Sup people, here's chapter two. Shout-out to those who made their presence known through reviews/follows etc. Much appreciated.
If you haven't noticed already, I like developing characters. That goes for the tributes also. Too often I read a fanfiction, and feel no connection to the tributes. There's a reason we liked the ones Suzanne Collins conjured. They had personality! (applause). So, I shall try my best to characterise them aptly, because ideally, I want you to get attached! They deserve more than to be passing supporting character shadows that you glaze over.
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Enjoy!
….
Effie's carefully manicured hand lingered tensely over the great glass bowl for the female tribute. Effie swallowed harshly, and tried to remember why it was that she was here; in District Twelve, hovering over a glass bowl, determining fate. She had never expected to be in this position. It had been largely inadvertent, and on many occasions, out of her control.
Effie had always been an outstanding student, and applied herself diligently to her studies. Her family had always placed such a high emphasis on education. "Education will set you free" her father would say on lazy Sunday afternoons of her childhood. Well, right now Effie felt anything but free. Even her elaborately-decorated attire seemed to constrict her.
It was common knowledge that the very best and brightest of Panem would be accepted into the Hunger Games Academy, which trained up all persons for employment within the Games. From Gamemakers to technological engineers, escorts and designers, they all originated from being the very top in their field in Secondary Education. Thus, when Euphemia Trinket had completed her privileged Secondary Education at the prestigious Miss Minchin's Academy for Young Ladies at the top of her year, it was simply expected of her to accept the offer from the Games Academy. It was unheard of for anyone to reject an offer, unless they came from an important bloodlines that had duties to perform. So, Effie accepted.
"Education will set you free". The words echoed around her head, taunting her endlessly. It had definitely not set her free. It had landed her here, plucking out tributes for slaughter. Over time the whole Games business began to revolt her. "Muscida Barker!" Effie announced as cheerfully as she could muster. There was movement among the sixteen year-olds, and sighs of relief flooded over the rows of girls as they realised it's not them. Muscida Barker shuffled forward, as the cameras frantically searched for her in the crowd. Unlike the majority of the girls, Muscida wasn't undernourished. She came from the fortunate Merchant class, and it was purely by chance that she had been selected. Children from the Merchant class rarely had to apply for tessera, and it was relatively occasional that Merchant children were drawn. Tears streaked her face, her hand set in a fist to prevent the shaking. Effie encouraged her towards the stage, but the girl was mostly in a daze, and it took several moments to get her to face the cameras.
Muscida's long golden locks fell messily around her shoulders. She was attractive, yes. But frightened beyond comparison. Her skin was absent of any markings: she was not expected to perform manual labour, and given her slightly raised social ranking, she had never been allowed to brawl or fight during her adolescence. Her fragile wrist held a bangle; not very elaborate, but marked with her initials. Her upper lip quaked ferociously as she stared blankly out onto the square of her relieved peers. There was no one to take her place. There was no collective mourning. She wasn't really that much to lose. Her friends were few and far-between, and the only person who really cherished her existence was her father. Muscida searched for his face, but could not find him.
Effie moved onto the bowl for the boys, noting that there were considerably more names entered compared to the girls. "Tom Weatheringstone". The boys gave a thankful sigh, and Effie's eyes searched for movement within the rows. Unsuprisingly, Tom Weatheringstone was from the Seam, the poorest part of District Twelve. He emerged tentatively from the fourteen year-olds, and trudged towards the stage. His expression was fixed: he knew he was walking to his death. He knew it was inevitable. He had obviously thought this over. Effie eyed him curiously. He was handsome: with messy dark hair that complemented his fierce grey eyes. His thick brows and clenched jaw provided his appearance with a brutality that wasn't really him. Just by looking at him you could tell that every muscle in his being was being strained. That's good, thought Effie. Handsome gets sponsors. Effie encouraged the tributes to shake hands, and they did so. "The tributes for District Twelve!"
...
