Nezumi watched through unseeing eyes as the scenery outside the window streamed. He felt drained, and they had only just pulled out of the station.
He could hear Rico and Kal begin to stir across the carriage. They had boarded as if in a dream, not quite believing that they were this year's unlucky ones. Rico's face was still streaked where the tears had made track lines in the dust on his cheeks. Nezumi couldn't blame him for crying, even if it put him at a disadvantage; it was really bad luck to be chosen as tribute your first year in the drawing.
Kal… They were a less of a surprise. Kal had taken so much tesserae out, it was only a matter of time.
Still… Nezumi cast a glance sideways at Rico and Kal. Gran was already getting into the introductory spiel, Gregor interjecting occasional inanities while Rou watched stoically on. Nezumi turned back toward the window before they caught his eye and pulled him in. He would have to join the conversation eventually. It was his duty as a mentor to fake confidence in the new tributes, but Gran and Rou seemed to have it covered for the moment.
Seven months had passed since the Victory Tour, but it felt like he had never left the Capitol. Unlike the Victor's Banquet, the Victory Tour party at Fox's went by in a blur, and without incident.
Perhaps because Shion had not been there.
At first Nezumi thought that it was because sponsors were only invited post-Game, but he noticed a few familiar faces from the Victory Banquet. After socializing a bit, though, he discovered that these were very rich men and women, and they were invited to every party, regardless of purpose.
He should have suspected that he and Shion might never meet again. If Shion hadn't sought him out that night, they probably wouldn't have met in the first place. Nezumi didn't even think of him that often, at least not lately. In the first few weeks in 7 he had mulled over the Victory Banquet and the words he and Shion had exchanged many times. Mostly he regretted their carelessness, but every once in a while he would catch himself thinking that maybe some Capitol people were okay.
In the last few months, Shion intruded on his thoughts seldom, but now that the Capitol was a mere three hours away…
I wonder if he'll sponsor again this year.
Even as he thought it, he knew the chances were low. It was better for both their sakes if they never met again.
Nezumi sighed silently and turned away from the window.
"Nezumi," Rou said. "It's starting."
"Oh!" Gregor brightened and scrambled into the nearest chair to the television screen. "Come, come!" he called.
The rest of the compartment had started to arrange themselves in a semicircle for the Reaping replay, and Nezumi slumped into the seat next to Kal.
As per tradition, the coverage started in District 1 and went up through 12, and as per tradition, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 outshined the others. Nezumi watched in resigned silence as the announcers bulldozed through the pathetic offerings from 5 and 6 before finally getting to 7.
It was worse than Nezumi remembered. Kal looked devastated on the screen. They went stock still when their name boomed over the microphone, and only started moving when the girl next to them nudged their arm. Even though they tried to mask their fear afterward, their every twitch and shift radiated anxiety.
Next to him, Kal grimaced and groaned under their breath. Nezumi was inclined to agree with the sentiment. Not a promising introduction to District 7, and Rico continued the disappointment. He stood a full ten seconds after his name was called, looking about in dumb disbelief as the crowd parted around him. Gregor had to call his name twice more before he trundled to the stage. He started crying when Gregor called for applause.
"Uh oh, Cress," said the one announcer to the other. "District 7 isn't looking too good."
"Not good at all, I'm afraid," Cress rejoined. "Unless those kids are playing the long game, it doesn't look like District 7 will have another victor this year."
Nezumi scowled, and he wasn't alone. Nearly everyone in the compartment was frowning; even Gregor began to look miffed as the disparaging comments continued.
"We're screwed," Kal announced once the replay ended.
"I wouldn't say that," Rou said, though his expression was inscrutable.
"We looked like easy targets!" Kal jumped up and began pacing.
"I won't say you and Rico looked good, but that doesn't mean you don't have a chance," Gran said. "There were tributes who looked worse off. We just have to work out a good strategy." She turned to Rico and frowned.
Rico had discovered the table of food sometime during the Reaping and had tucked into a tureen of soup and half a basket of bread.
"Slow down," Gran said. "You're going to choke."
Rico smiled guiltily through a mouthful of bread and managed a muffled, "sorry." He swallowed with difficulty. "But the food is really good! We're allowed to eat as much as we want?"
"Of course!" Gregor said, plucking a grape from a platter and popping it into his mouth. "But I don't recommend eating too much at once. Save some for your fellow tribute and mentors." Gregor looked between Nezumi, Gran, and Rou and grinned. "I'm so glad I have a district where I can say that. 'Mentors.' Plural."
