Thank you to Odestalovebaby, Joe and MsMKT68 for reviewing! :)
"Whatever you do, do not say anything that isn't on the cards. I repeat, do not say anything that hasn't been written on the cards."
I nod in only the slightest bit of irritation. "Yes, Mags, you've told me that about nine times in the past ten minutes already."
"Sorry, boy. Some people don't do as they say and it's seen badly," she replies. "This is what's good for you."
"Stay in character, is what she's trying to say," Shelley interrupts. "No offence, but the Capitol doesn't want to see a naive boy who was scared of killing someone. Act like you did during your interviews - charming, suave and constantly smiling. If you do anything in the slightest way to protest, they'll kill your family. Got it?"
I nod again, but much more frantically. "What's it like in District Twelve?" I ask, after a few moments of silence (with the exception of the train itself, of course).
Almost immediately, Mags pops up a rather large sugar cube inside her mouth, as if that's her way of avoiding the question - or at least, to allow Shelley to answer for her. The latter grimaces, as if the topic physically pains her. She hesitates. "It's… different. A complete contrast to Capitol, you could say."
I open my mouth to reply but not before she continues on. "You'll have to see for yourself. I can't explain it."
By the time we arrive to District Twelve, my palms are clammy and sweat drips down the side of my temple. I have the vast majority of the speech memorised, from reading it so many times out of boredom and preparation. The first thing I notice when I step off the train is how cold it is, and cold wouldn't be enough of a word to describe the temperature. The cold reaches my bones and numbs my fingers and I find it to be slightly problematic to clench and unclench my fists without any difficulty.
The roads in District Twelve are… non-existent. All there is, is a thick layer of white… stuff that's quite bothersome to walk on.
"It's snow," Mags explains, whilst rubbing her palms together in hopes of warming them up. "It falls when it's too cold to rain so the water freezes."
"A lot of snow here is grey, though," Shelley continues. "It's really dirty."
Surrounding us, there are people dressed in rags and poor excuses for clothing. Many backs are hunched and grim expressions are plastered on everyone's face. Their features droop, and I suspect that a lot of adults look older than they really arm. Elbows, collarbones and knees protrude significantly, just like the girl who had been strangled in the arena.
"Don't they have food?" I ask, in a hushed whisper.
"Of course but not good quality. They're the poorest district; it can't be that surprising, can it?" Mags says.
Several walk by, eyeing us in disdain - well, Shelley and I in particular. They seem to smile at Mags pleasantly, though it's no surprise. She's the most welcoming person I know.
A man carrying a large, dark bottle staggers his way over. His greasy mop of blonde hair is in dire need of cutting or any sort of hairdressing and he breathes onto me, as he almost stumbles over his own feet in front of us. The pungent stench of alcohol overwhelms me and I'm the one staggering back, coughing at the smell. He laughs, hysterically, his eyes wide. His eyebags droop, making it seem like he hasn't even touched a bed in weeks, and also makes him look older than he should be.
I recognise him to be Haymitch Abernathy, the only living Victor from District Twelve. He won the 50th Hunger Games - or the 2nd Quarter Quell.
"Congratulations… on being the newest Victor," he cackles. "How lucky of you."
I watch him, disdainfully. "Uh… Thanks."
It's only about ten minutes or so, before I'm ordered to take my place on stage. My heart thumps in my chest, erratically and my lips are dry.
"Um…"
I can feel my mouth opening and closing several times, before a noise actually comes out. On one side of the platform stands a large family of about six children, who I recognise to be the female tribute's siblings. They stand huddled together in a group, with their parents holding each other. The oldest boy carries the youngest in his arms and eyes me in hatred. On the other side is the boy's family, which contains only his parents.
"It is an honour to be standing here in District Twelve, as the Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, as the most recent victor of the Annual Hunger Games. First of all, I would like to thank you for your… support."
The word barely rolls off my tongue. It feels as if I'm chewing on sand when I speak, so I don't use read off the cards I've been supplied with.
"I didn't know the tributes from this district, but I do offer my condolences. I apologise profusely, for the loss of your family, friends or relatives. I hope they are in a much better place now."
I continue on, even though I have no idea what I'm saying. I allow myself to vent in the form of a formal speech, but refrain myself from yelling profanities at the Capitol and going down on my knees, praying for the dead tributes' families forgiveness. I manage to force a smile or two onto my force throughout the speech, attempting to ignore Haymitch's intense stare.
"What are you looking at me for?" I demand, the moment I'm escorted offstage.
He waves his hand - the hand holding the liquor bottle - around, drunkenly. His eyes flitter around the area, and speaks softly into my ear. "Whatever you do, kid, don't say no. Never refuse."
What the hell?
