A/N
Chapter two! Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter; as any writer knows, reviews definitely help to force me into writing even when I want nothing more than to curl up and just nap instead. So if you want more Glimmer, keep reviewing!
Oh, and please read on ½ setting thanks!
-Iri
The Peacekeeper leads me down yet another lavishly decorated hallway and I realize a bit belatedly that this is the way to the train station, located just behind the Justice Building. Like just about everyone else in District One, I've never actually been on a train. They're usually freight trains, arriving and departing about once a week for the Capitol, carrying the bounty of luxurious frivolities my district produces. But twice a year, during the Games and the Victory Tour, a sleek white Capitol passenger train arrives in the station. I watch them every year, leaving the walls of my district in a blur. But this is the first time I'll ever actually be on one.
The thought fills me with both excitement and a terrible nostalgia for the days when my life was much simpler. Just Rivet and I, running wild through the carefully-tended gardens of my father's palatial home, without a care in the world. But I shake the thoughts away. There is no use in reminiscing about those days. They are long gone now. And while I miss the carefree happiness the past took with it, I know that the only thing I can do to regain even a small fraction of it is to win these Games, and I cannot do it if I am constantly worrying about places and events long past. I scold myself internally.
Just before my Peacekeeper companion pushes open the wide door to the outside world, I remember my instructions from Cashmere. Biting my lips to make them more colorful, I affix a flirtatious smile on my mouth and adjust my stride, swaying my hips alluringly. And it's just in time. The Peacekeeper pushes open the door and immediately a chorus of voices cries out to me, accompanied by the flashes of high-powered cameras. Capitol photographers. I know I'm being broadcast live to the entire nation right now, and my mentor, who is much more like an elder sister at this point than a teacher, has stressed countless times the importance of remaining in character. We never had to think about finding an angle for me, so I owe it to her to keep myself firmly in check.
"Glimmer! Can you tell us why you volunteered?"
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Or a girlfriend!"
"Glimmer! What's your strategy in the arena?"
And on and on.
Some of the comments are so ridiculous I can barely keep from laughing aloud. Biting my lip innocently, I bat my eyelashes at one of the cameramen and dart out the tip of my tongue to wet my lips before tossing back my hair in a shower of white-gold waves. The crowd goes wild and I grin before the scowling Peacekeeper ushers me onto the train.
As my eyes struggle to adjust from sunlight to the dim lighting of the train corridor, I see my district escort, Devon, sitting on a small chair directly across from the automatic door. He's a regular fixture in our district, although he only started escorting our tributes eight or so years ago. He's a smaller statured man with brilliantly golden, slanted eyes and a somewhat flamboyant style of smoky-eyed makeup. I glance at him, wondering what I'm expected to do now.
"The boy, Marvel, is already onboard," he gestures down the hall with a jerk of his thumb. "And your mentor's waiting for you in your room. Third door on the left." His lips curl up into a smile and I am momentarily spellbound by the flash of his teeth, which are even whiter than my own, the incisors ending in small but obvious points. Obviously, Devon is no stranger to the Capitol's famous methods of bodily alteration. I can easily say that such techniques will not be my main focus when I win the Games. I already get enough stares; attracting more just might send me over the edge.
I roll my eyes and head down the corridor to meet with my mentor, who is indeed waiting in my room when I manage to figure out the deceptively complex keypad next to the door. It hisses open and I step through to see her sitting gracefully on the bed. It is my intention to immediately begin talking strategy, but I have to take a moment to gape at the room itself, slightly taken aback. I'm used to luxury at home, but this is something else. Everything is white and gold, the height of Capitol fashion, I suppose. The ivory carpeting is so thick and soft I immediately kick off my sandals and revel in the sensation of sinking into a cloud.
Cashmere snorts in a rather unladylike manner at my blissful expression, and my eyes snap back open as I quickly cross to join her on the huge fluffy bed. She studies my face in her usual manner as I arrange my plain white dress across my lap. I've always said that Cashmere can see into my mind just by looking at me, and I've yet to be proven wrong. She always knows just what I'm thinking, although such introspection may just be a result of spending so many hours together in past years.
