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He never developed any sort of interest in Tributes before. He was a man of details. People naturally fell on the wayside and these children were no exception. There were so many of them anyway, and they disappeared quickly, like shallow imprints in the sand.
In any given year, even the more recent ones, there was no specific name or face that particularly stuck out to him. If he needed information on past Tributes, there was a tidy record readily available with practical data; name, age, sex, District, ranking, and death. A little more effort and tapes could be dug up; a whole history of tactics and betrayal and bloodbath. So it was unnecessary and impractical to remember on one's own.
Tributes were nothing but mere players in the little world he created, sent to tear each other to pieces.
Although he was not one to understand it, becoming attached was something that occurred often and easily during the Hunger Season. There were Gamemakers who cultivated a fondness for certain Tributes, Stylists who bragged about their charges, Mentors who drank themselves to oblivion when the cannon sounded, and viewers at home who obsessively tracked their wagers or favorites. That was the beauty of it; entertainment, drama. The very life and sustenance of the Games were these fleeting notions of sympathy and affection.
The grey eyed volunteer from Twelve, however, was proving to be an exception. He would not forget her. No one would. Just as he predicted, her name was on everyone's lips like a strange exotic fruit. The notoriety of Reaping spread like wildfire and persisted for days. He basked in the glow of it; the 74th Games would have a place in history. Win or lose, live or die, the girl had done him a great service.
He never developed any sort of interest in Tributes before. And then he found himself abandoning his scribbles for the night; a waiting car downstairs and a ticket to the Opening Ceremonies tucked in his jacket.
"... a noble sacrifice. It brought tears to my eyes when she…"
"… terribly disappointed that I didn't get a glimpse of her at the train station…"
"... this year will be simply monumental, I'm telling you..."
Under different circumstances, he would have been amongst the Gamemakers as they talked and joked and drank a toast to the Games, but tonight he was distracted. Not as if he was a perfect example of serenity the rest of the time. Every minute of his day seemed to be absorbed in an agenda of deadlines and appointments and even when he was given a pause, he was mindfully rearranging or musing over it. It didn't bother him; quite opposite, he preferred being kept busy with a purposeful schedule. Unfortunately, the preoccupation at the moment had nothing to do with what he was familiar with; interviews, dinner parties, blueprints and the like. In an effort to subdue his thoughts, he concentrated on the procession going on below.
Pulled in fine chariots, the Tributes trickled into view by order of District. The audience cooed and clapped appreciatively but he looked on in distaste; each one looked more ridiculous than the last. While he agreed that a welcoming Parade at the Opening Ceremonies made perfect sense, the costumes it traditionally entailed did not. There were only so many ways to fashion an industry-inspired outfit before they became stale or worse yet, bizarre. He suppressed a scoff at the most recent arrival, mentally granting a punishment to Four's Prep Team for their atrocious use of netting and starfish. The Tributes looked like they had been recently shipwrecked so he deemed it would only be fair to have whoever was responsible for that to be marooned on an island.
He drummed his fingers in a tense staccato on his knee. He was in a wicked mood all right. Something about simply being present made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, like his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
Tributes, he noted, underwent an interesting change in between the Reaping and the Opening Ceremonies that went deeper than getting scrubbed clean and decently dressed. It was a palpable shift in demeanor. He would not have guessed that these children, beaming and vigorously waving to the crowds, would be sent like lambs to the slaughter in less than a week but he knew why.
It was the reason they weren't simply shipped from their homes and thrown into the arena; why the Parade and the interviews and the spectacle of it all were so popular. Carnage was a bitter pill to swallow and the dark Hunger Games were made friendly and palatable this way. It was up to them to keep a happy facade for the Capitol, with sponsorships as the reward for those who played along.
He turned his gaze to the audience, all too content in taking their medicine. Unlike them, he was not there to believe but to see.
The District Twelve Tribute. Miss Everdeen. Katniss. His mouth turned down slightly in consternation. He didn't know what to make of this girl or his puzzling regard for her. Against all odds, a tiny seed of interest managed to take root and was beginning to grow. It was not a good diagnosis for someone who was prone to obsessive compulsions, the same ones that made him a success.
Surely he was much too level-headed to catch the same fever that had swept the Capitol. Surely he would be able to look past her noble intentions and pretty face and see that she was nothing more than a worthless girl from the Outer Districts, a pawn destined to die at his hands. Surely he would return to his normal, impervious, unfeeling self.
(Surely, surely, surely—once repeated enough, words lost all meaning.)
As he got dressed before going out hours before, he convinced himself that attending the Opening Ceremonies would be antidote of sorts. She would be demystified once formally introduced as a representative of the Games, in an awful coal mining costume at that, as just one of the many. He would see that Katniss Everdeen was not special. The pieces would snap into place and he would be able to resume his duties, free of troublesome thoughts.
If only.
He had not counted on the District Twelve Stylists to achieve such a startling transformation. It was quite impressive. In a gold chariot drawn by night-black horses and wrapped in an ethereal blaze, they looked more like gods than mortals.
The clamoring throng showered them with flowers and chanted their names so loud that his ears thrummed. He had never witnessed such a fierce outpouring of adoration. It made him wary. And as if the attention was not already squarely placed on them, the male Tribute from Twelve clasped their hands together and raised it high over their heads. A triumphant, unifying gesture, but he found himself focusing on her alone.
She was not the same girl from the Reaping, the one with the faded blue dress hanging on her slight frame, dark wisps coming loose from her braid and terror in her eyes. Just as metal was heated until it became pure and strong, the past few days had only served to refine her. What he found most intriguing, what outshone even her fiery cloak, was her smile. It flashed from the huge telescreen banners strung up as far as the eye could see, alluring and enigmatic as a queen's. The crowd practically swooned; failing to notice what he had- the cold steel behind it.
They were like wayward moths being drawn to her bright flame, and, he realized with growing dismay, so was he.
A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews! I'm happy to know that so many of you enjoy the story so far and I hope this chapter was to your liking. Just letting you know, this fic will be mostly introspective with little action or dialogue. I'm going to publish another lighter Seneca x Katniss AU story soon so keep an eye out for that.
Chiisana inori