A/N: Early update for y'all because I have some sort of fever/infection and am off to the doctor's tomorrow. Martienne beta'd this chapter as usual and gave me some very useful feedback. The song quoted in Tex's flashback is Tex's theme in RvB, and is called "A Girl Named Tex" by Trocadero. Next chapter is the Games, by the way. After all this time. :P
I'm not usually the "review me!1!1!1!1!" type but today I just get rejected from my top choice college on top of being sick, so yeah, little things help. Y'all brighten my day you, every single one of you. :)
"It's just part of what makes us human, Tex."
-Delta; Out of Mind: Part V
Tex had a plan.
Eat well at dinner post-interview, crawl into bed and threaten to decapitate anyone who dared disturb her before they had to leave in the morning, for the arena.
But, unfortunately, that plan unraveled the moment she got into bed. Because no matter how hard she tried, her mind refused to quiet. When she closed her eyes all she saw was a thick, black 3—her score after the disastrous private meeting with the Gamemakers. She wanted to defend herself, but there was nothing to say, not really. It was her fault. It was all her fault; she should have known better.
And if that weren't enough, her devious, horrible, torturous memory would not let her forget certain parts of her interview.
"So, Tex, tell us about your family."
"I have no family."
It was the truth, wasn't it? Her mother didn't count; her mother had never been a proper mother, not in the way Tex ever needed her to be. So she took care of herself. She could do it, and she would do it. She never responded to the elders in the Community Home, and she never had to. She followed their rules—when she was in their boundaries—but beyond them, it was Tex's way, or the highway.
But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had shoved someone to one side by saying that. She buried her face in the fluffy pillow, covering her ears with her elbows. But that did nothing to quell her internal riot, so she began to hum, the tune she had earlier when Tucker was styling her. At the time, she couldn't place where she remembered it from, but now that Tucker's babble was beyond her, the lyrics hit her straight in the face.
Yellow rose of Texas clad in black, morning star tattooed upon on her back…
She sat straight up in bed, startled by the memory of it.
She knew this song—how could she not know it? A hazy image began to appear before her eyes, obliterating the black 3.
The girl is five years old, her bright red hair long and tangled. She is giggling, running around a house with polished wooden floors, slipping a little in her tiny, ruffled socks. A man's hands, strong and powerful, callused from mining stone, steady the girl and she smiles at him, running into his arms.
"Daddy!" she cries, and he laughs, the laughter echoing across the plain, whitewashed walls. She joins in, high pitched tone in harmony with his gravelly bass.
"Sing my song!" she insists, tugging on his shirt. "Sing the Tex song!"
"Okay," he says. "But only if you promise to help your Momma out with dinner."
The girls' amber eyes are glowing. "I promise, I promise!"
He holds her close, and she snuggles her face into his shirt while he sings.
"Have you heard the story of a girl named Beth, now known as Tex…"
Tex climbed out of bed, her bare feet practically silent on the soft carpet. She had no idea where her Dad had learned the song from, or why the girl's name in the story was Beth, before becoming Tex. He had told later that he once knew that girl, that girl called Tex. But her name hadn't been Beth. It was Allie.
Allison.
Tex's middle name.
Tex walked towards the window. It took up practically the entire right wall of her room, and someone had drawn the curtains in preparation for sleep. She pressed the tiny, hidden button embedded on the wall, and the curtains opened seamlessly, giving off a dizzying view of the Capitol below. She pressed her hands to the glass, feeling once again like that five year old, where the rest of the world was so big, and she was so tiny and helpless.
What would her Dad think, about her being in the Games? He hadn't approved of her mother starting to train her, later that year.
"Let her be a child, Alina," he had said, and her mother had given some sharp, biting reply.
She could see her reflection clearly, despite the pulsing, decadent lights that illuminated the Capitol buildings. Seventeen, and nearly six feet tall by now. Arms crossed over her breasts, a flash of pale skin in between the waistband of her black pajama shorts, and her tank top. Freckles gone, and so was the baby fat that had gathered around her belly and hips. Bare, callused feet—the only thing that remained of the little girl with that bright red hair.
Would he even recognize me?
Tex shuddered, and turned away from the window, crawling back into bed. It didn't matter what he thought. She'd just be talking to ghosts. Tomorrow was her day, the first day of the Games, and she had to conserve her energy.
But even as she turned out her light again, and closed her eyes, those ghosts never stopped lingering.
Carolina had fallen asleep at the dinner table, giddy on the wine she had been given, and from the release of her nerves. Maine had waved off the Avoxes—mutes at the Capitol's beck and call—and said he was going to take her to her room himself.
She was far lighter than any normal twelve-year-old girl should be and Maine had to bite back his sudden, all consuming fury at everything. They wanted to send a girl who must have weighed less than eighty pounds into the wilderness, for certain death?
He brushed back a stray piece of her dark hair that had come undone from her flower clip. She didn't even look twelve. More like the little sister he never had. Not someone he could even dream of killing. Or watch anyone kill.
The door to her room was unlocked, and he laid her gently on the bed, placing a pillow under her head. He gazed around the room—for all the splendor and excess there wasn't even a spare quilt lying around. He figured there would be automatic temperature adjusts should she get too cold, but Maine didn't like to imagine that. To imagine her shivering, and have nothing to grab if she so needed. However, he didn't feel right in moving her and placing her under the sheets now, and he definitely didn't feel right in taking off the flimsy party clothes and putting her in the woolen pajamas that were innocently folded on a chair in the corner.
Maybe he should have had someone take care of it.
He was just about to leave the room, to call Simmons or someone over to take care of her, when he noticed it. Sitting there, on a table by the door. The only personal possession in the entire room. At first glance, it just looked like a clump of dirty rags. Maine wrinkled his nose; who would leave something like that there?
But on closer inspection, he understood immediately.
This was Carolina's token. Each tribute was allowed to have one item from home with them in the arena, under the conditions it was non-lethal, and could not be used as any sort of weapon. Maine hadn't brought a token with him, but he was not surprised Carolina had.
Poor kid…
He picked the item up off the desk, and turning it between his fingers, he realized what it was. A tiny, hand-sewn stuffed animal made of grey flannel. A child's toy, a comfort creature. Maine ran his hands over it, over the flannel that was so worn it was practically paper-thin in some places. Stitches that were miniscule but strong. He had seen the animal itself too many times to count, of course. It was far too common where he lived, and if he was going to be honest, he kind of hated the damned things.
With a sigh, Maine put the token back down on the table, shut off the lights, and closed the door behind him. It was getting late; he should have already been asleep.
The arena waited for him tomorrow.
And so would Carolina, clutching her tiny, flannel mockingjay.
