"Ladies and Gentlemen! Esteemed guests, and of course that means everyone watching at home, it is my privilege to welcome you all to this celebration of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games!"
The roar of the crowd is defining even in the wings. I pick at a thread at my dress until someone from my prep team pushes my hand away and snips the offending thread off. I look forward to where Caesar Flickerman is prancing about on the stage. He's looks as ecstatic as a kid on Wintermas morning, his twinkling diamond suit and evergreen hair adding to the festive effect.
Interview Night. The most anticipated and dreaded event before the Games themselves. I thought after the parade prep would be simple, but apparently my body has degraded to horrifying levels in the past four days, if the laments of my prep team are anything to go by. They rewaxed, buffed, clipped, and polished every inch of me until Madame Lucia came in with my dress. It's actually not too bad. Simple black silk with a slit in the side so I can walk easily. It's covered in flakes of lapis lazuli patterned in intricate designs, a throwback to the parade. My strip of hair is tinted to match. I think Maura would have liked it, particularly the shoulder pads made of layered steel blades that give the impression of deadly feathers. I'm just glad I'm not dressed in woven straw with a matching wide-brimmed hat like the girl from 9.
I swallow. A small, traitorous part of me would rather be in the arena tonight.
"And without further ado, I present to you, the tributes of this year's Games!"
I stumble forward and almost fall. I'm still not used to these heels. They're higher than any I've worn, supposedly so the dress hangs right, but small good that will do me if I pitch forward on my face in front of the whole nation.
Somehow I manage to get onto the stage and into my chair without humiliating myself. Caesar is saying our names, but I'm staring into the stage lights, trying to force my eyes to adjust. I can make out the City Circle beyond the stage, packed to capacity, the Gamemakers in their private balcony, the president in shadows beyond, the mentors and stylists in the first two rows. I'm trying to find anyone from 2 and I think I make out Lyme's distinctive face before I register that Citrine is walking up to Caesar and I wrench my attention back to the show.
My ally from 1 is dazzling, an explosion of flowers woven into her hair and a wispy white dress clinging to her curves. She doesn't need to play up the coy, seductive siren the audience loves, they only need to look at her. Citrine is eager, a bit nasty at times, and wildly joyous as she talks about killing her way through the competition. She's a huge hit.
Mercury surprises me. The boy from 1 hasn't made much of an effect on me except in the sword-fighting ring where his skills are unparalleled in this year's tribute pool. But now he pulls a charming elegant gentleman out of somewhere, talking and bantering with the air of someone who's been spoon-fed social graces from a silver bowl since birth. Caesar makes some inside jokes about famous Capitolians I've never heard of and Mercury responds with his own, leaving the audience in stitches. When he leaves, they cheer like he's already one of them.
And then it comes. "From District Two, everyone, the stunning Enobaria Malachite!"
I glide over to Caesar, focusing on taking small, measured steps. I don't stumble once. I take a deep breath and remember Dido's instructions. Eager. Personable. Give two real smiles. Slightly lower my natural voice. Don't mention any of the other tributes. Should be simple.
"So, Enobaria," Caesar begins and why are all these people looking at me? "What has left the biggest impression on something something words words words?" and what.
I have no idea what Caesar just asked me and even less of what I'm saying. I'm frozen. Paralyzed. More questions are coming and more words are tumbling out of my traitor mouth. I try to break free, try to listen to what's being asked and said but the words are like water and the more I try to grasp them the more they slip away.
I think we talk about ducks at one point.
The buzzer sounds, ending my three minutes. My brain decides to kick it into overdrive and suddenly the applause is as loud as a train. There's a lot of it. What are they even clapping for? I suddenly see Dido sitting in the second row. Her eyebrows are raised. Oh no.
Orion gives me an amused look as he passes me on his way upstage. I take my seat again, forcing myself to sit with proper posture and not fidget even as I mentally stab myself repeatedly. Stupid, stupid, stupid Baria.
