Chapter Nine: Animals
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for the reviews! I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Gloss's POV
Cashmere stumbles into the room with blood streaming from her nose and mouth. I'm on feet in seconds, rushing over to catch her as she staggers and nearly falls. There's a bruise forming on her cheek and the livid rage starts to build up inside me, a fire that I know won't burn out. I know that some of her clients aren't exactly gentle, but I haven't ever seen her beaten up this badly. Whoever did this won't live to see tomorrow, of that I'm certain. No one has the right to treat my sister like this. I will hunt down whoever did this, and snap their neck.
"Who was it?" I demand.
Cashmere regains her composure quickly. She's always been like that. She snaps back so easily that it's frightening. She straightens herself and strides into the bathroom, picking up a flannel and washing the blood off her face. I watch her incredulously from the doorway. I want to help her, I have to. She's my sister. The only problem is that I know she won't let me. So I have to take matters into my own hands.
"It doesn't matter, Gloss," Cashmere replies absently, washing the blood off the flannel. I watch it run red down the drain. My hands clench into fists of rage. I will find out who did this, no matter the cost.
"It matters to me," I insist, slamming my fist into the wall. I can't help the anger that washes over me, holding me under. I could take the pain to myself. My knuckles now throb, but it's not me I care about. It's the fact that the Capitolians are hurting Cashmere, the only one in my family who understands me now, who isn't afraid of me. "Dammit, Cash! Tell me his name!"
"Hyperion Dormer." It's not Cashmere, but Storm. I whirl around and notice that she's standing in the corridor, watching me with an impassive expression. How can she be so calm if she knows who the man is that did this? "He's a former Gamemaker."
I think it's meant to be a warning. Storm knows what happens when I lose control of myself, and by informing me of Hyperion's high rank in the Capitol she hopes that I'll have the sense to leave him be. Only, I'm beyond caring about rank anymore. I will pummel the living daylights out of this man no matter what. If Storm thinks that someone's station means they can treat people like shit, she can think again.
Hyperion Dormer...the name rings a bell. I think he was in charge of the 71st or 72nd Hunger Games. I think of a man in his early thirties, with dark hair and a permanent sneer. I'm almost certain that's him, and disgust courses through me. Hasn't he tortured tributes enough in the arena? Why does he feel the need to harm my sister? There's a fury boiling inside me and no one can calm it down this time, not Cashmere, not Storm. Only my fist making contact with that bastard's face. I stalk out of the room. Storm hurries after me, catching my arm.
"Gloss, no, wait. Hyperion will have you killed if you try anything..."
"I don't care anymore!" I swing around to face her, teeth bared in rage. She flinches back, perhaps thinking I might hit her – but there's only one target of my wrath today, and it's not her. "Don't you see how much it hurts her? Don't you understand how sick I feel, seeing these men using my sister like she's a whore? I've had enough, Storm. No more."
Her eyes are wide with horror. She realises that I mean every word of it. I would gladly kill Hyperion, but the problem is I don't want the Capitol to hurt Cashmere. Let them punish me all they want, because my sister has suffered enough. I twist my arm from Storm's grasp and stalk out into the corridor. I will Hyperion Dormer if it's the last thing I do. Storm trails after me somewhat reluctantly, although I don't understand why.
There he is, the son of a bitch, waiting for the lift. I grab him, spin him around and slam him against the wall. He's a few inches shorter than me, and a lot thinner. The man has a smug expression on his face and a ridiculous little black goatee on his chin. He laughs a little even as my hand tightens around his throat.
"Gloss Delucan. I haven't met you before, but I have had the...pleasure...of being acquainted with your dear sister."
I roar in rage and punch him hard enough to break his nose. Maybe he thinks despite his snide words, he's untouchable. I'll prove him wrong. I'll beat him so hard he won't be able to walk straight for days. Hyperion falters slightly, a groan of pain escaping him. Blood streams down from his nose and I can't help but be viciously pleased. It's like I'm back in the Games, about to kill another tribute. I throw Hyperion to the ground.