"Lay it on me," I sigh, finally relaxing back into the fluffy down pillows. She takes a breath before responding.
"We've made it this far, but you absolutely cannot let your guard down yet. Remember, there are always people watching, always cameras, always someone to be influenced and charmed." Her face is serious as she looks at me. "You will win this, Glimmer, if you can just keep your head in it. I know you can." Rare praise from my mentor. She blows out a long, slow gust of air, as if releasing all the stress of the morning from her system.
"We're going to brunch in a few minutes, and Marvel and Onyx will be there. I know we're supposed to be on the same team, and you two will have to stick together in the arena, but I don't want to give him anything to use against you. You stay in character and act just the way I've told you. Don't let on anything about your strategy."
I nod. This is obvious; Marvel has been trained separately, as is the custom in my district, and district loyalty only goes so far in the arena. He will kill me if he has to, and I must be prepared to do the same. We were never closely acquainted while at school, being that he is nearly eighteen years old and a full two classes ahead of me, so I don't expect him to know just how intelligent I really am. After all, he's just a teenage guy. I can count on one hand the number of the male sex who have ever managed to make it past the pretty exterior to see the girl inside- my brother, Cashmere's own brother Gloss,- and I'm willing to bet the whole of District One that Marvel Theodelyte will not be joining the list.
Cashmere continues. "After brunch, we'll all watch a replay of the reapings. I want you to keep a close eye on the competition. We can't afford to underestimate anyone." With one graceful motion, she slips off the bed and turns to me.
"Come on, you'll need to change for breakfast." She helps me select and dress in a floaty green silk dress that drapes about my curves like a cool embrace. Of course, it's also far too low cut for my liking, revealing half my breasts and making me self-conscious, but I suck it up and allow Cashmere to slip it over my head and zip me in. I'll need it to stay in character today. Besides, it makes my eyes shine even greener than usual, and I'm reminded of my brother's last embrace.
My feet slide into a pair of blessedly comfortable sandals. While Cashmere gently brushes my hair to the side, tying it with a thin green ribbon to drift effortlessly across my neck and shoulder, I hear a knock at the door. It whooshes open to reveal Devon, who leans against the wall to watch the proceedings with some interest.
"I'm supposed to tell you that brunch is ready," he says lightly. "And then I'm supposed to escort Glimmer to the dining room. Cashmere… I think you're supposed to escort yourself." He smiles and holds out a hand for me. Cashmere steps back so I can stand up from the dressing table. I ignore Devon's proffered hand with a twitch of my lip, flipping back my hair as I squeeze past him and begin to walk down the hall. Behind me, I can almost hear him rolling his eyes.
The dining room is done in paneled honey-colored wood, and the gleaming rectangular table is covered with golden dishes. Steam rises from many of them and I inhale. Amazing.
Marvel is already seated at one end with his mentor, Onyx, a dark-haired beast of a man who won the Games about seven years ago. Marvel is the first tribute he's taken on since his own victory, and both of them look up suspiciously when I seat myself at the center of the table. White clad servants, Avoxes, rush to serve me with a variety of dishes. While I am not nearly as underfed and emaciated as I know the children from lesser districts will be, it is always handy to have some meat on your bones in the arena, so I help myself to large portions of what looks most delicious.
Cashmere seats herself beside me, Devon sitting across the table, and I stifle my laughter as Marvel and Onyx realize everyone else is sitting together. Reluctantly, they scoot down to join us. Marvel shoots me a glare and I look back at him wide-eyed, the picture of innocence, before smiling and licking my lips slowly, still staring him dead in the eyes. He gulps quite noticeably before hurriedly sitting down.
The meal is fairly quiet, being that neither the tributes nor the mentors want to let anything slip about their plans for the arena and the trying days ahead, but Devon does his best to make small talk, something he isn't exactly known for. He's more of the snarky, dark-witted type, so it's obvious Cashmere has asked him to distract the others. I'm perfectly fine not talking to the opposition right now- I have no desire to deal with easily smitten and easily swayed imbeciles like Marvel- and I eat my brunch in contented silence. The chicken, in a kind of buttery orange sauce, is delicious over some sort of white grain, served with fresh bread and golden fried eggs, a true delicacy. I stuff myself.
