Chapter 8.
I don't see Mareen and Kev—or anyone else for that matter—the next day. I stay up in my room despite Janus arriving around noon and vainly demanding that I join the group. Even the Avoxes stay away. By the next day, though, claustrophobia sets in and drives me to the rooftop garden, where I lean up against the railing edge, staring straight down the drop. I feel that strange tingling at the soles of my feet that I always get when I'm up too high; it's as if my body is torn between anchoring itself to the ground or taking the leap.
Go on, some small voice in my head whispers. The drama might even help Mareen and Kev. Get them sympathy. More sponsors. They say you don't feel anything from this height. That you'd already be unconscious before you hit the ground.
"It's got a force field you know. Anyone who tries to jump will just be flung back onto the roof."
I spin and see Bren joining me, the sound of his footsteps covered by the sound of the wind blowing everywhere up here and the noise of the city below. I deliberately turn away from him, stare out at the buildings, their brilliant colored glass swirls and strange, fluted architecture.
He stands next to me, leans his elbows on the railing. I think about leaving, but decide not to give him the satisfaction of driving me away.
"Are you still angry?" he asks idly. I don't answer. Bren Nellon and his plans, his pity, and his help can go to hell for all I care.
"You know . . ." he says quietly, "With this wind, their microphones have a hard time picking up on what we're saying. You might as well get things off your chest."
I still don't answer. Bren's one of the few people who's more stubborn than I am, but I figure if I don't say anything, he'll eventually have to go away.
"Look, Liv, I know you probably hate me for what I said last night. About you dying. But I was just saying what you and I both know. If you hadn't lived, if I'd let you go in there like you'd wanted, Mareen and Kev wouldn't be—"
"How long was it?" I'm still not looking at him, but I can't let him say it. That they wouldn't be here if I was dead. Easier to talk about something else, anything else. "How long did you know that Mareen's entire plan consists of them getting slaughtered? And don't play innocent, Bren. You knew."
"I knew." Bren's voice is easy, almost casual. "Just like I knew your plan was never to join with the Careers."
"What?" I lose control for the briefest second and our gazes meet, lock. I jerk away, as if burned, and he answers.
"I survived off of reading people in my arena, Liv. And I'd seen you around the district before you were reaped. There was no way that sweet-natured girl was as tough as you pretended. But I didn't stop you. I figured that if that was what you wanted, the most I could do was help you."
"But you didn't," I hiss. "You ended up keeping me alive anyway. When I wanted to die, when I was ready to die, you chose to make me keep going."
"And I've regretted it ever since. Liv . . . ." I can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, the way he always does when he's frustrated. "You were ready to die and I didn't respect that. And you and I both know that that was the wrong choice. Now you want me to do the same for your siblings? Make them live even if it breaks them as badly as it did you? Maybe they should live out their lives threatened by Catiline, doing whatever he wants, like I am? Or watch the people they love die, like you? Is that what you want?"
What can I say to that? There's an answer. I know there's some sort of answer, but I can't seem to find it. Bren watches as I open my mouth, then shut it when I can't figure out anything to say.
"You don't have to agree with my choice," he finally says. "But your siblings are going to their interviews tonight, then the arena tomorrow. And if you haven't made your peace with them before they die . . ."
I flinch.
"They're getting ready for the interviews now. But tonight, afterwards, go see them. Especially Mareen. She needs you right now."
"She hates me." I hate the way my voice cracks on the words.
"Nah, she doesn't. Oh, she'll pretend, in the interviews. She and Kev have come too far on that road to backtrack. And she might even believe it herself. But she doesn't really."
"It's not fake," I mutter. "I'm not stupid, I can see it. And Mareen can't act, not well enough to fool me."
"Look." Bren drops all pretense of casualness, his voice deepening as he looks me straight in the eye. "Put yourself in her shoes for a minute. She's woken up to your screams for the past two months, lost most of her innocence watching those Games, and your dad after that. Now she's being put in the arena, and she's already seen that surviving might not be better than the alternative. And you, the big sister she always looked up to, can't do anything to help her."
"So she blames me." That's deserved, I suppose. Doesn't make it any easier, though.
