It's the night before the Games, and, needless to say, no one's sleeping that well. Éponine sits in her bedroom, doing nothing but just existing, breathing, attempting to calm herself as she keeps turning over the thoughts in her head. The Games, they're so near. She's come up with a few people who are willing to be her allies, but her own brother thinks it would be best if they just soloed. She has to survive, if only to keep Gavroche alive.
A small knock on the door brings her out of her daydreams that could easily be defined as nightmares of the waking hour. Éponine's expecting it, and quickly stands from her place on the bed, rushing over to the door and opening it to reveal Gavroche himself. He's dressed much better than he ever had been at their home, not in the rags he's worn for years, but instead a new clean shirt and pants. Éponine would rather have him back at home where he does have to wear rags, because there she doesn't have to worry about their immediate death from such a painful fate.
"Are you doing alright?" he asks, somehow his tone good-natured as he walks in to stand beside her. Éponine doesn't really understand how, after being forced into this awful place and then expected to fight others to the death. Then again, her brother has always been even more fearless than herself.
"It's tomorrow," she answers simply, patting the spot on the bed next to her.
"It's going to be okay, though; both of us know how to protect ourselves," Gavroche assures her, offering a smile in her direction, one that seems cheery, but she knows not to take too seriously, as he's often much more solemn inside. "We can make it, 'Ponine; we just have to keep ourselves hidden from the large mass of people."
"Yeah, right," Éponine nods in response. "Both of us have to stay alive, for each other."
"'Course, what else do you think I'd be trying to do?" Gavroche replies, winking. Neither of them mention that they won't be able to both get out of this alive. "You too, don't try to die. And I'm sure you can pull this off, 'Ponine, you're definitely strong enough."
"We could go home," Éponine murmurs, not believing her words. However, she wants to be able to imagine the possibility, if only for this one moment. Returning with her little brother is all she wants. She doesn't want any of the victor's claim that would come with any form of survival, or all the eyes that will suddenly be forever upon her and her brother. She'd much rather just return to the serenity of the orchards—where they were both too clever to be messed with by any of the Peacekeepers and they could manage to get enough food to just survive. None of those details are what really matters, which is that the two of them can live there so completely free from any form of bondage. "Just spend the rest of the time in the orchard, and leave the rest of this behind us completely; no more Capitol and no more Games."
Thankfully, Gavroche plays along with this, even though they're both far too aware that they won't be able to go home, at least not together. "Back to where a person can be properly free! No more cameras or stupid Capitol citizens. None of that."
"Best way it can be," Éponine agrees, sighing deeply. For a moment, they sit there beside each other, in silence. Words weigh heavily upon her mind, words that she can't quite get out. This is probably the last time they will ever be here together without anything trying to kill them, and this truth is something that she realizes, rolls about in her mind before rejecting it. She needs to talk to him, to help him remember all their bright days sitting under apple trees and eating the fruits, chasing one another around the grounds and keeping each other alive and at least relatively well. She needs to tell him that she's promised herself to be there for him, is solely set on getting her younger brother out of these nightmares. She needs to tell him that she will miss him so unbearably much, and that she loves him no matter what happens in these wretched Games. Instead, she can't manage to say any of this.
"I understand, 'Ponine," Gavroche replies simply, to the silence that follows her words. And he does, which she's incredibly thankful for. "Things will turn out, just you wait."
"We should probably sleep," Éponine admits, flopping down on her bed but keeping her eyes open. "Nothing says we'll be able to get a good night's sleep for the next while."
"'Course, I can't see tonight granting a goodnight's sleep either," Gavroche points out, standing back up and pacing around the room. "Best to rest even if we can't sleep, though I s'pose." His eyes meet Éponine's and stay there, breathing each other in before he leaves wordlessly. The door closes behind him, and Éponine is left alone with her thoughts.
"And so it begins," she whispers to herself, the room empty besides her. She slowly works her way up at the head of the bed, unpeeling the blanket and sheets from the mattress and climbing beneath them, burrowing into their depth. She brings them over her head, cutting her off from the rest of the world. Of course, she can't really fall asleep, not with the daunting presence of the next day on her shoulders. Instead, she has to satisfy herself with a night full of half-asleep daydreams, all of which include too much death and disaster for any sort of reality she'd actually want. Through the entire thing she forces herself to stay in bed, getting any rest that she can manage despite her unease. When she finally does wake up in the morning, she feels like she lost more energy than gained it during her rest, but doesn't let herself dwell on any of that—the day has arrived.