After a mostly silent and far too-long meal during which I cast many a flirtatious glance in my partner's general direction, Cashmere and I retreat to my room once again, to wait out the rest of the reapings in peace and quiet. The replays won't be on until later this afternoon, as they are staggered throughout the day, and judging by the time visible on the small clock near the bed, they should be on District Eight or so by now. I shiver in the cool-conditioned air of my compartments, rubbing my hands nervously along my bare upper arms. In just a few short hours, I will see my competition for the first time. The idea fills me with apprehension at the very least, knowing that anywhere among the field of twenty-three other boys and girls could be one who is just that little bit faster, just a bit stronger than me.
Cashmere catches me gnawing my lip unconsciously and sighs, reaching forward to smooth back a wayward strand of hair that has escaped from my ponytail. "Relax, Glimmer," she soothes, rubbing my back with her warm hand. "You've trained for this for years. I've never seen someone work as hard as you do every day. Besides," she says with a teasing smile, "I didn't spend all this time training you so you could cop out now. Just think of all the rich Capitol boys who will never get to enjoy the wondrous sight that is Glimmer Duval!" She laughs aloud, her real laugh, a deep and throaty sound. I try to maintain a straight face but can't, and resort to whacking her across the head with a handy pillow.
"Shut up! You know I don't care about the leeches of the Capitol. I've got plenty of those at home, thanks very much." But I'm grinning at her, and I realize that, true just as she intended, Cashmere has succeeded in making me feel better. Just as she always does.
True to form, Cashmere spends the next few hours keeping me distracted with meaningless topics and bits of gossip, and I forget all about the impending challenges I will soon face. Instead, I end up drifting into a sleepy stupor, enjoying the feel of the warm sunshine streaming through the thick glass window onto my bare shoulders. I lay on my stomach reading a completely nonsensical Capitol magazine, full of ridiculous fashion advice and scandalous stories about the government elite while Cashmere braids my hair and hums tonelessly. It's as close to happy as I've been in months. With the stress of the Games weighing on my shoulders, I've taken very little time to enjoy myself in so long. It's nice to just relax.
Of course, our peace must soon be interrupted, this time in the form of Devon, who invites himself in and plops down in a velvet-lined chair with an icy glass of something that smells both citrusy and vaguely alcoholic.
"What is this, a slumber party?" he teases us. I raise my head to fix him with a scathing look, an expression I've had many an occasion to practice over the years.
"What are you doing in here, Devon?" Cashmere asks him, her tone exasperated but still slightly amused.
"Well, I tried dropping in on the other two, but when they started to threaten me with bodily harm if I didn't leave, I decided my company was better appreciated by the female aspect of District One," my escort smirks, his surprisingly natural chocolate brown eyes dancing with laughter and his nose wrinkled in pretend offense.
"Oh please," Cashmere snorts, "we both know you're only here for the view."
"Cashmere, you wound me. I would think such lovely ladies such as yourselves would enjoy the company of a sophisticated and refined man such as myself."
"Ha!" my mentor laughs aloud. "That's a good one. You, refined? In comparison to Onyx, maybe, but anywhere else, you've got about the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. What's the message, delivery boy?"
Devon sighs in pretend disgust at her disparaging words but winks at me from across the carpeted expanse of my room. "Very well then, I'm supposed to tell you that afternoon tea is being served in the television room, and the replays are due to start in-" he twists his wrist to check an expensive-looking watch-"ten minutes. So if it's not too much trouble, you may want to consider attending. Unless Blondie here is going rogue. That might be an interesting headline for the newspapers." He's grinning as I toss a heavily tasseled pillow his way, but he ducks in time to miss the projectile entirely.
"We'll be there in a minute," Cashmere replies, standing up and placing her hand on her hip gracefully. She gestures to the door. "I'd like a few last words with my tribute." Devon raises an eyebrow at her statement, but nods and quickly departs, allowing the door to hiss shut behind him.
I turn to look at my mentor, expecting a few more words of advice, but she shakes her head. "I just want you to remember, you can win this. Some of the kids on that screen might look tough, but they'll be nothing to you in the arena, Glimmer. I know it." Her royal blue eyes pierce mine with an intensity rarely shown. I take a deep breath and nod my head, releasing the air in a slow gust.