I slam my foot into the man's ribs. I hope I break them. It would teach him a lesson. He coughs and flips onto his back, grimacing in pain. That's the problem with these people. They think they're so bloody powerful but when it comes down to it, we Victors could kill them in an instant. I notice that Storm's watching. I expect horror or shock in her hazel eyes when I make eye contact. I don't expect disgust directed at Hyperion.
"Storm." Hyperion's voice is hoarse with pain as he staggers to his feet. He doesn't look like a rich ex-Gamemaker to me. He looks small and vulnerable and pathetic. Now he knows what it's like to be a tribute in the Hunger Games, to be at someone's mercy when you know they have none. "Call him off."
A range of emotions flash across Storm's face so fast that I can't even tell what they are. The last thing I see is anger before she slaps Hyperion hard. I'm not sure who's more surprised – Storm, Hyperion, or me. He staggers from the force of the blow, shock lighting his eyes as he stares accusingly at her. I wasn't expecting quiet, demure Storm to hit one of her own. Her mouth is twisted in contempt.
"They aren't animals, Hyperion," she spits at him as he ruefully rubs his cheek, "You can't treat them like they're dirt underneath your feet, or they will fight back. Don't expect me to show you pity, because you don't deserve it."
Storm's words are harsh and decisive. I haven't ever seen this side of her before, the strong young woman who knows exactly what she's saying. Normally she's just agreeing or disagreeing with the views of others, but now I can see whose side she's on. Just because she was born in the Capitol, I realise it doesn't make her a Capitolian. Hyperion leans against the wall heavily, wiping blood from his nose and glowering furiously at Storm.
"You will regret this, Storm Asterbury," he hisses, "You have defied the Capitol. The President will be notified of this. You will pay. Your preference for the districts is now clear. Maybe you want to become one of them. Such a shame you're too old to be reaped for the Hunger Games."
"Your words are empty," Storm retorts, but I can see the panic flaring in her eyes. By the smirk crossing Hyperion's thin lips, he notices it, too. He presses the lift button and limps in as it opens, offering us one last sneer as the gold doors close. I turn to Storm, seeing the worry creasing her forehead.
"Why did you do that?"
"What do you mean?" She sounds a bit confused, as though she can't remember anything in the past five minutes. "Hit him? Because he was asking for it."
I nod silently, but I'm still reeling inside. She has put herself in a dangerous situation because of her actions. She did it to defend me, to defend Cashmere. It wasn't something that had to be done and as I watch Storm now, I'm still undecided as to whether it was brave, stupid, or a little bit of both.
Storm's POV
I try not to hyperventilate, but it's getting hard. I know there are going to be consequences for my actions. Hyperion's a very powerful figure in the Capitol, and on good terms with President Snow. I'm just a twenty-year-old escort with no authority over anyone. I rake my hands through my brown hair and continue to pace. That's all I can do at the moment. My stomach is twisted with apprehension and my hands are shaking. What was I thinking, hitting Hyperion? Was I out of my mind? Hyperion had always been a rather cruel man. He would probably convince Snow to have me executed.
"Storm?" Cashmere stands in my doorway. Despite the bruises on her face, she's still stunning. Sometimes I envy her for always being beautiful. Other times, I'm glad that I'm only passably pretty, because her beauty seems to be her curse. "Gloss told me about what you did. I just wanted to say thank you. For defending us."
"He's going to kill me." The words seem to escape even though I don't want them to. I fist my hands into my hand and tug, not that it helps at all. Cashmere crosses over and takes my hands in hers, and there's sympathy written across her face. I don't know what District 1 thinks of her, but I doubt they want her dead like the Capitol will when they learn what I did to Hyperion.
"Maybe you should come back to District 1 with us."
"What?" I'm surprised at that. There are still a few tributes alive in the Games – the boy from 2, the girl from 5, the boy from 11 and both from 12. It seems like it's a good year for the lower districts this year. Nonetheless, this means I only have probably a few more days to decide what I want to do. "You can't be serious. Hyperion already said I favour the districts, that would just be proving it true. Besides, they would all hate me there. I'm a Capitolian..."