Éponine feels utterly trapped. She's not only in the air miles above the ground in a large hovercraft, but is trapped in her chair, forced to sit almost completely still during the duration of the flight. Everyone is there, all the other tributes, stationed side by side next to each other. On her left, there's Gavroche, while the boy from District 12 is to her right. In all honesty, she hasn't put much thought to this boy, as he never has really stood out to her for any particular reason. The others are all situated by district, boys and girls appearing every other. Éponine can see that while some of them look just as nervous as she feels, others, like the lot from Districts One and Two, both look completely in their element, already concentrated on the task ahead of them. Because of this, Éponine finds it hard to concentrate on any of them up at the front of the room they're sitting in. There are armed guards around as well, Peacekeepers ready for any tributes who disobey. None of them will, of course; they know much better than that.
Éponine's eyes shift to the figures that are strapped down close by, who she identifies as the two from District Eight who she has allied herself with: Cosette and Marius. The blonde woman is the one Éponine has actually talked to, and therefore Cosette is the one who Éponine concentrates more on. Cosette's eyes are aimed towards the ground, her body language visibly angled away from Marius, who just looks worried and uncomfortable. Probably they're both just nervous for the challenge ahead. Whatever the case, Éponine just hopes that it won't affect their alliance in the Games. It was strange; the two of them seemed so close before, Cosette going so far as to insist in bringing him in on their mini alliance. Éponine can't help but wonder if there's something beyond an alliance between the two of them—both of them are, after all, supposedly from the same district.
Éponine can't concentrate on that right now, can't focus on all the many things that can and probably will go wrong. She discussed with Cosette earlier that they plan to run, just to get out of there as soon as possible and get to safety together, and that's what she plans to do. Since the three of them are relatively close in district numbers, it shouldn't be too hard to sprint in the same direction away from the large blood bath. Well, assuming they all make it out of this mess alive and ready to run.
As they all sit there, a women dressed in a white apron and tunic comes around to all of them. She asks for each tribute's arm in turn, before injecting them with a large needle and moving to the next person.
"Arm, please," she asks curtly once arriving to Éponine, not even bothering to properly look her in the face.
"What are you doing?" Éponine questions, before her arm is forcefully jerked forwards.
"Tracking chip, to show where you are in the arena," the woman responds, jabbing her arm with the utensil before continuing on in the same uncaring manner.
Unable to help herself, Éponine's other hand moves down and presses against the surface, moving over the small bump in her skin that still throbs slightly. Now she really does feel like nothing more than a piece in their Games, a pet allowed inside only because the real masters know exactly where she is at any given time.
They're almost there; Éponine realizes this as the hovercraft slowly loses altitude, causing her stomach to plummet slightly. She's never done very well with heights—not like she's had the chance to experience them—so now she's not surprised as her sense of dread for the Games is increased by this new discomfort.
Gavroche, sitting beside her, shoots her a quizzical look, and Éponine has to wonder whether her face has turned slightly green. It certainly feels like that's the case. Nausea's building inside her slightly, that she continuously tries to swallow down. Finally, after the pressure continues to build everything slows into a stop, the flying machinery safely on the ground. Now the real danger presses in, reminding Éponine that there's a far better chance of her demise from the games ahead of her than any sort of hovercraft accident.
The belts that keep them pinned into their chairs loosen, and Éponine quickly pulls it off of her, standing up. Glancing around, she watches the others do the same, most of them not quite so hastily.
"Ready?" she whispers to Gavroche, reaching beside her and squeezing his hand for a moment.
"Is there a ready?" Gavroche shrugs, his usual smile in place but now slightly more forced. "I'll see you in the victor's square, 'Ponine."
"See you there," Éponine murmurs her response, nodding and offering up the slightest smile before it vanishes completely.
"Tributes this way," a Peacekeeper instructs, bringing all of their attention to the front of the hovercraft. A group of the Peacekeepers quickly bring all the victors to their separate launching pads. Éponine suddenly finds herself in a very plain and nearly vacant room. All the wall and floors are grey, with no embellishments necessary. There are very few things in this room that are there to catch her eye; a small bench on the far side of the room, a glass sphere container in front of her, and the door behind her. It's safe for her to assume that the glass structure is what will shortly be launching her upwards into the arena that's situated above her. The door is no help to her now, locked from the outside.
Taking a deep, shaky breath that echoes in the still of the room, Éponine walks forwards, glancing around into the eerie space and slowly realizing that this is the last structure she'll deal with for the next amount of time that the Games take place, and very possibly the last one ever. Her one consolation is that at least she's now done with everything involving the Capitol.