"Okay. I'm ready." Cashmere nods approvingly.
"Then let's go meet the competition."
Less than a minute later, I find myself seated in the viewing room, a small compartment filled with a few velvet-lined armchairs and a wall-sized television screen. Devon flips on the power and seats himself next to Cashmere on my right. To my disgust, Marvel claims the seat to my left, and I have to resist the urge to literally kick him out and away from me. But then the huge screen flickers to life, accompanied by the voices of the Capitol commentators, and I am distracted.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Hunger Games Network! As I'm sure you all know, this is bound to be yet another exciting year!" A smiling man with skin dyed a nauseating shade of chartreuse chirps happily onscreen. He introduces himself as Hopi Stork, and I wonder what on earth possesses Capitol mothers to torture their children so. His companion, a woman with hair longer than she is tall and brilliant pink eyes, claps excitedly, bouncing in her seat, and I want to vomit.
"That's right, Hopi! Up next, we have the replay of the district reapings, and we all know what that means!" The woman- who is introduced as Chloe Quarrie, another awful name- practically spasms with delight at the prospect of sending twenty-three kids to their deaths.
"That means you can start placing your bets in just a few minutes. Remember, these tributes depend on your sponsorship money! So let's show everyone just how much we have to give!"
Lovely. The Capitol's morals: kill children, look good doing it, and make sure everyone knows how much money you've spent in the course of the endeavor.
With a few last winning comments, the two foolish reporters turn the airtime over to the Capitol tech crew, and the screen goes black before the large golden words, "District One," appear. It's a video replay, from several different camera angles, of the reaping just a few short hours ago. The mayor of District One, recognizable by his strangely strained cheeks and bloated belly, makes his dull speech, which you can tell no one is listening to, and Devon takes the stage to read the names. Per usual, the selected girl, a tiny thirteen-year-old who could be my twin, albeit much younger, barely makes it from her section before she is stopped in her tracks.
I see myself, tall, beautiful, and imperious, striding forward to announce my intention to volunteer. It's a strange sensation, watching yourself on television. Almost an out-of-body experience. The girl on the screen is confident, stepping up onto the stage with grace and an almost visible aura of command that I can say I rarely feel inside. I suppose my acting skills are better than I had thought. I watch as television me shakes Devon's hand and turns to face the audience with a beatific smile on her face.
Marvel's entrance into view onscreen is much the same, but I notice he has not quite the allure I seem to draw. Beside me in the television room, he stiffens in his chair as the camera returns again and again to rest on my face. I fight back a gleeful smile. The Capitol has already picked their favorite, I want to taunt him, and it isn't you. Better get used to the cold, Marvel.
Before long, television-Glimmer and -Marvel are led offstage and the screen goes dark once more. We sit through the rest of the reapings, offering brief commentary now and then. A few tributes stand out: the pair from Two is particularly interesting. The huge man who volunteers is standard; menacing and no doubt a fearsome killer. But for the first time since I can remember, the girl who is chosen is the one who takes the stage. She's not particularly terrifying like a Two tribute usually is; in sharp contrast to her huge partner, the girl, Clove, barely graces five foot and I'm willing to bet she weighs maybe ninety pounds soaking wet and fully clothed. But there's something about the sharp glare- almost possessed, in fact- set firmly on her sallow face that warns me she is not to be trifled with.
"We'll have to keep an eye on the both of them," I say to no one in particular, and sounds of agreement echo from everyone in the room. However, they are not so agreeable when I lean forward to more closely examine the practically emaciated-looking fourteen-year-old girl from Five, who by all rights should be terrified, but seems totally calm as she takes the stage. It's disconcerting, to say the least.
"There's something going on there," I say almost to myself.
Marvel snorts out loud. "Like what? She's from Five. What's she going to do, jump out and yell 'Boo!'?" He laughs out loud, staring at me as if daring me to challenge him.
Much as I long to knock my hapless partner unconscious at this point, I sigh as I remember my promise to Cashmere. I have to follow the script.
