CHAPTER SEVEN: Atoka Menzies
Back in 10, we used to call them the Glitterati because of how they sparkle and shine in the midst of a mostly dark room. They also seem to be on top of the latest fashion... if I may be so bold as to call this "fashion". My make-up team has changed their styles more times than I can count, but it never seems to phase them like it does me. Obviously they are not Glitterati! I'm such old news now. The folks surrounding me in the banquet hall, however, represent the wealthiest folks in the whole country of Panem. If someone went mad and came in here and shot them all, Panem would crumble.
Of course, that's just hypothetical: no one in the Capitol would ever think of doing that! It's just so... messy. And it's horrific. Capitol folks can't handle messy and horrific, which is ironic because the Hunger Games they enjoy so much are both messy AND horrific, and yet for them they are just an entertainment spectacle. I wonder what Snow would do if someone did barge in here and let loose with gunfire. Who would run Panem?
I have to immerse myself with these Glitterati who are gorging themselves with champagne and wine coolers, small squares of cheesecake and fondu fountains with cheeses and chocolates. Its all too lavish for me. I prefer the solitude of the prairie where, how did the old song go? "Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. And the waving wheat can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain." And yet... here I am, not there. I spot a few of the fancier gents and make my way over to them, testing to see if I, the woman, can shake up them, the men, by my mere existence in proximity to them. I flash a winning smile and flirtatiously steal a champagne glass from the young man who is closest to me. "Good evening, boys," I begin in a sensually smoky voice. "Happy Hunger Games." I wink at the young man - my victim - and then say only to him, "And may the odds be ever in OUR favor." He chuckles: I've trapped him. I envision taking a cord from around my dress, circling him while taunting him with sweet, sexy words, then when I'm behind him and breathing on the weak spot on his neck, I take the cord and ruthlessly throttle him until he's sputtering and choking on the floor. One down, twenty-two to go. Obviously, these Games are different: killing them isn't the point.
"Atoka Menzies." He reads my nametag. "Victor, 7th Hunger Games." He looks at me, questioningly. "But you're still so young." I smile.
"I could be younger. As you might have heard, we reap at age 11. I could be only 23 years old, not..." I smile flirtatiously again. "No. I want you to guess my age." A single eyebrow lift draws him in. The other gents are captivated too.
"Uh... 30." He tries. I pout slightly.
"Baby, don't age me so fast!" They laugh. He tries again.
"Okay, ... umm... 25." I gasp dramatically, giggle and then say, "Nope. Try harder." The last word is exhilarating for him. I know why. He grins foolishly. "27?" He's right. I wag a finger and get very close. "A lady never tells." The other gents laugh in spite of themselves. I get down to business.
"My Tributes are from District 10. It is quite a tragedy, if you'll remember, that they are a brother and sister pairing. I look at Seeder, my male Tribute, and I see a boy who doesn't look like much. But I know, underneath, he's a scrappy fighter who can kill you sooner that he looks at you. Now Seeder's not a very strong kid, and he's likely not going to go down in the bloodbath, but he needs help going forward in the Hunger Games." They're not all convinced. "I can see Seeder making it a few good days before he has to kill again." They perk up at the suggestion he would kill a first time, and I let them have it. "Who knows what the arena will be? Who knows what he might need along the way? What I know is that the Capitol and Panem love a good story, and Seeder is a good story. And I know you know that too. Pledge to support him. He won't disappoint you. And when he wins, with your support, just imagine how you'll bask in his glory!"
The man considers it (and me) with eyes that sparkle like the deep ocean. His gaze begins to get uncomfortable. I think about taking his head in my hands, stroking his cheek and then strangling him, and maybe I get a little too close because he chuckles and grabs my shoulders firmly, steadying me. "Whoa. Are you okay, Miss Menzies? Drink too quick?" I flash a winner's smile and play dumb. "Oh gosh! I am so sorry!" I giggle. "You got me. I guess someone should cut me off!" He grins.
"Consider yourself cut off." He hands my champagne glass away as an Avox passes by. When he faces me again, I study his face earnestly. He has a sharp chin and wears glasses. No one wears glasses in the Capitol unless they are making a new fashion statement, and he's not because, shockingly, he looks incredibly ordinary. He had short-cropped black hair and bushy black eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth curl up slightly. He looks young, and he is definitely new money. "So," he continues matter-of-factly. "Tell me more about how my pledge of support for this Seeder kid is going to make me famous and rich when he wins." I've got to admit, I'm a little enthralled with him. He's speaking only to me, clearly: he's lowered his voice to a little louder than a purr.
"When Seeder wins," I say. "You'll be a part of the victory. You'll be a major name among everyone who is anyone in the Hunger Games." He's grinning wide.