Cashmere smiles wryly. "Not everyone's like Gloss. Our district's been treated pretty well by the Capitol on the whole. Besides, you're different, even if you and Gloss can't see that. As for the favouritism claims? Just tell them you're on a progress report. Escorts do that in Districts 1, 2 and 4 from time to time, because we train our tributes. It's nothing that won't have been done before."
Sometimes, I think Cashmere is a better friend than I deserve. How can she be so kind to me, when so many others in the Capitol have been so cruel? I don't know how she can see me as different. Gloss thinks we're all the same. How can two siblings have such different perspectives? Cashmere seems like she wants to forgive, like she wants to move on, while Gloss is still floundering in his hatred.
"Okay." My voice is quiet. I can't believe I'm doing this. I've been to District 1 all of one time, for the reaping. Now both teenagers are dead. I don't quite know that I want to go back there, but lying low seems like the best option for now. It's not exactly like there's a lot else that I can do.
"Running away from your own people?" Gloss's voice is disdainful. I turn wearily to face him. What exactly does he want from me? Am I meant to throw myself at his feet and beg forgiveness for what I am? I thought that maybe I'd gained acceptance, but I suppose I was wrong. "You're taking refuge in our district now?"
"Stop it, Gloss," Cashmere says warningly, but her younger brother ignores her. His words aren't deliberately malicious, but they're harsh. He doesn't understand why someone from the Capitol should ever have a place in what is his home. Maybe my presence makes him feel uncomfortable. He can never know about my feelings for him. I think if he did, it would only make him more of a mess than he already is.
"I defended you from Hyperion," I argue, starting to grow a little irritated. If Gloss is going to continue to view me with disdain, why not give him a real reason to? "I could have..."
"Could have what?" Gloss replies, raising an eyebrow in an almost amused fashion. "You couldn't have stopped me from hurting him, Storm. Don't try and convince yourself that we owe you anything. We don't owe you shelter, Cashmere just has a kinder heart than I do."
His words sting, but I won't let him see it. I just lift my chin and meet his hard gaze, like I've hardly ever done before. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I'm not afraid of him, though. Not like I used to be. It's Hyperion I fear, his vengeance for what I've done. When Hyperion says that someone will pay, he means it. Gloss is just broken, but Hyperion is a true monster, a creature without limitations.
"You should get your things together," Cashmere informs me, deliberately ignoring Gloss. I wonder if it's come down to this, if I'm what stands between them now. "We'll have our Victor in a matter of days."
There's one person I have to see before I leave the Capitol. I take the lift all the way up to level 12. When I enter I'm greeted enthusiastically by Effie. She's fairly nice and very talkative and she wants to have a tea together and a chat, from one escort to another. I have to break it to her that I'm actually here to see Cinna, if he's around. Haymitch is snoring on the couch and isn't aware of anything.
"Storm." Cinna walks in and I smile to see another Capitolian dressed in an understated way like me. Of course, Hyperion is fairly understated at times, but I don't like to count him. "What brings you up from level 1?"
"I wanted to see you." Cinna and I have been friends since I was a teenager. Originally my ambition was to be a stylist, but I soon found I didn't have that same sort of artistic flair. I'd always envied Cinna's apparently effortless designs, how he could make simple things seem so beautiful. "I need to talk to you. Something bad's happened."
His expression grows concerned and he leads me into the dining room, sitting me down and having a juice poured for me. Cinna is one of the few Capitolians I feel that I can trust. So I spill everything. I tell him about Hyperion, and my 'progress report' in District 1, about how I fear President Snow will kill me. A gentle smile crosses Cinna's face and he pats my hand.
"You worry too much," he says, "Although, what you did was risky. I don't know for sure what Hyperion will do, but maybe it is better if you go to District 1 for the time being. You'll be safer there until everything calms down. Cashmere's a smart woman."
I smile and climb to my feet. It's always good to have Cinna's support. I know what I did was stupid, but I just want to forget now. I remember Cinna's design for the chariots, how the tributes from District 12 were on fire. It's not something easily forgotten. I embrace him tightly, resting my chin on his shoulder before I force myself to step away. Cinna smiles again, a little sadly.
"I'll see you next year," I inform him adamantly, having to fiercely believe my own words, that I really will come home. "For the Quarter Quell."
