in her drama. She sips on her drink and continues on. Enrique slinks from the elder to venture off to the other side of the room. It's no better. Conversation stops when the boy arrives. He's interrupted an intense bragging session on the mayoress' indoor plumbing. Going by the death stares from her entourage, he wasn't invited to join.

They're well into the Capitol-mandated "party". It's supposed to be for him, but it's hard to tell. Laetitia is drunk. The Peacekeepers are partygoers look ready to kill him. The mayoress pretends he doesn't exist. The air is tense. Everyone can feel it. Eyes shift back and forth. Conversations are in hushed tones, minus Laetitia. Silent dinner was served an hour ago. While everyone else ate the cloudy stew of unidentifiable objects, Enrique resigned himself to the food rations on the train. The new Victor knew better.

Here he was, alone in the corner, watching the night go by in a stuffy suit sticky with sweat and soot. He rummages through the hardtack bag he's been munching on. Great. Ran out. Something's gotta give. Then, it hits him.

Let not their deaths be in vain.

He's barely to the door when he is halted. A hand is held out, stopping him in his tracks.

"Where are you going?" It's the same aggravating Peacekeeper from the train.

"For a walk. Need some fresh air. Is that allowed or must I ask for permission?"

Guests are looking our way. The music has come to a pause. "I shall join you. For your safety."

The mayoress zooms toward us, "So shall I. For our safety."

"No problem. Two's a company, three's a cause."

They leave the party unannounced. On his way out he grabs the satchel from earlier. No one spares a word to Laetitia who's currently juggling two jars of moonshine.

The mayoress folds her arms. "Exactly where are we off to, little boy?"

"His title is Victor Segundo, miss."

"Can it, District Two. I wouldn't care if he was King of the Wilderness. He's a boy to me. And it's Mayoress to you."

"Have you forgotten my status as Peacekeeper, District Twelve?"

"Both of you quiet. Victor's orders." By the sudden end of conversation, it's actually a thing. "I'm going to see Gordon and Thistle's families. To pay my respects."

The mayoress isn't touched. "Maximus didn't do this last year."

"That was then. This is now. Point me in the right direction please."

They walk along the main square. Evening's here. A welcomed breeze cools down the July heat, making the walk bearable than before. The sunset would be beautiful had the pollution not block most of it. The streets are emptier now. Merchants have closed shop for the day. The decorations from earlier have been ripped down. He saw the thieves scamper off with them.

Minutes go by. The mayoress asks questions and the Peacekeeper gives orders. Besides that, no one speaks. Nothing Two, Four, and Twelve have to discuss. Family's a touchy subject. Politics might get someone killed. The walk is longer than expected. With just one city in Twelve, he figured it'd take them no time to get there. The dress shoes are doing nothing for his blisters. His feet are screaming for him to stop but he keeps on. He has to do this. It's the only chance he's got.

He finds the first target. It's a raggedy two-story building. Fading brick line the outside. A single candlelight glows in the upstairs window. We step onto the whiny porch. Hamilton's Candles & More. Sale! Buy one, get two free! He knocks twice. Dogs race to the door, ready to pounce at the intruder.

"Whoa, whoa! Lucy! Rose! What's gotta into ya?" says the chandler as he opens the door. His smile drops when he sees what's the fuss is all about. "Why are you here?"

"I'm wondering the same thing," grumbles the mayoress.

Things go silent. Lucy and Rose get shooed away after gnawing on the Victor's pant legs. The chandler's more curious than anything, bushy eyebrows cocked in question. Enrique stares back, failing to find the proper words. He hadn't planned this far ahead.

To break the silence, he digs into the satchel. The chandler grabs for something behind the door. Gasps are heard behind me. Things calm down once they see what I'm doing. Thirty tin micis, President Praevalia Snow's profile on each. The old man catches the money in his scarred hands, carefully counting out each coin. Behind him are shelves upon shelves of dust-ridden candles and cobwebs.

"This could buy me and the girls food for the entire month. Patch up the leak in the roof! I don't understand."

"It's a gift," Enrique tells him. "For Thistle. Give her a proper burial. One she deserves."

Tears form in his eyes. He throws the boy into an embrace, submerging him in body odor. The Victor flinches at the physical contact.

"Thank you, Victor Segundo. Thank you."

"Thirty micis? Are you crazy?" says the mayoress as they leave. "Now don't go causing trouble in my district, boy."

"I'm a Victor. What you make in a year I make in three months. Besides, you started it with those cue cards."

That quiets her.

The Peacekeeper turns towards her. "What of the cue cards?"

They ignore the question With a pep in his step, they make it to the other side of the merchant sector in no time. Dodging the beggars, we spot our next stop in a row of cramped buildings and dead shrubbery. Heist's Consignment Shoppe. Gordon's place. The curtains are drawn. Lights are off. Loud sobbing swims out the windows.