"She's scared, Liv. Mareen's so terrified of making your mistakes that she's trying to drive you away. And the worst part is, it's working! You've been through this, you're probably the only one who can reach her right now, give her the strength to win, and instead you're letting her lock you out. You want to help her? Go to those interviews, look her in the eye, and decide that, no matter what she says, you're still on her side."
He heads for the door downstairs, then turns back and looks at me. "Coming?"
Damn him. He's playing me perfectly, but he's also right. I'm being childish staying up here. I nod and follow.
We rejoin the rest of the group on the elevator. Petronius, Arius, and Janus are all staring at me, and Mareen and Kev are so forcefully not looking at me that it's almost as obvious as the stares.
They both look stunning. Kev's in a dark green suit with leaves faintly etched into the cloth, while Mareen's flowing red dress, the color of fall, has gold oak leaf clasps connecting the thick straps to the bodice. Petronius and Arius are practically bouncing up and down with excitement whenever they glance at them and I can't blame them. I swallow.
"You look great," I say honestly once the door closes and the elevator starts to go down. There are so many other things I want to say, but before I can figure out whether I'm going to shout or beg forgiveness or what, the doors open and we're at the stage in front of the Training Building again. I rock back on my heels and struggle against the déjà vu. The last time I was up here it was me going to sit in those seats, me on performance, me who turned into the monster . . . .
The stylists peel off for their own spot on one side and Mareen and Kev are sent to line up with the other tributes, but Janus, the other victors, and I are led to the right wing of the stage. From this angle, I'll be looking at the backs of my siblings, Caesar's face. I risk a glance at the gigantic screens set up for the far away crowd and see that I'm on camera, expression as arrogant as ever. The sleek, long sleeved black dress Petronius left outside my door this morning helps; I somehow look even more aloof than usual, as if I've been covered with shadow. I'm reminded of my district's fairy tales of evil women who haunt the woods. The ones who murdered their oh-so-innocent little step-children and are said to be condemned to wander the forests as demons.
We take our seats, and to my great relief the camera drifts away to the District 4 mentors entering in with their twittering teams of stylists that seem to feed on the attention. I stare straight ahead, blocking out the noise of the crowd, the way Bren is watching me, the sidelong glances the others throw my way. In fact, I somehow manage to keep myself from thinking altogether.
A loud roar jerks me back to awareness. I look up and see Caesar strut on stage, his horribly pasty face even paler in the bright lights, his green hair garish. He waves at the crowd, makes a few jokes, then turns to the District 1 girl. I try to remember what I know about her. Eight in training. Strong, but not overly muscular; I'm guessing her strategy relies more on speed or skill than strength. She does a good job of playing the audience, confident and tough, but the impression I get is an overall standard Career.
The District 1 boy is next, the one who got a ten. His angle doesn't seem to be anything that new; brutish and strong. It plays well with the audience though.
And so it goes. Both from District 2 do well, although the girl is clearly less of a crowd pleaser because of her lower training score. District 3, as always, goes for sly and brainy. Four's girl, the one who earned herself a ten, is a piece of work. If I had to guess, I'd say she's going to be the one who ends up leading the pack if there is one this year. Five and Six don't leave much of an impression, to be honest, although District 6's boy looks hauntingly like the one from my Games.
Seven, female. Mareen steps up, head held high. I hear the crowd murmur with interest.
I'm on her side, I try to remember, I want her to survive, I can't hold this against her, whatever it is.
"Mareen Caldwell!" Caesar sounds genuinely excited as she shakes his hand, his green lips stretching back to reveal pure white teeth. "I have to say, I'm getting all sorts of flashbacks here. You and your sister look so much alike!"
My sister's smile somehow combines flirtatious with tough. "We may look like each other, Caesar, but we're not the same. Not at all."
"Do I sense a little bit of sibling rivalry?" Caesar turns his grin on the crowd. "Well, we don't want her stealing all the glory, now do we? What would you say sets the two of you apart?"
"Our priorities." No hesitation.
"How so?"
"Liv's smart, and she knows how to take care of herself. But she's always got to be in control, always works alone, and doesn't listen to others."
Caesar cocks his head, and his voice sounds genuinely puzzled now. He's not being the interviewer, his question is honest curiosity. "Isn't that a good thing in the Games? To look out for yourself?"
"If your priority is to survive, Caesar. But I'm here for Kev, and I will get him out alive. No matter what."
