(A/N): Getting a little busy in life, so updates may come slower from now on. I apologize to my non-existent audience.
Conference Room, District 13.
The long table in the middle of the room was barren, save for a few folders scattered on one end. At the head of the table, her young features illuminated by the dim lighting in the room, sat Alma Coin. She tapped her fingernails on the cold metallic surface impatiently.
"We can't let her know. Not yet." She said, turning to face the man standing to her left with his arms crossed. He bit back a curse, trying to remain formal.
"She needs to know," he stated. Coin wasn't convinced. The Snow girl's intervention had come as quite a surprise, but that did not mean she could be trusted.
"There's a good chance she's still loyal to her father. It's just too much risk, Ichor. I trust you've disposed of the letter?" Coin asked, eyeing the man suspiciously. Ichor lifted his chin, throwing on his best poker face.
"Yes, I have. She won't know about our...plans," he said, his mind going back to his run-in with Aurelia in the Capitol. He wondered, would she have done the same if she'd known who he was?
As Ichor turned around to leave, Coin ordered him to stop. She wouldn't admit to being fond of Ichor, but he'd served her long enough for her to deduce what went on in his mind.
"That being said, it wouldn't hurt to let the poor girl know what to expect in the coming few weeks, would it?" Coin said. Ichor's spirits lifted as he understood.
"I'll be on my way. District Five, you said?" he asked. Coin nodded, leaning back in her chair.
"The reaping will take place in a few hours, you'd better hurry."
With that, Ichor hurried out of the room. He looked at the hand-drawn sketch he'd stolen from the Capitol, reading the labels and notes sprawled around the piece of paper. As he approached the hangar, he stuffed the paper into his pocket, brimming with energy. He knew it wasn't much compensation for the hell Aurelia was going to face in that arena, but he hoped it would somehow help her stay alive.
I've come to the conclusion that our district escort is going to die of liver failure before we even get to the arena. Isaac disagrees, though. He believes she won't make it to the hotel. The topic was brought up by him, and it's the only thing he's said so far. All my attempts at conversation in the past hour or so have been unsuccessful. Isaac just ignores me, staring at the trees rushing past. He still has an air of creepiness about him, but I can't afford to be scared. I need to know what he's capable of.
I tap my fingers on my thigh, trying to think of something I haven't already tried. I've run all out of icebreakers, and I'm already scraping the bottom of the barrel.
"So...did your parents give you any token? To remind you of home?" I ask. Isaac doesn't even acknowledge that he heard me. But, without saying anything, he pulls out a little locket from inside his shirt and lets it hang outside. It's not a particularly beautiful piece of jewellery, but I'm sure there's a story behind it.
I'm just about to ask Isaac about it when the door to the carriage swings open. A middle-aged man enters, seated on a wheelchair. He appears to be in his late forties and has a receding hairline, dark skin, and a missing right leg. He looks at Isaac and me, beckoning us to the dining table.
I take a seat opposite him. Isaac sits two chairs away from me. The man in the wheelchair clears his throat, taking off his glasses to clean them.
"My name is Elon Wright. I am your mentor for the 47th annual Hunger Games," he says in a satirically formal tone. He laughs dryly, lifting his gaze to meet mine. His disdain at all of this is easy to see. But there's something more in there, something other than the standard hatred towards the Capitol that all past victors share. He's not depressed, he's in despair. Over something recent, by the looks of it. But I can't seem to remember when his games happened. Before I can ask, Isaac speaks up.
"Never heard of you. What happened to the other mentor, victor Amara?" Isaac asks. Elon stares at him, momentarily taken aback, but his expression returns to its neutral state quickly.
"She's dead. Overdosed on her sleeping medicine. Besides, it should interest you to know that I've been a district Five mentor for the past five years," he says.
Isaac narrows his eyes. And then I remember. He was really there, just as a support to the other mentor, a woman named Amara Keeler. He never actually did anything, always keeping to himself. That's why nobody remembers him. His games happened a few years before I was even born. He's one of those boring victors who just faded away, forgotten by everyone. Exactly how father intends me to be after I win. ...If I win.
I'm about to convey the information to Isaac when I realize that I'm not supposed to know that. I'm not Aurelia Snow, who's been to every victory celebration party since her birth. I'm Lise Curie, a poor girl from district Five who's never left her house. So I keep my mouth shut.
Elon observes Isaac and me, his thoughts unreadable. Isaac picks up a knife from the table, twirling it in his hand. He seems to be very comfortable with it.
"So what's our plan? How do you suggest I win?" he asks. Elon frowns, put off by Isaac's tone.
"Don't do anything stupid. That's the best advice I can give you both. And more importantly, try to make some friends, get the crowd's attention," he says. I nod in agreement. I should know better than anyone how important it is to make an impression on sponsors.
Unfortunately, if I'm to play along to father's plan, I can't make an impression.
"Isn't there any way to win without a sponsor's help?" I ask.
Elon places his elbows on the table with a sigh. "It's not just about sponsors, Lise. Even the Gamemakers keep track of public favour. Crowd favourites generally stand the highest chance of winning," he explains. "...but that doesn't mean you absolutely cannot win without outside help. It's just very, very hard."