I can't make another mistake, and that starts now. Dido told me to pay close attention to each of the tributes and listen to my instincts about each one. So with a great effort of will I force myself to listen to Caesar and Orion.
Caesar is saying something about the half-dozen girlfriends he's sure Orion has back in Two. Orion smirks and tells Caesar he's not giving him enough credit, to the audience's amusement. I try not to grimace. An outlier Victor made a splash a decade ago by telling the audience he liked boys, but Orion can't afford to extinguish the fantasies of half the fan base. The buzzer goes off and he gets a large, distinctively female cheer.
And so the parade of doomed children begins. I listen to the entire thing.
The girl from 3 is Sonara. She likes to read trashy Capitol romances. She thinks she can win if she get her hands on some survival supplies and maybe a knife. She's a very good climber.
The boy from 3 is Codey. He says only a few sentences over the course of his three minutes. Caesar has to fill in with increasingly pointless chatter. Codey would like to buy fireworks if he wins. His dad helps makes the fireworks that are shot off over the Capitol on holidays. He thinks some of the other tributes are bullies and he doesn't like bullies.
Hera has a sister waiting back in District 4. She's very proud of her district. She talks about the strength, fortitude, and adaptability of Panem's fisher folk and she makes it clear she's inherited all these traits and isn't afraid to use them.
Caesar asks Tiller about his private session with the Gamemakers even though it's technically off-limits, so Tiller makes sure we all know that he is not stealthy and not partial to range weapons, and he definitely did not hit below the belt in hand-to-hand combat with the trainers.
The girl from 5 is Rachel. She is sullen and short with Caesar. When she's asked if she's prepared for the Games she bursts out crying and apologizes to the family miles away for disappointing them.
The boy from 5 is Genner. He's got a sort of scrappy energy that the audience loves. He's also thirteen and weighs maybe eighty pounds soaking wet. He has no chance, he has to know he has no chance, but he cracks jokes about setting up a hammock he learned to make during training and enjoying a well-deserved break from school.
The girl from 6 is Cloud. She's from one of the Community Homes in her district. She has no family. She looks startled and a bit angry when Caesar asks what she does for fun back home. She works a shift after school to safe money for an apprenticeship at the engineering program when she graduates. She has no time for fun.
Rob is a bit of a dud, stumbling over his answers about his suit and what he likes in the Capitol, right up until he throws up his hands and admits that he was never much good at talking and would Caesar like to have an arm wrestling match? They actually lay down on the stage. Rob wins, but he lets Caesar put up a fight.
The girl from 7 is Holly. She's the second oldest of eight children. Her dress shows of her strong shoulders and biceps. Holly claims she has no surprises for the arena, everyone knows she can use an ax and she intends to show them all just how well.
The boy from 7 is Kormac. He's tall and wiry and proves his strength by doing twenty pushups on the stage. When Caesar asks him who he thinks which Victor he's most like, he surprises everyone by citing the man from the Second Quarter Quell, the only living Victor from 12. Kormac claims to know the value of district loyalty and outsmarting the more stupid members of the competition. Caesar quickly moves the conversation to his shoes.
Kerry Rheys talks about her mother, her sister Cecelia, her brother, her dead father. She shows the audience her district token, a small ball given to her by her niece. She's soft-spoken and sweet, calm, brave, and leaves no doubt exactly how much the Games have destroyed her family.
The boy from 8 is Kent and when Caesar asks what he's enjoyed in the Capitol he spits onto the stage. We all know which tribute this year is going to die a horrific, arena related death.
The girl from 9 is Savannah and she makes a joke about her horrible straw dress, claiming that it smells like home. She's lanky and tall and claims she's quick enough to catch a fly out of the air in the fields during the summer. She doesn't mention that she probably eats them.
The boy from 9 is Plowman. He doesn't need to perfume his balls or use sissy tricks to show the world what a man who's not afraid to sweat can do.