The train moved swiftly out of the station, precisely on the time it was scheduled to, much to Effie's delight. Tributes Muscida and Tom sat awkwardly in the elaborately cushioned couches, and Effie did her best to attempt to put them as ease. But neither of the tributes were particularly interested. Muscida was fascinated by the ornate richness of the main cabin: she had never seen such beauty. Muscida's father was a peacekeeper, and given his position it allowed him to shower his daughter with fabrics that came from the Capitol. She had her fair share of beautiful, rich things; but nothing she had seen compared to this. It was exquisite: the candleholders, the curtains, the wall decorations. Everything screamed perfection. Tom however didn't appear the least bit interested in the cabin, nor Effie's futile attempts at light conversation designed to unhinge his jaw and un-cloud his guarded eyes. It was not until Supper had come around that Tom showed any sign of being human. His eyes lit up at the glorious outlay of food before them, and Effie watched in disdain as a sliver of drool ran down from the corner of his mouth. He couldn't resist; launching himself into the rich fare, determined to try everything.
Dinner was mostly an uncomfortable affair for Effie, who had, at least before her meeting with Haymitch earlier, expected that they would work together at accommodate the tributes. However, when Haymitch stumbled onto the train minutes before it was intending to leave, he disappeared into his room, leaving Effie to entertain the tributes without the help of a mentor. She had been largely unprepared for such a turn of events, but she was resourceful enough to work out topics to talk about with the tributes that wouldn't be over sensitive. This mainly left her talking endlessly about the Capitol, and by nightfall she had enlightened the tributes on everything from hairstyles to architecture, parades and sugared sweets. She had exhausted every topic, and her cheery disposition began to feel slightly more forced as she battled to keep silence from falling over the dinner table.
All heads turned when Haymitch finally stumbled into the dining cabin, halfway through the duration of the meal. Effie felt herself grow uncomfortable under his presence, but made an attempt to appear pleased. After all, she did have manners. "Ah, Haymitch. Thank you for gracing us with your presence." Sarcasm dripped eloquently off Effie's words, and through the wisps of hair that covered his face, his eyes met Effie's with such a challenging intensity she struggled to keep her composure. He sank himself into a chair, and began to fill his plate.
"Congratulations." His mouth curved into a smile as he faced the tributes. They exchanged confused glances, but quickly returned to their plates. Effie pursed her lips. "This is Muscida and Tom." Haymitch frowned slightly, but remained disinterested in the names of the tributes, and poured himself a drink. Effie stared at Haymitch, widening her eyes to indicate he should make an effort. Aware of her eyes on him, Haymitch purposely avoided her gaze, and selected various dishes for his plate.
"So…got any suggestions?" Tom piped up, his piercing gaze fixed on Haymitch. "Oh here we go." Haymitch mutters, rolling his eyes. From his reaction, Effie gets the impression this is common. His replies are too quick to be thoughtfully considered. "You're our mentor. That's your job. You're supposed to help." Effie turned towards Haymitch as Tom openly confronted him. Haymitch tensed defensively at the attention, and darts his eyes between the tributes, evaluating them.
He knew the girl wouldn't last longer than the duration of a day; he could tell she was from the Merchant class. Those from the Merchant class always fared terribly. But the boy, Tom, was fairly well-built, relatively tall, and challenging. He had attitude, and his face was handsome enough to merit interest from the Capitol citizens. He could stand a chance. Haymitch huffed, and dropped his cutlery back onto the plate. "What, you want to know how to kill others?" Haymitch's eyes assessed him. "Wanna know how to murder?" Tom refused to alter his gaze, and Effie swore she saw his nostrils flare. He was no killer. "No. I want to have a fighting chance. A strategy." Haymitch glanced at Effie. "Oh. Well, that's a first." Effie saw Tom's knuckles whiten in anger, and she predicted he was about to make a swipe across the table at Haymitch. She was right: Tom began to raise himself out of his chair, but Effie reacted quickly, and her cheerful tone cut across the silence. "Well, why don't we watch the recaps of the reapings? I'm sure that will help you and Haymitch devise a strategy." Haymitch glared at Effie, but she remained unrelenting. She had to help these tributes somehow, and having Haymitch come up against a tribute was certainly not going to help.