She pauses, waits as the crowd cheers. They love it when the tributes are like this. Strong, selfless, brave. They love watching them break or die. "Liv can't prioritize like that. Can't put others first."
"Hang on, Mareen! I'm coming."
I stare up at the tree where my sister's clinging. I hate heights. But she needs me up there, needs someone to get her down. There's no time to run for help from the grown-ups. I swing myself onto the branch and start to climb.
Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down. The bark is rough on my hands; I scrape my knee so badly I feel blood start to drip through the knee of my pants. Can't stop, I'm barely halfway there, I need to get to—
"Livy! Livy, watch out! There's a blood—"
Movement. I jerk back, lose my grip. A bloodmouth buries itself right where my hand was, but I don't care because I'm falling, crashing through branches and leaves, grasping, shrieking, need to—WHAM!
My stomach folds over a limb, my breath whooshes out. I choke, try to balance. Mareen. Mareen, at the top of the tree. With bloodmouths. Move.
My legs scrabble, and I somehow claw my way back onto the branch. I catch another with both hands and manage to swing myself to the top of it. Got to get my sister.
I work steadily, ignore the bark tearing through my palms, the bloody smears dotting my shirt where I've been poked by branches. Mareen's sobbing, and I want to cry too. I've seen bodies of people who fell from trees. Daddy showed them to me when he started teaching me about surgeries. I can't let that happen to Mareen, but I don't want it to be me either. And a bloodmouth . . .
The branches are starting to thin out. One bends and snaps under my hand, and I barely keep from falling again. The trunk of the tree branches into the crown, I'm holding on with only my legs, and suddenly my hand's on Mareen's shirt. I'm only eight, but she's much smaller than me, and the moment I touch her, she's clinging to me like a baby animal to it'smom. I nearly lose my balance, but I can't let her go. She's my sister. I'll get her down somehow.
I feel more shocked than if she'd punched me in the gut. My inward composure, the need to hold on, to support her and stay strong, shatter like a falling icicle. Can't put others first.
How can she think that? No matter what she saw during the Games, how can Mareen think that that's me? That I could completely change from that girl who saved her life to a monster just because I was put in the Games?
Only, she's right. I did.
Mareen saunters back to her seat, and Kev goes up.
"And little Kev! Thirteen, but already getting a seven on your training?"
Kev gives a self-deprecating smile. "Apparently your standards have gone down lately, Caesar. I thought for sure I'd be the first person to get a one."
"Oh, now I'm sure that's not the case!" Caesar smiles at him winningly. "Why, with Mareen around to protect you and your own impressive scores, you seem guaranteed to win! So, Kev, tell me: where do you weigh in on this great sister-sister debate? Has Mareen been helping?"
"Very much. But I think she's going to be the one to make it out alive, at least if I have my way. I'm not going to let my sister get hurt."
Caesar sighs, and I can practically see the Capitol crowd melting. Unlike Mareen, who merely looks like a protective, fierce big sister, Kev's small, pointed face, his stubborn jaw, his thin, bony height somehow seem endearing and strong all at once.
"There's nothing quite like family loyalty," Caesar sighs. "What about your other sister? Liv?"
I feel sick dread pool in my stomach. I somehow know exactly what Kev's going to say about me, the one thing that's utter truth and a complete lie.
"Well, technically she's not my sister."
"We can't just leave him, Daddy!"
"Livy, you can't save everyone. If you're ever going to be a doctor here, you need to learn that."
"But Daddy, he's all alone! His mom's dead, and now he's going to starve if he doesn't get someone to look after him."
"He won't be on the streets, Livy. We'll put him in one of the community homes. Their job is to take care of kids like him—he'll be fine."
But I've seen the kids in the community homes. Daddy has too. He's taken care of some of them, the broken ribs and bruised faces from fights, the constant starvation in the smallest ones because all the big kids take their food. They can't help it. They're starving too. I feel tears spilling over my eyes as I look at the five year old playing with his set of old wooden blocks. He doesn't even know his mom's dead, and now he's going to be hurt or maybe even killed there because he's so tiny.
"Why can't we take him home with us?"
"Livy, he isn't a puppy. You can'tjust adopt him."