The girl from 10 is Josephina. Her family raises goats for meat and milk. She loves animals very much and hopes there are a lot of them in the arena because she's sure to be their friends. She's fortunate her stylist didn't put a lot of eyeshadow on her, but under the bright lights the tear streaks are still evident.
The boy from 10 is Holsteen. He's big and dark and could be mistaken for my brother. He claims putting down tributes won't be any different from wrangling cattle. It's very clearly not empty bluster. He looks Caesar in the eye and says with complete confidence that he will be coming back.
The girl from 11 is Starling. She's fourteen and pretty and she begs the audience to help her go home. She doesn't say anything about strategy or strengths. She just wants to go home.
The boy from 11 is Cayne. He's another tribute with no family to speak of. If he manages to live five days into the Games he'll be nineteen, and if he wins he'll be the oldest Victor in the history of the Games. He hopes the audience remembers to send him a birthday cake because he's never had one.
The girl from 12 is Naomi and she's the surprise of the evening. She's extremely intelligent, telling Caesar all about the history of coal mining and how miners survive in almost hopeless conditions. Her buzzer goes off as she's telling Caesar about how coal dust is an explosive substance and how a small amount in the right conditions can take out living targets fifty yards away and the audience's applause only swells as she returns to her seat.
The boy from 12 is Jay and he mostly sighs and almost every answer is monosyllabic. He likes the cheesy noodles he had at dinner his first night in the Capitol. He can't even put on an act for three minutes for the camera, and his face says bloodbath all over it.
Jay returns to his seat and the audience stands and roars and claps and cheers. I look down the row of cannon fodder. Some of them are pathetic. Others are threats. And still others I think are people I would like in another life. But all of them must die for me to return to District 2 and earn my chance at revenge.
Kill them all, Baria, Pat whispers into my ear as he lays dying by the creek.
We walk off the stage together. As soon as I'm behind the curtain I kick off my heels and grimace. Orion chortles. "Better hope they don't put you in pumps tomorrow, Malachite."
"From your mouth to the Gamemakers ears," I mutter.
Pan finds us and escorts us back to the Training Center. He leaves us in the atrium before heading off to a quick staff meeting, telling us to head back to the suite. There are a few tributes waiting by the elevator doors when we approach. They draw back slightly when we join them. Orion smirks. I ignore them.
We step into the elevator with another tribute and let the doors close. Orion towers over the other girl, crossing his arms. "You ready to die tomorrow, little girl?"
She looks up at him. It's Kerry Rheys. "Perhaps that's something you should be asking yourself."
He snorts. "Think again. You're talking to this year's Victor."
"All men die, Orion Baker." Kerry's eyes are hard and black. "All women, too. Even Victors. Tomorrow me. Then you. The day after. Or next week. A month, a half-century. Still, you will die."
Orion stares at the little girl. I remind myself not to drink anything in District 8 when I go through for the Victory Tour. I don't want to catch whatever causes the crazy.
Orion and I leave Kerry Rheys behind as the door opens to our suite. Phoebus and Brutus whisk Orion away for last minute private sessions. Dido, Barty and Lyme are waiting in the sitting room. Dido clears her throat.
"Well. That was…off script."
The corner of Barty's mouth is twitching. Lyme eyes crinkle. I feel myself going red.
"I made a fool of myself, didn't I?"
Dido raises an eyebrow. "You tell me. You were the one on the stage."
"I don't remember." I collapse onto the couch, picking at the flakes of lapis on my dress, not caring that I'm peeling them half off. "I have no idea what I said."
"Stage fright is a bitch," laughs Lyme.
I debate the benefits of just stepping off the pedestal tomorrow and blowing myself up. "I suppose I'll have to just watch the recaps."
My mentor shrugs. "You know what? What's done is done. I want you focused on tomorrow. When you come back, it won't matter. So just enjoy the happy mystery. It didn't lose you any sponsors, let's leave it at that."