I reply in bubbly, flirtatious tones. "I don't expect you to notice absolutely everything, Marvel, but she's obviously not just another scared little girl." My voice is sugar sweet and lilting, a bright and winning smile on my lips, and I watch his pupils almost dilate as he gazes, dumbfounded, at me. This is almost too easy.
"I understand you may be distracted by her small stature, but if you'd been watching her face, you'd have seen that she is totally unafraid. Obviously she knows something we don't." The contrast between my faintly jabbing words and my innocent, flirtatious tone appears to befuddle my partner even further, because he merely looks at me with confused eyes and takes several seconds to reply. He thinks I'm teasing… or flirting… or both, I suppose.
"Well, I guess you can do what you want, but I don't think she's much of a threat," Marvel says slowly, scrutinizing me up and down like a prized horse. Despite feeling an intense desire to slap him silly for practically undressing me with his eyes, I just sigh lightly and shake my head as if mildly entertained at his words before returning my attention to the screen.
From the corner of my eye, I see Cashmere give me an almost imperceptible nod, and I know what she's trying to say. With a few choice words, I have easily established my authority over Marvel, while remaining an object of his curiosity and attention. The poor boy doesn't have a chance.
The rest of the tributes are typical; starving children trying to appear strong, or more often than not, dissolving into tears in full view of everyone in the nation. This is why we train in District One, I think to myself. To avoid sending innocent kids to their deaths. The boy from Eleven is fairly large and looks like he could put up a good fight, but he's not trained and is therefore probably no match for either Marvel or the boy from Two.
The reaping in Twelve, at least, has a bit more excitement. They manage to scrape together a few pretty strong tributes for once, and the girl actually volunteers. Now, she does it to take the place of her sister, but still. For an untrained girl from the pitiful slum that is District Twelve, that takes guts.
Or at least, I assume she's untrained until I watch her leave the stage. She's not crying, begging, or even glaring menacingly at everyone like so many choose to do in a pathetic attempt to intimidate their fellow tributes. Her pale grey eyes are carefully trained on a point somewhere in the distance, and even through a TV screen, I can see the way she takes everything in, adjusting her body to her surroundings and moving with an unconscious grace that strikes me as highly unusual. This girl knows what she's doing.
I voice my thoughts to the rest of the team, and they agree. The girl from Twelve must have some training, which is astonishing in itself, considering their only living victor is a drunken mess. I can't even see how he manages to drag himself out of bed in the morning- he fell off of the stage during their reaping- let alone remain coherent and sober enough to train a tribute. But she's one to keep an eye on, that's for sure.
As the program wraps up and the bubbly reporter duo returns, Devon reaches up to switch off the television and Cashmere gets to her feet.
"I think we've got some good chances this year," she says. "We'll talk about strategy tomorrow, after the Opening Ceremonies. I'm assuming we'll each mentor our own tributes"-these words are directed towards Onyx- "so no changes there. Get some rest. We'll be in the Capitol by tonight." With a nod of acknowledgment, Marvel rises to his feet and, with his silent mentor close by his side, departs for his room.
Devon gives me a playful smile as I rise to my feet, leaning against the wall and waiting for Cashmere to finish up with me. I look to her for any other advice, but she shakes her head.
"Get some rest, Glimmer," she says softly. "I'll see you in a few hours. Call me if you need anything." Okay then, I'm not going to argue, especially not with Devon standing right there. I suppose I should be offended, considering I'm putting my life on the line here, but I know better. Cashmere is not one to let things slip through the cracks, and if having a few hours of time away allows her to relax from her usual uptight and icy attitude, so much the better. My mentor has never let me down yet, and I trust her with my life.
A quick walk later and I am in my room, kicking off the sandals and leaving them to lie atop the growing heap of clothing on my floor. I am many things, but neat is not one of them. Thank heavens my father ranked high enough in society to have a cleaning staff back home, or my room would have been even more of a mess than it already was. Rivet used to joke that I might get lost among all the clutter, were I not careful.
The bed sheets are silky smooth and draw me in invitingly, and I lean back against the dozen or so pillows, trying not to think about the next few hours. Which is difficult when you consider one fact: I'll be in the Capitol by dinnertime tonight.