Nezumi rolled his eyes internally.
"Do you want some food, Kal?" Rico held out a piece of bread to them.
Kal snatched the bread from his hand, but continued to pace without eating it. "What kind of strategy?"
"We'll go over strategies tonight, but start with not looking intimidated in front of the camera," Gran said. "It seems simple, but it's important."
"A better attitude would help too," Nezumi added.
Kal glowered at him.
"I'm serious. Sullen and aggressive don't go over well in the Capitol."
Kal's glower wilted. "So, what? I have to be, like… peppy or something?"
Nezumi raised an eyebrow. "You can be peppy?"
"No! That's the point!" Kal threw themself into the nearest chair and tore a chunk out of the bread with their teeth.
"Look, Kal, all you have to do is pretend. It's not hard."
The hard part comes when you win and have to pretend forever, Nezumi appended bitterly. Kal didn't look convinced. They slumped further into their chair and picked at the bread until it resembled pillow stuffing. Nezumi crossed his arms.
"Or you can continue to whine about it and resign yourself to an agonizing, sponsorless death. It's your choice."
Kal looked up. "That's not funny, Nezumi." They tried to sound reproachful, but their face was a shade too pale for anger.
"That's right, it's not. This isn't a joke, Kal, but it is a game. And you don't win by throwing tantrums like a four year old."
The color in Kal's face rushed back in an instant. The look they gave him was pure acid.
Nezumi smirked back. Better.
"That's enough," Rou said. "We'll continue this conversation at dinner."
They arrived in the Capitol in the afternoon, and after fighting through the crowd on the platform, they were escorted to the District 7 floor of the Training Center. Four servants were waiting for them, dressed uniformly in gray tunics. They looked young, but Nezumi couldn't be sure because their features were largely obscured behind their kohl eye make up and the layer of white plaster over their mouths.
A shiver of pity crawled across Nezumi's skin. The Avox servants were another reason he hated the Capitol; only here was the threat of punishment literally at your beck and call.
Gregor frowned at the mute gray line of servants. "Where's the other one? I asked for a server per person."
The Avoxes exchanged a brief look and then directed their gazes to the floor.
"Well?" Gregor pressed.
"Does it matter? They can't answer you anyway." Nezumi managed to sound bored rather than pissed, but Gregor still had the decency to look embarrassed.
To cover his fluster, he demanded they all go to their rooms and wash up before dinner.
Nezumi claimed the first room he found and shut and locked the door behind him. The room was spacious and earth toned, with a king size bed planted against the far wall. A mirror hung above the headboard, which seemed to Nezumi in questionable taste. But then perhaps Capitol people enjoyed watching themselves entering their bedrooms. The thought actually made him feel dirty, so he went directly into the shower.
He didn't feel like dealing with his hair afterward, so he swooped it up into a messy bun and took a long look around the room again, pinpointing the most conspicuous areas. Nezumi started with the desk lamp.
Gotcha. Nezumi plucked a coin-sized transmitter from the underside of the lamp and dropped it on the notepad on the bedside table. The television was next. He couldn't find anything there, but he suspected there was a camera implant in or around it, even if he couldn't see it.
Once he was through with the full sweep of his room, he had found three bugs and no cameras.
"That will have to do," Nezumi muttered to himself, and relocated the listening devices to the far corner of his walk-in closet where they would safely record silence.
Two weeks. Nezumi plopped down on the bed. That was the minimum amount of time he could be in the Capitol, though the Games usually went longer than that. He thought it would feel weird to be back but not participating, but he just felt numb and tired.
Nezumi tried his best to take a nap before dinner, but sleep wouldn't come. He ended up staring at the ceiling, watching the light outside fade by increments until Gregor called him down to eat.
The spread was impressive, as usual. Nezumi had a sneaking suspicion that the menu was near identical to last year's. He scoured the table and found what he wanted: toasted hazelnut soup. Gregor had balanced the seating so that he and the tributes were on one side and the mentors on the other.
"There he is," Gregor chirped as Nezumi approached the table. "Sorry about the wait. The help was running a bit behind." He eyed the servants lining the wall with disapproval, and in response they tried to shrink further into the yellow wallpaper.
Nezumi took his place next to Rou, thankful that the mentors' seats faced away from the servers. He helped himself to a large portion of soup and a glass of cider.