"Well, don't stop! Go on." I didn't realize I'd stopped until he said so. Now I flip through my arguments on how he will be the most important man in all of Panem when he supports Seeder to his win. I have an idea that achieves two purposes simultaneously.
"What's your name," I ask. He begins to tell me but I put a finger to his lips and slowly shake my head, making a shhh sound. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I promise you that when Seeder wins with your support, no one will ever have to ask you who you are. They'll know your name by your very presence." I'm whispering only to him. "You'll be invited to every big party and all 'it' social events. Because sponsors who support Victors are like Victors by proxy. And you, whoever you are, will be among them." He grinned again. "So when the Victor wins, I win." I grin, getting dangerously close to him. "Exactly."
"I have to say," he says, "you make some very compelling arguments for your Tributes. But..." Oh shit. "I need to think about it and see how they perform today." I nod, my heart sinking. I move away from him. He is still gripping my shoulders so I let myself move far enough away from him so that he knows that I can leave without his leave. I get to an arm's length away and when I pull him, lightly, he takes a step toward me, away from the room. I've felt threatened before – for my life – many times, but this feeling is different. My heart is racing and I want to imagine many creative ways to kill him, but I can't steer my head in that direction, not this time. "Where are you going?" He asks through a smile.
"To find someone who wants to be a Victor." To find someone who is going to keep my Tributes alive.
President Snow has tapped his glass, signaling the assembly to be silent. I've made as many pitches as I think I can and no one has bit what I've been dangling. The last gent I pitched to decided he would have a better chance declining or accepting based on what I could offer him. At this point, I'm so desperate to have one sponsor that I've made an arrangement with him. I am not pleased that this is the depth I'm steeping to for a chance to win support for Flaxie and Seeder. What more could I have done? That's what I'm asking myself as President Snow steps up and begins addressing us. He's proud to have us all assembled here and hopes that these will be the best Games in 20 years. I'm sure they'll be the most memorable. Then, President Snow begins his real speech.
"The 19th Annual Hunger Games will mark the end of the second decade of gamesmaking, and for this year's Hunger Games, we honor the eighteen Victors living among us and the nineteen years of entertainment they have provided for us. This year, we offer a unique arena that has to be seen to be believed. For those who suffered when the rebels stormed through the mountains and into our streets almost twenty years ago, for those who watched their loved ones cower in fear as doors were being kicked down and their family members were being dragged into the streets and shot or worse, for those who had no choice and no voice in the ruthless slaughtering of our people – these memories are what have built this arena. These sorrows have filled its interior. These stolen goodbyes have motivated our gamesmakers to create a Hunger Games that will free the silenced voices of our people in this mighty, this great Capitol between the mountains, so that we may all shout out, 'Oh horn of plenty for us all, when we raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we shall never falter, and we shall never fall'!" The words lead the room to an eruption of applause from everyone, except for me. What about the voices that have been silenced from the Districts? What about Seeder's and Flaxie's voices, should they falter and fall in a few minutes' time? It's over very quickly though, and when the room returns to attentive, President Snow smiles one of his sickening smiles and opens his arms wide as if to hug the room. "Happy Hunger Games. And, as they used to say, let the Games begin." The lighting around the room dims dramatically and behind the podium from which President Snow – now seated – delivered his "moving" address, a screen slides forward while the curtain is drawn – always a show – and the glow from the screen makes some of us blink. It's a countdown by the seconds starting at nineteen. The face of a Victor flashes on each half-second count. It thrills the rest of the assembly, except for those who are Victors. At the 6.5 second count, my face flashes upon the screen, and I wince. I looked so regal back then, even though I was younger and more desperate for the sort of life I have now. The seconds tick down to zero and the screen goes black. Slowly, the words "The Hunger Games" materialize on the screen.
The cameras make a rough transition to the Cornucopia. It is a chic black and smoky grey, and dust gathers at the foot of the horn. There is nothing in the horn, which intrigues the room. It makes me wary. The camera zooms out slowly and around the horn is what looks like the ruins of a city square. My eyes grow big as I realize that this year, this arena, we will be watching an elaborate and deadly game of hide-and-seek. The camera continues to zoom out, showing the arena beyond its ruined city square. Around the square are rows of cement-built apartment blocks. Some are burnt out, others are in desperate need of repair, but on the ground level of each is a shop of some sort. There are six streets leading from the city into the square, and as the camera continues to pan out, we see that each of the side streets leads down a narrow alley to small plazas where four Tributes each are poised on their explosive pods, waiting for their countdown to expire. They're all facing each other. The assembly gasps excitedly at the entire stage these Games are set on. I feel a hand on my back and I turn sharply. It's my unknown victim. He looks at me gravely serious and leans in close to whisper in my ear. "Okay."