These thoughts are hardly out of her mind when there's a small click behind her. Whirling around, Éponine quickly sees that a single man enters, a black cloak about his shoulders and a tall top hat adorning his head. Searching her mind for everything she's heard so far, Éponine can't figure out why the hell Montparnasse, her mentor, is entering this room at this moment. From what she's heard, he should be back at the Capitol awaiting the beginnings of the game.
"'Ponine," he murmurs, stepping inside.
"I thought my stylist was supposed to see me off," she greets cautiously.
"Not glad to see me?" he laughs easily, walking up until he's right in front of her. "Your stylist's an idiot; I came instead."
"They let you through?" Éponine asks, surprised such a thing would be allowed.
"Oh, I never said that," he chuckles, bringing out a black folded suit between his arms. "I just know how to... slip past any unwanted attention. Here, this is your suit for the arena. It will help keep you alive."
Éponine quickly takes the clothes, her eyes meeting his for a moment before she steps away with the suit in her hands. She's already wearing a skintight black suit but hurriedly puts on the additional clothing. The thick fabric adds such a complete layer of warmth onto her and she doesn't doubt that it's designed with a lot more protection from the cold and most likely wetness as well. While still in the room, she feels sweat began to form underneath her clothing, but she ignores it for now—she knows that it'll be very useful later.
"Now, 'Ponine," he murmurs on his silken voice, loud enough to be a hiss but far more calculated and thoughtful, almost kind. "You're allowed one item in the arena, something to represent your district."
"Yes, but I don't have anything from my district," Éponine admits softly. She's never really had possessions in her life, none that weren't there for very clear purposes. Honestly, she has never needed anything like that, nor had the reason to deck herself in any sort of pins or ribbons. She had no real reason to dress up, and most likely she wouldn't have done so if she had the opportunity.
"I know," he allows, holding her gaze in his own. "But I have something from it." He swiftly moves to the back of her. In his hand he holds a simple hair ribbon, a deep red that slips between his fingers. Before she can even respond in either thanks or protest, his long spindly fingers are working their way through her hair, brushing out her snarls and twisting it into a braid. They work in silence, a comfortable silence that somehow calms Éponine. For this moment she doesn't have to focus on her impending doom at the surface of the arena above her, instead solely concentrating on his subtle movements at her back. That's all she wants to have to think about—no brother or herself in an arena of doom—just the calmness of his hands twirling her hair about. He finishes with a bow using the ribbon, tying all of her strands back from her face.
"This way it won't get in the way," Montparnasse explains, easily moving back to in front of her. "Hard to deal with all of that extravagance in the arena."
Éponine nods, not quite knowing how to respond. "Thanks," she mumbles softly, a word that would have been lost if they hadn't been standing in such a still room.
"Of course." A smile twists upon his lips and again she's reminded how unbelievable it is that his victory was one of the bloodiest one for centuries. Somehow, she finds it so hard to believe that he has killed so many and still appears to be so sane and gentle. "I am your mentor, after all."
They pause for a moment before he sighs and continues talking. "We hardly have any time, 'Ponine. In moments it will count down and you will be shot up into the arena. Stay calm, though; you can do this."
"Right," Éponine responds, watching his hand move forwards and gently press up against his shoulder.
"You have a plan, I presume?" he asks, his voice continuing upon its hum of subtle gentleness.
"Yes, I've made some allies, and the three of us are planning to sprint out of there," Éponine answers.
"Yes, a good choice. Go immediately to water when you leave if you can, as it will keep you alive more than any sword," Montparnasse instructs. "Getting away and to water is the most important thing there is to do."
"Alright," Éponine says, her voice growing even more serious. "We're planning to stay away from the Cornucopia and bloodbath as much as possible."
"Clever," he praises, his voice sliding into its usual hiss.
"Enter the platform in two minutes," a dull female voice instructs from some unseen speaker in the room.
Éponine's head twists around in attempt to find the source but is completely unsuccessful.
A tight smile lingers on Montparnasse's lips. "I would say good luck, but I'm sure you don't need it."
Éponine tries to give a weak smile in return but can't even manage that now. She can't believe that this is finally happening; the dreaminess of the whole situation is to the point of numbing. She forces her breath to calm. She needs to concentrate, to be ready for the next opening scene of the Games.
"Goodbye, 'Parnasse." She forces the words from her lips, walking away from him with a surprising smooth tranquility. Bitterly, she realizes that she will miss this man who's been so completely helpful at this wretched Capitol.
"Goodbye, 'Ponine," he responds, tilting his top hat in her direction in farewell.
With those words, she walks forwards into the glass cage and the single door on the surface clicks in place behind her. The 32nd Hunger Games are about to begin.