"No, he's more important! Daddy, he's just a kid, he's going to die if we don't take care of him! And Mommy always said she wanted to have a boy before she—she—"
Daddy's face goes sad, the way it always does when he thinks of Mom and how his medicines didn't work. He watches the little boy.
"Livy, we just don't have enough space at home, enough food. Most of our patients can't pay, and I have enough trouble taking care of you and Mareen—"
"Then put me there instead! I'm already ten, I can protect myself. He needs someone to take care of him, Daddy."
Daddy stares at me, and I try not to cry. "His name's Kev! I watched him once in school when his mom was too sick to come take him home! And he got scared and I said I'd take care of him. I said—I said—" I start sobbing.
Daddy gives a very big sigh.
I'm too stunned to really listen to the rest of Kev's interview. All I can see is that five year old. The stained wooden blocks. Taking him home that night, and how hungry he was because his mom hadn't been able to feed him properly for over a year. How he followed me around for weeks. My brother.
The crowd roars again as he turns and sits down, and I know that I'm on every TV screen in Panem. But I'm not their hero victor now, I'm the same villain he sees.
With my mind so confused, I automatically switch into survival mode. My senses sharpen, and I'm listening to every word of the interviews carefully, cataloguing, sorting, judging. Eight's girl. Sweet and shy. Strange angle for an eighteen year old, but she plays it so well I wonder if it's genuine. Eight's boy, independent, but not as tough as he tries to pretend. Nine's girl is a disaster but the boy is a crowd pleaser, with that strange, lilting accent some of his district has and a sense of humor that even has the District 7 mentors chuckling. Except me. Ten's girl speaks very slowly, as if afraid of misspeaking, and she stares past Caesar like she sees more than what's in front of her. I can't decide if she's making a good impression or not. The boy acts far more cocky than his training score of five deserves. Eleven's are obviously malnourished. Twelve's girl is as pathetic as most from her district, squeaking her answers, but the boy . . . he's a charmer. He has this direct, sincere tone of voice, and an expressive, honest face that makes it work well. He's clearly a crowd pleaser too, and that combined with a training score that's higher than most of the Careers . . . .
I manage to keep myself distracted until Twelve sits back down and the crowd roars its approval. The tributes are led off first, and one intoxicated group of fans tries so hard to jump up on stage that it's several minutes before the crowd's under control and we can follow onto the elevators. Bren and I get on one, and when Sanderson and Martin try to join us, he pushes them out. The door closes with only us in it.
"I told you," I say, leaning against the back rail and folding my arms as if that'll somehow hold me together. "I told you they hate me."
"And I told you they'd have to fake it. Liv, they were your siblings before these Games. This doesn't have to change anything." My expression doesn't change, so he adds. "Or at least it shouldn't; nobody wins that way except—"
The elevator stops before he can finish, the unsaid words hanging strong in the air. Nobody wins that way except for the Capitol. When my family falls apart, they win. And my siblings die.
The doors open and I see Mareen and Kev waiting for us. Kev glances at me hesitantly, as if I'm an animal that might attack him if he looks it in the eye. Mareen's not even doing that much—at first I think she's sulking, with the way she's glaring at the ground but then I remember what Bren said. Fear. Could that really be it?
Bren nudges me in the ribs and I flinch. I want to talk with them, I really do, I even open my mouth to say so, but then the other elevator's door opens and Janus swoops out to pull them into a hug. Sanderson, Martin, Lewis, and a very squished-looking Petronius join him, in the hall and I end up staying quiet, trying desperately to put my thoughts in order.
Author's Note: Thanks a million for all the help, EStrunk! Also, reviewers... words can't express.
Just as fair warning, this fic is probably going to switch to an M rating in a couple of chapters (once the Games themselves start). It's going to be more for psychological darkness than actual gore or language (and, no, there's no steamy romance either), but that does mean it might be a good idea to put this on story alert if you want to keep track of the updates since it won't show up on the boards in their default setting. Not to mention it gives me the warm fuzzies to know y'all are reading. Also, next week's update is almost-certainly going to be skipped because I'm going to be on a service trip and don't think I'll have internet that week.
But on the upside, the Irish did fantastic last week! Highest number of points in a game since 1996! Now it's just USC weekend after next... if we win against no one else, we HAVE to beat them.