Rico already had his plate piled high, and seemed intent on taking a bite of everything and finishing nothing. For a kid who was used to a handful of food a day—if he was lucky—his appetite was unsurprising, but Nezumi felt mildly impressed with his vigor. If the Hunger Games was a literal competition, then Rico would be a top contender.
Kal picked at their beet and goat cheese salad with a look of disgust. Nezumi watched them scrape every beet to the edge of the dish before they gave up and traded the plate for a lamb shank. A young female server swept in from the side of the room and cleared the abandoned plate from the table, quick and silent as a bird.
"Can we talk about our strategy now?" Kal said after enduring a few minutes of small talk.
Gran placed her silverware down. "Yes. As I'm sure you're both aware, you will need to make a strong impression on the Capitol, and most importantly sponsors. Every tribute has a selling point; we need to figure out what yours is.
"That will get you through the first week here, but what actually matters are the weeks in the arena. You can make a great first impression, but if you die, the sponsors can't help you. So, it comes to this: what are your skills?"
Kal and Rico stared blankly at Gran throughout her speech, looking more and more overwhelmed as she lectured on. When she posed her question, they shrunk in their chairs.
"Well?" Gran prompted.
"Um…" Rico started. "I can run pretty fast?"
Rou nodded. "That's good. Speed is an asset. What about you, Kal?"
Kal gnawed their lip. "I'm… good with dogs…"
Nezumi's heart sank in spite of itself, and Rou and Gran wore matching frowns. They all knew about Kal's affinity for the wild dogs roaming District 7. It wasn't often one saw Kal without a mangy dog or two in tow; it was so common a sight that they had earned the nickname, "Dogkeeper" among the townsfolk.
But being a dog person wouldn't help Kal win the Games; any animals in the arena were likely to be a food source, or worse, a mutt.
"I can climb too," Kal added in a rallying effort.
"Climbing is good," Gregor enthused. "You can just climb and hide until it's over."
"And if the arena is a desert?" Gran said flatly.
"Well…" Gregor pressed his lips together in defeat and signaled a server over to refill his wine glass.
"Some kind of combat skills would be good…" Rou said, trailing off with a vaguely hopeful look on his face.
Rico stared down at the potatoes on his plate and shook his head. He looked like he was about to cry.
"Look," Kal said, "I spent my whole life in the crappy slums of District 7, and I'm still alive. Doesn't that account for anything?"
"Count," Gregor said.
Kal turned to him. "What?"
"It's 'count' for anything, not 'account.' They're similar sounding, so I can understand—"
"Who cares!" Kal shrieked. "I survived fourteen years by myself, with no help from anyone else, so doesn't that freaking matter?"
"No, it doesn't," Nezumi said evenly. "While you were barely surviving, the Career districts were eating well and training. The moment you step into that arena you're at a disadvantage, so if you don't figure out a plan, you might as well lay down at their feet."
"That's just unfair," Gregor sniffed. "Everyone knows training's against the rules."
Nezumi shrugged. "But they get away with it." He turned back to Kal. "You could've been training too. You should have been practicing some sort of skills instead of wasting time with those mutts. With the amount of tesserae you take out in year, you must have suspected your time was limited."
Kal clenched their jaw. The table was quiet for long uncomfortable moment.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Kal said at last.
Nezumi shrugged again. "But I won the Games."
"Fine, like you said, I have no skills, and I can't beat the Careers," Kal ground out. "Then what the hell should I do?"
"I suggest hiding, like I did last year. You're pretty small, so you have a good chance of going unnoticed—but that's assuming that the arena has places to hide. If it doesn't… Well, I'm sure you can use your hard earned survival skills to figure it out."
"Fine! I'll hide! That's my strategy," Kal spat at Gran. "Happy?"
Gran pursed her lips. "That will do for now."
Nezumi smirked and downed his cider. He raised a hand to call for a refill, and a moment later a server appeared at his elbow in a rustle of gray fabric. Nezumi shifted to allow them easier access to his glass and caught a glimpse of white in the corner of his eye.
Shion?
Nezumi did a double take. It was Shion. The same white hair, pink tattoo, and dark eyes, outlined thickly with kohl at the moment.
Nezumi inhaled sharply. No.