I look up at her. "I didn't humiliate myself?"
Barty is writing on a pad of paper. He rips it from the pad and hands it to me.
They saw the real you.
Suddenly my throat is tight and I'm very, very tired. "I'm going to wash up," I say. "I guess this is it. Tomorrow morning is the arena."
I stand and face my team. The mentor, the back-up, and the one who's going to persuade rich buffoons to invest in my survival. My life is in their hands now.
Lyme crosses her arms over her chest in our traditional salute. I return it. "It's been a privilege, Malachite."
Barty gives me the salute as well, then pulls something out from around his neck. His own district token from his Games. He links it through mine and clasps our hands around the tags. The message is clear. Our lives are linked. We survive, fight, breathe together.
I turn to Dido. "So. Any last words of advice?"
She smirks. "Yes. But I'll save them for when stumble out of your room at four in the morning."
I scowl. "You're the worst mentor I've ever had."
"Of course, sunshine," she says. "Now get to bed. Early to bed, early to rise, keeps a tribute, healthy, wealthy, and not dead."
I don't last until four in the morning. Not even till midnight. I toss and turn, twisting the sheets around under me. I hear Orion creep past around eleven. I wait until I'm sure he's snuck off to wherever he intends to go before I throw off the blankets and drag myself into the suite.
Dido is in the kitchen. She's making something in the blender.
"Oh good," she says as she pours the mess into a glass. "I'll get to go to bed at a reasonable hour."
I lean against the counter. "Well, this is it, mentor mine. What have you got for me? Secret strategies? A speech on duty and honor? A heart to heart about our tragic pasts, where we discover how similar we actually are and forge a new bond hours before the Games?"
"Even better," says Dido as she hands me the glass. "Drugs. Lots and lots of delicious, wonderful drugs."
She hands me the glass. I look closely at the chocolate milkshake and see the specks of crushed pills inside.
"You're awful," I say as I take a drink.
"And proud," she replies.
A sweet, heady haze is spreading through my body. I look at my hand in awe. I have five fingers! Whoa!
"I changed my mind," I giggle as my body turns feather light and I start to float away. "You're the…best…mentor…of them…all."
"Good to hear, moonbeam. I knew you'd come around eventually."
I try to keep my head clear for a bit longer. "So…no other last words of…advice?"
"The only thing that matters, Malachite. Kill them all."
Kill them all.
I think I'm back in my bed. The voice doesn't stop.
Kill them all, Baria.
Madame Lucia wakes me before dawn. Whatever Dido drugged me with last night doesn't leave any morning effects, to my relief. I struggle to find proper clothes but Lucia reminds me they'll dress me at the arena. I throw on a clean t-shirt and training shoes before following her out of the suite. The whole floor is quiet as a tomb.
We go up to the roof where I can just see the first pink of dawn rising over the Capitol. There's a hovercraft waiting above us. Two ladders lower and Lucia and I each take hold of one. An electric current locks me to the ladder as the hovercraft lifts off. Something in my stomach swoops as we fly hundreds of meters off the ground until the hovercraft lifts us inside.
Madame Lucia reminds me to eat and hydrate myself as the hovercraft soars away towards the arena. There's a banquet set out at a table between plush chairs. A last meal. I take a plate and gorge myself on toast and eggs and sausage. I try a little poached salmon. I don't like it. I eat it anyway. No point in wasting food now.
The windows suddenly tint black and I realize we must be close to the arena. An orderly approaches and holds my arm as she injects a needle into my arm. My tracker. So the Gamemakers can always find me. So they can turn on the appropriate cameras.
The hovercraft comes to a halt and Lucia and I are lowered into the Stockyard.
It's there that I start to break, surrounded by concrete and steel with the glass tube waiting. This is happening. This is really happening. The Hunger Games.
The Hunger Games. Fuck, Enobaria, fuck, FUCK.
"It's normal to be afraid, my child," says Lucia as she carries the bundle that must contain my uniform.