I press my lips together disappointedly. Isaac begins shuffling the knife between his two hands, the sunlight diffracting off the polished blade. It's an awfully familiar sight. Isaac catches me staring, and thrusts the knife towards me, pretending to take a stab at my face. I flinch, causing him to snicker.
"Any other advice you'd like to share, or was that it?" he asks, turning back to our mentor. Elon narrows his gaze.
"Sometimes some district partners elect to present themselves as close friends - or lovers - to garner more sympathy. That's worked fairly well before," Elon suggests. I glance at Isaac, with the knife in his hand and that murderous glint in his eyes.
No thank you.
"I'd rather not..." I say, but trail off at Isaac's glare. He looks furious, as if Elon just insulted his very existence.
"You want me to ally with her? She's an idiot! She's about as useful an ally as a piece of wet cardboard!" he bursts, jabbing a finger in my face. I involuntarily gasp at his rudeness. That was completely uncalled for. How dare he!
"You don't even know me, Isaac, how could you say that?" I ask, trying not to look upset.
Elon's frown just deepens. "Calm down, son, it was just a suggestion," he says.
Isaac slams the knife down onto the table, pushing his chair out in anger. "Yeah, well you can stick your suggestions up your ***!" he yells, storming off.
What a jerk.
Elon just shakes his head tiredly, watching as Isaac slams the door shut. "that kid'd better lose the temper before training day," he mutters. He turns to me, staring at me with his unreadable expression. I squirm uncomfortably, but put on a polite smile.
"Erm... is there anything else you'd-"
I'm cut off by the loud, guttural laugh of our ever-graceful district escort, Valeria Richmond. She staggers into the room, a near-empty bottle of wine clutched tightly in her left hand. She plops down onto a chair next to Elon. The stench of alcohol coming off of her is overwhelming.
"Lise Lise, Isaac Lise!" She says with utter conviction, leaving me to wonder what the world must look like when so heavily inebriated. I've never had so much as a sip of alcohol thanks to my father. He threatened to ground me if I was ever caught drinking.
Valeria's gaze falls on me, and her eyes widen comically. She points a finger at me, beckoning Elon to do the same.
"Lise look just like 'Relia! 'Relia Snow, purzident's kiddie!" she exclaims, nodding enthusiastically. I straighten up in surprise, but quickly throw on a mask of modesty before my shock can make itself apparent. How did she recognize me?
"I-I do?" I ask, smiling nervously. A grin plays onto Elon's features, like he's only now seeing the similarities. But he looks more amused than suspicious, thank goodness.
Still, I hurriedly excuse myself from the table and dash straight to my room. I didn't expect my disguise to last forever, but I'd hoped that it would at least work until the actual games began. I'm going to have to be more careful once we reach the Capitol. People know me there.
I sit down at the edge of the soft bed, facing the window. The rolling hills outside have a mesmerizing effect, keeping my mind off what just happened. I look at my reflection on the glass, running a hand through my unkempt hair. I tug at the coarse fabric of the clothes I'm wearing, longing for my old wardrobe at home.
As I fiddle with the loose trousers, something rustles in my right pocket. I suddenly remember my meeting with that mysterious man and his mysterious 'gift'. I stick my hand inside the deep pocket, and my fingers come into contact with an envelope. I bring it out and hold it up in the sunlight. There's a strange seal on it, an emblem I don't recognize.
I scan the envelope for any kind of hint as to what's inside. For all I know, this could be a bomb. The man was a rebel, after all...
But my curiosity overcomes my trepidation, and I break open the strange seal. I'm instantly greeted by the smell of something burning. I drop the thing and dive behind the bed, covering my eyes and ears. But no explosion happens. The envelope falls harmlessly to the floor, a single sheet of paper slipping out of it.
I pick up the paper, my hands still shaky from the false alarm.
There's something written on it, but the bottom half of the letter is burnt to a crisp. I hold the paper with both hands to lessen the trembling, looking closely to read the messy handwriting.
'Whether or not the games continue past the five-day mark, the operation is to proceed as planned. Resistance will be minimal, victory shall be swift. As for the tributes, if any are still alive by that point, send-...'
The rest is burned off.
I was only slightly confused before, but now I'm utterly lost. I flip the letter over, hoping for an explanation. But instead, I find myself looking at... er, it's a...
Okay, I don't know what I'm looking at. It's a drawing, a hasty sketch of...something. A large circle, with lots of strange markings and squiggles scattered around inside it. On the upper right hand corner of the paper, outside the circle, is a key that explains all those markings. The zigzag lines around the edges of the drawing are mountains. The diagonal lines are cliff sides. The shaded parts are ponds. The circles are traps...
Wait a minute.
I know what this is. It's not a drawing, it's a map.
This is a map of the arena.
That little third-person section was just to break the flow a little, to add some more development, and to establish the fact that Aurelia isn't safe from death just because she's the narrator. I will gladly have her slaughtered if that's what the story requires :)
Oh, also, our 'mysterious rebel man' now has a name! Bonus points to you if you know what 'Ichor' means.