The reapings were fairly standard. District One flaunted a reaped boy of Seventeen: Troy, and a girl of Sixteen, Bronne. Both were bogstandard: strong, heartless, with malice and honour glinting in their eyes as they strode onto the stage and thumped their fists triumphantly. From District Two came Gravston, with the female Enobaria, a ferocious-looking seventeen year-old who showed her glinting teeth at every opportunity. Twelve year olds were drawn from Six and Eight, and the boy from Nine was well-built and muscular, and Tom earmarked him as a threat. The Capitol seal flashed onto the screen, signalling the end of mandatory viewing. Haymitch gave a huff, flicking off the television. "Well, that's enough for one night." Tom gave Haymitch a dirty look, but eagerly left the viewing compartment. Muscida was quick to trail along behind.
….
To Effie's surprise, Haymitch did not try to slip away into his bedroom. Effie sat at the dining table, fidgeting with the dessert cutlery with no intention of eating. Her appetite had left her. Haymitch sauntered in, and poured himself a drink. But he didn't leave. He flopped down into a chair at the end of the table, swirling the ice around in his glass. Effie found his presence slightly comforting, and was glad the confrontational tension from dinner had seemingly diffused. Effie spoke, her voice reduced low to almost a whisper. "These tributes are going to die, Haymitch." Haymitch traced hopelessness in her voice, her eyes downcast towards the cutlery. Haymitch motioned his glass towards her. "Happy Hunger Games." Effie smirked slightly at his sarcasm, but it quickly disappeared. Her eyes reflected a certain desperation, and Haymitch momentarily wondered whether he had a crying escort on his hands. But Haymitch softened. She was only twenty, and for her, this was the biggest challenge she had ever encountered. And there was nobody to help her.
Haymith noisily cleared his throat. "There's a couple of rules you should be aware of." Effie met his glance. "Rules? I did attend Games school, Mr. Abernathy. I think what I need to know about the Games, I do know." Effie rebuked. Her smugness was of no surprise to him. Exactly what would come from a Capitol girl. He thought. His piercing blue eyes met hers. "Rule number one. No getting attached to the tributes." Effie grimaced. "Should've told me that earlier", a chuckle cracking her solemn expression. An amused look fell over his glazed eyes. He hadn't expected an escort to be so entertaining. "Rule number two. No interfering with my drinking habits." Effie considered launching a counter-argument, but bit her tongue. "Rule number three. No talking about my Games." The seriousness in his voice made Effie appreciate this was the most important rule, and perhaps the one to stick to. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, she found her mind buzzing with curiosity. Did she remember his Games? Or was she too young? EscortsAssociated, the firm for which all escorts were employed had offered her access to the tape, in order to "get to know the Districts' mentor", or some such nonsense. Effie had refused, not seeing how watching a tape of their Games would help at all. She was now glad she hadn't seen the tape. Silence blanketed the table, but Haymitch didn't make any moves to leave, and Effie was secretly glad.
"Can we work together on this?" She finally said, as he tapped his fingernail against the glass. The words come out of her mouth before she had the opportunity to stop them. But she was desperate. She needs his support in this, because she knows she's not strong enough to go it alone. The clink that resounds from Haymitch's glass finally secedes. "I don't have the answer to that, sweetheart." The nickname catches her off-guard, and she struggles to make sense of his words. Haymitch rises from his chair and takes the glass with him. Effie's breath constricts in her throat. She desperately wants this to work. She wants to give District Twelve a fighting chance. "Please, Haymitch?" He momentarily stops in the doorway, and shifts his head to one side to indicate he is replying to her, despite the fact that nobody else is around to hear it. "Time will tell".
Effie found herself tossing and turning in bed that night, as her mind feverishly analysed the conversation with Haymitch. She couldn't deny, no matter how mortified the thought made her, that she had let her guard down in front of him. Not her whole guard, but a precious fragment of it. She knew very well why. Because she hadn't anticipated how hard this would be. To ship these children to their deaths. To chaperone them on their final journey. To carry out the Capitol's dirty business. To make it look glamorous, fashionable even. The thought riddled and rooted itself within her, and the guilt welled in her stomach to the point where she thought she might throw up. She needed to change her tactic. She needed to keep up her cheery cover. For the tributes. Because, after all, the best she can do is try to help them. And she hoped that Haymitch would be sober enough to do the same.
….
Thanks you reading!
While I write this story for me, I post it for the satisfaction of others. No point posting if you're not interested, is there? Let me know if you're keen for a chapter three anytime soon. :)