"I'm not afraid," I say, too quickly. Lucia doesn't reply. "Okay, I'm afraid. I'd be a lunatic if I weren't. I am not going to let that stop me."
"That's the spirit, child," says Lucia. Then she pulls out my uniform.
I take a step back. "You have to be kidding me."
"Madame Lucia did not design the uniforms. She can only give what is provided." She hands it to me.
I look at it in revulsion. "They can't….they can't…they can't do this!"
"You will find that the Gamemakers can do many things. This is their arena, after all," says Lucia. She holds out a second package. "Here's the rest of it."
I close my eyes. Of course. Of course. I am going to kill Orion slowly and painfully, even though the logical part of me knows he had nothing to do with this and the Gamemakers plan each arena years in advance. It's not much of a comfort.
Once I'm dressed, Lucia leads me over to the mirror. The evening gown I'm wearing has a tight collar and no sleeves. It's pure white silk, perfect for showing every bloodstain. Diamond earrings are clipped onto my ears, a matching choker around my neck. And on my feet, white pumps. Five inch heels.
"First thing I do before the gong rings is kick these off," I mutter.
Lucia is putting on some minimal makeup but she nearly drops her brush. "Don't even dare, my child," she hisses as she grips my shoulder in a painful pinch. "The Gamemakers will think you're looking to set off the mines of someone around you and they'll shock you into unconsciousness if they have to. They're not going to let that happen again."
"Alright alright, keep your tattoos on," I mutter. I'll have to waste precious seconds removing my shoes after the mines are deactivated. I hope there's a sword very, very close.
There's nothing left to do now but wait. We sit opposite each other, not speaking. The silence stretches long. I'm finding it hard to breathe again and I start counting down the Victors starting with last year and moving backwards. Then the runner ups, then the arenas, and I'm going through the death order of the Second Quarter Quell when Lucia clears her throat.
"Why are you here, my child?"
I open one eye. "I'm here to win the Games."
"Madame Lucia believes you are. But she does not know if you should. Forty-eight years Madame Lucia has been styling. And I've never been more torn about a tribute until now."
I gape at her, open mouthed. "Well thanks, you bitch. Sorry to tell you but I don't much give a damn for the opinion of some…some," I search for the most offensive epithet I can think of. "Beautician."
Madame Lucia sighs. "This beautician hears many things. She knows many people. Madame Lucia knows who you are, Enobaria. She knows where you were taken, earlier this summer. She suspects why you are here."
I cross my arms. "And you care why?"
"Because Madame Lucia has styled for fourteen Victors and none of them have understood there is life after the Games. You may win, you come home, and you do…whatever you need to do. And then what? My child, there is only life ahead of you. Life, long and unmerciful. What will you do with it?"
Kill them all, Baria.
"Whatever I have to," I say.
"When the time comes, promise me you will fight for yourself," says Madame Lucia. "Not for your district or your people or whatever vendetta rules your heart. You fight for you. Promise me that."
It suddenly occurs to me that the only two people who have been honest to me about what I'm about to do is a half-insane Victor from a rival district and an old woman with birds inlaid in her collarbone.
"I promise," I say.
"Then I wish you luck," says Madame Lucia. "But of all my tributes, I have no trouble saying I believe you need it the least."
Somewhere there's a voice telling me to step onto the platform. Madame Lucia helps takes my hand and helps me up. I totter in the heels, but only a bit.
"Live, Enobaria," says my stylist and then the glass closes us off and I'm left looking at the last person I'll ever see who doesn't want me dead.
The platform rises.
I lift my head, closing my eyes as I'm lifted into the arena. Declan dances briefly at the corner of my mind. Maura. Pat.
Otho. The Speaker.
The pedestal comes to a halt. Somewhere in the distance a voice is booming. Claudius Templesmith, welcoming us all to the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
Someone is screaming.
Kill them all, Baria.
I open my eyes.