There's a tap on his shoulder. "They're in mourning. Let them be. I'll give them the money tomorrow."

"No," he declines the offer. "I did this to them. This is my responsibility."

He takes a deep breath. He can do this. Killing Gordon was wrong but he had to. He needed to avenge Ora's death. No hard feelings right?

He knocks once. The sobbing stops. There's muffled conversation. An argument. Something breaks. Rushed footsteps down the staircase. The curtains peep open. One lock is taken out. Hesitation. The second is undone. The door cracks open. Bloodshot eyes stare out from the darkness.

"Hello? Mr. or Mrs. Heist? I'm Enrique Segundo."

"I know who you are. What do you want?" The voice is loud and ragged. He stands tall and continue on.

"I came to give my condolences."

"For killing my son?" The door swings. Mrs. Heist hangs on the doorframe. Alcohol's on her breath. It's the cheap stuff Rebels used in the war. She grips the bottle like a mother to her baby, the white liquor halfway gone.

"What I did is unforgivable-"

"Correct."

"-and I am truly sorry for your loss."

The silence that follows is at best uncomfortable and at worst terrifying. Mrs. Heist stares blankly ahead, eyes focused on something no one else can see. Any moment she'll fall into tears, or kill him.

He digs deep inside the satchel and pour out its remains.

"Eighty micis. It's all I have to offer."

The woman takes the money. She stares at it for an eternity, twirling the tin around her dirty fingertips like a foreign object. Then, something clicks. Her head shoots up. The three officials jump back at the sight. In her steel eyes is a fierceness stronger than anyone Enqirue fought in the Games or the battlefield.

"No amount of money will ever replace my boy. Eighty micis? He was worth the world to me!" A finger flies through the air, jabbing him in his forehead. His fingers start to twitch. Fists are already drawn. How dare she put her disgusting fingers on him. "You stole my son away from me. You did, District Four, you did! You should've died in that damn Arena. You! Not Gordon. Not my boy."

He dodges the coins. His companions aren't as fast. The money hits them square in the face and showers down to the ground. Stragglers are already gathering to thieve up the coins.

"Get this Loyalist money away from me and shove it up your ass, you worthless traitor!"

Spit lands in his eye and it takes both the Peacekeeper and the mayoress to hold him back. Good thing, or the Heist family would have been without two family members today. The drunkard goes for him but is willed away by the cock of a gun. That turns her wrath onto the Peacekeeper.

"Tell Little Mandy up in his dollhouse what I said, exact words from Lily Yvonne Heist. Now get off my lawn before I give y'all a reason!"

The door slams. There's arguing. Someone is slapped. The adults drag him back to the estate before the rats peel the suit off his back.

"How dare she!" he yells when he breaks free from the grasp to straighten himself up. His hair was all out of order from this. "I gave that animal my entire savings for the month!"

The mayoress is beside herself with glee. "Money can't bring back a life, Enrique. I told you to let them be. But what do I know? I'm just a District Twelve hick."

He looks to the Peacekeeper for backup. "Won't you do something about this?"

"I'll look into it."

The Victory Tour continues on as such. Every district is in stiff competition to top the rest Rotten fruit and manure get thrown on stage in Eleven and Ten. A family from Nine tries to attack him. Shots are fired in Seven and Six. What little possessions he had on him were pawned off in Three.

District Two is the worst. He is the single reason they are without Pietro and without a double win. It reads on their faces. They don't clap, scream, riot, do anything. Just stare in silence. Defiant silence. He finishes his speech nine minutes early. No one seems to care.

Maximus shoves a bouquet of wyethias to his chest. His handshake nearly crushes the new Victor's. "What a show in the Arena. Welcome to the club, District Four."

Leaving the stage, Pietro's family catches his attention. Tears fall down his parents' faces as they try not to show their grief. A pretty brunette stands in front of them. Not one tear streaks her face. She won't allow it. Two empty spots surround her. Where Fiorenza and Pietro should be. He was in her shoes just last year.

Waving off the Peacekeepers, she runs in his direction.

"Enrique Segundo."

He turns toward her. The girl sounds older than her years. She looks up to meet him in the eyes and begins.

"I am Ciona Campana. My sister died in the Hunger Games. My brother died in the Hunger Games. I will volunteer and avenge their deaths. Just wait. You'll see."

So angry. So full of life. So stupid. This little girl thinks winning the Games will bring them back. Right the wrongs and make life better.

A long, loud laugh is his response. "Sounds like a bad fairy tale, sweetheart." He hasn't eaten a solid meal in days. Sleep is a stranger. Can't trust anyone enough to blink let alone rest. Miss Campana's mask falls and hands are to his throat. Peacekeepers are unusually slow in their reactions.

"Don't," is all he says and walk off, not giving the girl another look back. "Now where's my tour guide? This heat is unbearable…"