Before I can ask, he's already stumbling his way halfway across the room, whooping joyously and taking a swig of his alcohol. No wonder District Twelve has no other victors.
It's silent on the train between the three of us. We've just had dinner with the Mayor's family and we're on our way to District Eleven. Shelley picks at her fingernails, her foot constantly tapping on the floor. Mags pops an unhealthy amount of sugar cubes into her mouth, avoiding conversation - well, lack of conversation.
"Haymitch said to never say no. What does that mean?"
They both freeze in their spot. Shelley's foot stops mid-tap, and the sounds of crunching sugar cubes also ceases. It's like I've triggered a bomb.
They don't reply.
Instead, Shelley pinches my ear, despite my shouts of protest and drags me down the corridor to my room, almost tossing me onto the bed with two fingers. "Never say that when someone could be listening," she barks into my ear.
"What? Why?"
"Because President Snow is always listening. If not, then someone of high reputation in the Capitol. It's not safe. Even in here, we have to keep quiet."
Mags hobbles in without difficulty and sits down beside me. "They'll use your negative attitude against you," she warns, quietly.
"Well, are you going to answer my question or not?" I whisper.
Shelley sighs, impatiently. "If you're caught do anything rebellious - which chances are, you'll definitely get caught - Snow will punish you. He won't do anything to you, per say, but the ones you love will be the recipients of the price you pay. His Victors are too valuable; he makes money from his Victors. You say no to a request? He'll play it off like it's fine, but he'll get you back. He'll make you suffer."
The words die in my throat and my lips become dry. Swallowing nervously, I tentatively question, "Did… Did you ever say no?"
"Yes," she replies, after a bit of hesitance, "My brother."
"I lost my husband and son to him," Mags states, grimly, then leans forward. "When he came over to your house last week, did he say anything?"
"Oh, crap." I only just remember what had happened.
I rub my hands over my face and moan. "I said no. What am I going to do?"
"Nothing. You can't do anything."
When we arrive at District One, my heart pounds even harder than it usually did in the other Districts. I'm certain it's due to the fact that I murdered both of their tributes in the final bloodbath.
This time, I actually stuck to the original speech that Shelley and Andromeda had written out for me, previously. To say the citizens of District One hated me, would have been the hugest understatement in Panem's history.
The families of Indiana and Carter don't stop for a moment, to glare at me in utter hatred. A few girls sigh when I catch their eye and wink at them, and others are indifferent. It's quite the confusing district.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Finnick," is the first thing Cashmere says to me during the dinner. She places a comforting hand on my shoulder, though I don't know how exactly it's supposed to comfort me.
"Loss?" I echo.
"You… You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Your dad…"
"What? What happened to him?" I ask, urgently.
"He's dead."
And there it is. Blunt, straightforward and honest.
"What happened…"
"Boating accident," her brother interjects. "His boat got caught in a riptide - whatever that is - and apparently not even District Four citizens can handle that." He shoves a fork full of pork meat into his mouth, crunching loudly in an ignorant manner.
"Be nice," Cashmere scolds him before turning to me. "This is Gloss. You probably know though, he won the 63rd Games."
I nod. "Yeah, I know."
We end up bending our heads down, whispering to each other, so that no one else hears. "You're a prostitute, right?"
I almost slap myself in the forehead. Her eyes widen at how bluntly I've asked such a question and almost chokes on her food. "You know?"
"Oh, wait," she continues on. "Of course you know."
Cashmere flicks her golden blonde her over her shoulders and her blue eyes flare in anger. She stabs at her food, harshly.
"I kind of figured it out."
"I didn't think he would actually ask for a bloody fourteen year-"
"Fifteen, now, actually."
"Old to shag the stupid women in the Capitol. It's bad enough he gets twenty year olds to do it."
"Ah… actually he asked for me to start when I was sixteen," I correct.
"Well, that makes it a little better… Kind of. Did you say yes?"
"No," I reply, glumly. "I do want my dignity, you know?"
"Yeah, well, your father paid the price for your dignity."
"… What?"
"You refuse, and he kills someone - family, friends, whatever - or if they're of age, they're reaped. It's rigged half the time, to spice things up."
When Shelley had told me that the ones I love would be the recipients for the price I pay, I never would have expected Snow to kill off my father.
Gloss grumbles in agreement besides her and stabs at his food again. I look at him, questioningly.
"He refused too," she elaborates. "Mother died, but we didn't know it was because of this. So Gloss refused again, and I was reaped the next year. Sucks, right?"
I push the plate of food away from me, not hungry anymore. "I hate this," I mutter under my breath.
"We all do. Just… when you're in the Capitol tomorrow, keep in mind that it's either the loss of your loved ones, or your preservation of dignity. I don't know about you, but I'd rather protect my family."
A/N: Yay or nay? Review your thoughts :)