Shion's eyes widened with warning when they met Nezumi's. He shook his head slightly and filled the cider glass as quickly as he could manage with his shaking hands. Nezumi turned away and forced himself to be still, to not follow Shion's retreat to the edge of the room to stand with the other servers. The other Avoxes.
The soup in front of him looked turbid and the scent coated his throat in a film of sickly sweetness. He forced a spoonful down to wash the taste of bile from his tongue.
"Are you listening?" a voice snarled from across the table.
Nezumi looked up. Through his swimming vision he saw Kal sneering at him.
"You're not listening!" Kal confirmed. "For fuck's sake, Nezumi! Can you at least pretend to give a shit?"
"Enough with the language," Gregor huffed. "No one likes a lady with a potty mouth."
"For the hundredth time," Kal growled through their teeth, "I'm not a lady."
Nezumi's head pounded. He needed to get out of here.
I need to talk to Shion.
Nezumi snatched his cider and chugged it. He set the glass down at the edge of the table and waited. Shion slunk back to his side. Nezumi waited until the glass was mostly full and then tugged on the corner of the tablecloth.
The room froze in horror as the glass spilled into Nezumi's lap.
Gregor shot to his feet. "What are you doing!" he barked at Shion. "Clean that up this instant!"
Shion cringed and looked ready to run for a cloth, but Nezumi stopped him with a word.
"No." Nezumi rose and locked eyes with him. "Come with me. Now."
Nezumi didn't look back, but he knew Shion trailed him out of the room. He could feel the silence pressing down on them as they traveled down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. The click of the door shutting behind them sounded thunderous to his ears.
Nezumi walked to the center of the room and stood facing his bed, unable to turn around. But he could see Shion reflected in the mirror over the headboard. Nezumi drew in a breath and faced him. Shion's head was bowed, his gaze obediently directed to the floor. Nezumi swallowed.
"…Shion?" His voice came out as a dry whisper.
Shion lifted his head and the air stole from the room. A pale, restless wraith stood before Nezumi, half shrouded in shadow. His eyes were two black smudges against a washed out canvas. With his mouth painted over and blended into his face, Shion looked like a tragic imitation of a human.
Regret pressed heavily against Nezumi's chest, but he forced himself to stare until his breathing evened out.
He turned away and walked briskly around the room, rechecking the lamps, the television, the speakers. He dragged the side table away from the armchair and stood on it to check the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. He found no cameras or listening devices, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
Shion's brows were furrowed in confusion when Nezumi motioned him to come closer. He grabbed the pen and paper from the bedside table, scribbled on it, and held it out to Shion. The make up was less ghastly up close, and the churning in Nezumi's stomach was ebbing away to anger.
Shion stared at the paper longer than it took to read the one word on the pad: When?
Even without a mouth, Shion's expression was plain in the pinched corners of his eyes. He assessed Nezumi, but Nezumi's hard look insisted. Amazingly, Nezumi thought he heard Shion sigh through his nose as he wrote his reply in cramped, slanted script.
The day after the banquet.
Nezumi felt sick as he read the words. He knew. The moment their eyes met in the dining room, Nezumi had known. They had been too reckless that night. The man that interrupted had heard and reported them. Or there were cameras and microphones hiding in bathroom. Of course there were, there was surveillance everywhere. They knew that—why did Shion say those things? And why didn't Nezumi stop him?
Shion wrote again. It's not your fault.
Nezumi wanted to slap the paper from his hands. "It doesn't matter if it was my fault," he hissed through his teeth.
He left Shion and walked to the center of the room. Shion shouldn't have been stupid enough to say the things he did, and Nezumi should have stopped him, or shouldn't have baited him in their first encounter, but that wasn't what mattered. Fox had punished Shion and assigned him to 7 so Nezumi would see. So he could keep him in line.
Nezumi had no family or friends his enemies could use against him, but Fox's message said that wouldn't stop him from making examples of anyone he came in contact with, no matter how close they were. Maybe he couldn't touch Rou or Gran because they were victors, but everyone else, even near strangers, were fair game.
Something brushed his sleeve and Nezumi whirled around. Shion took a step back and held up the paper again. Nothing new was written on it, but one word had been traced over and underlined.
It's not your fault.
Nezumi leered at Shion. An air of defiance shined in his eyes, even under all the makeup. Nezumi snatched the pad back and tore up the marked page.
"Get out."
Shion flinched, and Nezumi had to turn away. He waited to hear the soft click of the door before he sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands.