A/N: RIP Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He will be remembered. Me? I will only ever know him as Plutarch Heavensbee. Just saying.
Here's District Six.
The Capitol
The Capitol Hall
2100 Hours
Hundreds of thousands of colorful folks stand as one, bring their hands together again and again, cheer and whoop as Mercedes Jones takes the stage. Eternally famous for her "moldy odds" comment at her reaping, the fifteen-year-old has already won the hearts of the Capitol people.
"How's it going, Mercedes?" Caesar asks.
"How's what going? Life?"
"Yeah, start with that," Caesar says.
"With any luck, it won't go at all," she says with a small laugh. "There are ninety-six of us, sure, but I don't plan to be among the dead."
Her words echo in the large hall, then die out. There's a moment of silence, and then the laughs come. They escape from the audience members' mouths and sweep through the hall.
Caesar holds up a hand for silence, though he laughs along with them. "Okay, okay, faulty wording," he admits. "I meant to ask, how are you doing tonight? I mean...ah, you know what I'm asking."
"I do," Mercedes agrees. "I'm well. And yourself?"
"As great as ever," Caesar says. His face takes on an almost wistful expression, but it disappears as quickly as it came, leaving the girl to wonder if she had imagined it. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?"
Mercedes shrugs. "Should I be nervous?"
The audience titters, and Caesar says, "That's completely up to you."
"Good. I don't like it when people tell me to be nervous."
"Has anyone said that?"
"Yeah," Mercedes says. "Meyla. The second girl. You know her? I said I wasn't that nervous for the Games, and she said I ought to be. I can't imagine why. If I was nervous, I'd be agitated, jumpy, distressed right now. But I'm not."
"I believe you won, then," Caesar says.
"I did," she agrees. "Perhaps she's psychic, but some backwards form of psychic. I'm not nervous at all. No, I suppose she wouldn't exactly be psychic, just thinks she is. Something like that." Mercedes lifts a shoulder. "I wouldn't know. She may be, but I'm not psychic." She grins.
"Are you sure? You seem pretty confident you'll be the victor."
Mercedes looks startled. "Of course I'm confident, Caesar. I mean, I have all the skills I need, right?" She grins and rolls her eyes. "Maybe I'm too confident. I don't believe it, but maybe some of you lovely people do. If that's the case, when I'm dead, you can remind me of my moldy odds."
There is a rumble of laughter from the audience. Mercedes smiles at them.
"Where did that come from?" Caesar asks, wiping a tear from his eye. "You said that at your reaping, too."
"Where did the moldy odds come from?" Mercedes repeats. "Well, they might have come from the good odds that spoiled because I decided to take tesserae. Or maybe they came from here, the Capitol. It was someone from here who picked my name, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so," Caesar says with a shrug and a smile. "I mean, where did you come up with that line?"
"Oh," Mercedes says. "I was talking with my brother the morning of the reaping. His name is Ford. He's nine, and he was scared he'd be chosen. I told him not to worry, he wouldn't get the moldy odds, and neither would I."
"Oh?" Caesar shakes his head sympathetically. "But you did get the moldy odds."
"I know," she says with a sigh. "Ford, he came to see me after the reaping. He said he'd been so scared when I got the moldy odds. He was afraid it meant his odds were moldy as well. But they weren't." She looks up at the main camera, the one swooping in just a few feet from her face. "Hear that, Ford? Even if my odds mold, yours won't."
"Tell us more about him," Caesar urges.
Mercedes smiles. "He's a nosy little kid. What more is there to tell?"
"Nosy?"
"Yeah. He's always barging into my room and asking what I'm doing, if I can play with him, things like that," she says. "I've been considering putting a sign on my door saying 'Enter this room without Mercedes's permission, and face death'. But then I suppose I'd have to give myself permission every time I wanted to go into my own room."
Caesar laughs. "I suppose you would have to. So, Mercedes, tell us about your friends back in Six."
"Ferrari is probably my best friend, not to choose favorites," Mercedes says. "We've been good friends for years. Since we started school, I think. Suzuki and Trolley I met at the engine factory. Phil came later on, when he switched to our school."
"Did they come to see you after the reaping?" Caesar asks.
"They did."
"What did they say?"
"They asked me to win. They told me to do my best. They knew my odds, they knew there were ninety-six of us. They didn't think I could win, that much was obvious."
"What did you say in response?"
Mercedes rolls her eyes. "I asked them how they could be such idiots."
Caesar laughs. "Idiots?"
"Yeah. They though I'd die, Caesar. That's pretty idiotic if you ask me."
"Why is it?" Caesar inquires.
"Because I obviously have what it takes to win," Mercedes says. "They should know that. I told them I'd do my best, I told them I'd probably be able to win. They didn't believe me."
"Why do you think you can win?" Caesar asks. "What are your strongest attributes?"
"I'm fast," Mercedes says. "I'm great at sprints. I can use a knife well. I'm decent at camouflage as well."
"Those will be useful."
"Yeah. The Careers let me in. I'll be with them for the majority of the Games." Mercedes smiles, and there's no missing the triumphant gleam in her eye. "I can do this."
"Good job," Caesar says. "I'm sure they're very proud of you back home. Eight in training. And aren't you ranked nineteenth?"
"Nineteenth," Mercedes confirms proudly. "Right after Lila Walker from District Two. She'll be dead soon, and I'll move up."
Caesar grins. "Always nice to see a confident tribute from an outer district."
"I have a reason to be confident," Mercedes says.
The timer beeps. Caesar rises and takes the fifteen-year-old's hand in his own. "Good luck in the arena," he tells her. "Ladies and gentlemen, Mercedes Jones!"
Meyla Spoke walks onto the stage. Her golden hair is tied back in a bun, and loose strands frame her pale neck. Her blue eyes dart nervously, taking in the audience, the enormity of the hall.
"Do come on, dear," Caesar says kindly, noting the eight-year-old's fear. "Let's not keep the audience waiting."
"Okay," she mumbles, taking several small, hesitant steps toward the chairs.
Caesar comes to her, takes her hand, leads her to the center of the stage. He sits then, and she takes her own seat.
"How are you tonight?" Caesar asks, his voice gentle.
"I'm..." A crease appears on the young girl's forehead. "I'm scared, I guess, Caesar."
"Scared? Scared about tomorrow, I assume?"
"Yes, Caesar," Meyla says. "I bet I'm going to die." As the words leave her mouth, she shudders violently. "Tomorrow. In one day, in twenty-four hours, I might be dead. In thirteen hours, I might be dead."
"Don't be a pessimist," Caesar says.
Meyla brushes a strand of hair from her face. "I try to be an optimist, Caesar, but usually my life isn't in the balance."
"Just stay away from the fighting, and you'll have a good chance," Caesar says.
"I suppose so."
"So, you said you're usually an optimist," Caesar says. "How do you see the world? District Six, specifically?"
Meyla shrugs, and a timid smile crosses her lips. "It's too violent, Caesar, but I do believe that people are good. Even if they do really bad things, deep down, there's good in them."
"That's a strong philosophy," Caesar says quietly.
"I like people. I like to see the good in them. To bring it out, if I can."
"How would you do that?" Caesar inquires.
"I'd be nice to them," Meyla answers. "If I'm cordial enough, perhaps they'll be nice, too."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes," Meyla says with a smile. "I'm always trying it out on Jonan. He's my brother, you know."
"Does it work on him?"
Meyla's smile fades. "He's not very malleable, Caesar. He's too stubborn. I'm always nice to him, but he's always so grumpy. But I love him still. How can I not? We're twins."
"Ah, yes," Caesar says. "What's it like, being together in this...situation? What was your reaction when he was reaped alongside you?"
"I was shocked. What were the odds of us both being chosen?" Meyla brushes a tear from her cheek. "I was devastated, Caesar. Mother and Father, they both came to visit after the reaping. They couldn't believe it, and neither could I, and I could only imagine what Jonan was feeling like." She shakes her head. "He's sensitive, sometimes. He tries to hide it, but I still worry about him."
"Do you get along?"
Meyla smiles sheepishly. "Oh, I try to get along with him, but sometimes he's impossible, you know? Not to lay the blame on him. I wish we were better friends."
"So, you try to get along with everyone?"
"Everyone I can," Meyla confirms. "I'm a peaceful person, Caesar. I don't like violence."
"So, how do you think you'll fare in the Games?" Caesar asks.
Meyla looks away. "I don't know, Caesar. I'm not very strong, and I'm eight years old. I can't guarantee anything. Mercedes thinks she can win. She isn't nervous at all. I can't relate to that, not at all. I'm scared stiff, Caesar."
"Just do your best," Caesar says.
"I always do my best." Meyla looks down at her hands. They rest in her lap, trembling slightly, paper white, fingers clenched together. "For what that's worth."
"What will your most helpful characteristics be in the arena?"
Meyla shrugs. "I'm mostly just a peacemaker, Caesar. I don't have many strengths. I'm fast, and I'm smart, and I can build a decent fire. Snares, too, I guess. I can climb..."
"That's quite a few strengths," Caesar insists. "You'll be fine."
Meyla smiles gratefully. "Thanks, Caesar. Maybe if I could wield a weapon."
"Did you practice with one in training?"
"Yeah, a bit. But Amila wouldn't have wanted me to. She was a peacemaker as well."
"Amila?"
"My sister." Meyla turns her head to hide her tears. "She was reaped five years ago. She made it considerably far, Caesar, to the final few. But then she died. Arman Wolfe killed her. I even remember his name..."
"Arman Wolfe?" Caesar repeats.
"Arman Wolfe. District Eleven. He died, too."
"Were you happy when he died?"
"I'm never happy when people die," Meyla says quietly. "You know, Arman was Anvil's brother. Anvil Wolfe. The first boy from District Eleven, I think."
"Ah." Caesar smiles. "Do you plan to take revenge on him?"
"Kill him, you mean?" Meyla shakes her head. "This is what the world has come to, Caesar? He killed someone I loved, so now I'm going to kill him? And someone who loved him is going to come after me, if I don't die? No, Caesar, I'm going to try to forgive him."
"Good luck," Caesar says.
"Thanks." She smiles. "I always try to forgive people. Usually I succeed. It'll be harder, as Arman...killed..." Meyla breaks off, wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. "But I'll do my best."
"That's the best you can do," Caesar says. "I wish you the best of luck tomorrow, Meyla."
He rises, and Meyla looks up, startled. "Is it over already?"
Caesar laughs. "Yes, Meyla. Ladies and gentlemen, Meyla Spoke!"
A strip of artificial, ugly light trickles through the small crack between the doors. Belladonna peers onto the stage, and she catches a flash of light fabric as Meyla Spoke passes through the twin doors on the opposite side of the stage.
Belladonna risks yet another glance at the revolting puffy pink dress she wears. It's not the dress that prompts the chills that follow as much as her mentor's "advice". Orders, if you bother to simplify it.
Harmless and cute and friendly, Belladonna, or I'll direct all my resources to the others.
Similar words had left Belladonna's mentor's mouth just hours prior to the interview, though the last clause was only implied.
If she couldn't pull this off, all the sponsor gifts would go to some lame kid. Meyla, perhaps. Their mentor seemed to love the pretty, sweet girl. Maybe Tyrus, if she was truly screwed up.
No, Belladonna couldn't let that happen.
"Let us now welcome to the stage, from District Six, our third girl...Belladonna Darnell!"
Harmless and cute and friendly...
The fifteen-year-old bites back a considerably rude remark. The two footmen come to haul the doors open, and she shoves into the door with her shoulder, moving it several inches. She slips through the gap and makes her way to the chairs.
"Hello," Caesar says brightly. "Great to have you here tonight. You're something of a celebrity here in the Capitol."
"Like all ninety-five of the others," Belladonna points out.
"Well, perhaps, but you're ranked thirty-eighth, are you not?"
"I am," she confirms. Her words sound rather brusque, and to counter that, she forces an unnatural giggle. It earns her some odd stares from the more observant Capitol folk, but Caesar just smiles.
"That high rank has earned you some fame," he insists.
"I can believe that." Belladonna smiles sweetly. "I hope it's enough to get me back here in a few weeks."
"Do you plan to win?" Caesar asks. "Do you think you can win? You look too kind to harm a soul, Belladonna."
The girl remembers her anger, her disbelief, when her mentor told her the plan of action.
"If I do this, you realize there'll be no contributions, right? No one will sponsor me. I'll get no attention at all. This is an idiotic plan. Can't you see that?"
As it turned out, she couldn't. As it turned out, the fifteen-year-old had been correct.
Too kind to harm a soul, Caesar?
The previous hours flash through Belladonna's mind. She composes herself and says, "I have to try, Caesar. I mean, how could I not try? When you have people who are important to you rooting for you, there's not much more you can do."
"And are there people important to you?"
Was that not implied, Caesar?
"Oh, yes, Caesar, I do," Belladonna says with a smile. "My family, and my best friend, Kean."
"Tell us about them," Caesar prompts. "Start with your family."
"My family." Belladonna's eyes narrow, and she is unable to compliment it with a wide smile.
"Yes, please." Caesar smiles encouragingly at the young, harmless, petite girl in front of him. "Start with your mother, maybe."
"My mother," she repeats. "My mother. My birth mother? Well, I haven't seen her for years. I was six when she and my dad parted ways. I haven't seen her since, which I'm perfectly fine with." A glare from the mentors' pier, sharp as a dagger. "I do wish I could see her again, I mean. I miss her so much."
Caesar frowns, concerned. "She left? Why?"
"Because," Belladonna says tightly. "Because my father didn't get along with her. Because I didn't get along with her. She hated me. I - I don't know why. I can't imagine what her reasoning is. She didn't want to raise me."
The six-year-old girl stands at the corner of the kitchen. She wears grey pyjamas. Her black hair is pulled back into two tight braids. She did them herself. Her father couldn't, her mother wouldn't. In the center of the kitchen, her parents are deep in a discussion. They do not see their daughter.
The same girl, now fifteen, blinks her eyes to dispel the memory.
"I can't imagine why, either," Caesar says sympathetically. "So, you haven't seen her since?"
"I hate to say this, Evelynn," the man says, holding the woman's hand in his, "but I fear we...cannot stay together. "The man hesitates. "My dear Evelynn, you...well, we have a limited amount of money. And it seems that much of that money is disappearing to fund your...alcoholic intake." He smiles apologetically.
"No," Belladonna says quietly. "But our economic situation has improved since she stopped draining it for her alcohol."
"Alcohol?" Caesar shakes his head sympathetically. "How about your father?"
Blast Darnell looks uncertainly at his wife. "Evelynn, we simply do not have enough money for you to continue buying your...beverages. If you insist on continuing to buy them, I fear we cannot stay together. I'm sorry. Of course, if you wish to stop..."
"I refuse," Evelynn snaps. "I'll leave you, whatever. But you won't be forcing me to stop. Never. If you don't make enough money for me, I'll happily leave you. You get the divorce application from the Justice Building, and we can fill it out immediately."
Blast lowers his head. "Very well. I shall get it tomorrow. I love you."
"He's better than my mother was," the girl says, "but he's...he's not strong enough. He bends too easily."
"Would you say you bend easily?" Caesar inquires. "Say, how are you affected by...problems?"
"And Belladonna is staying with you." Evelynn glares at her husband. "I don't care what you say. I don't want to be near that beast of a daughter. She clearly has problems, and I'm not going to be the person who has to cure her."
At the door, Belladonna does not visibly react. But she is boiling inside. Her cold black eyes narrow, and she stares at her mother with a look of pure hatred. The woman never loved her, and the dislike was mutual. The young girl has never despised a person so much in her entire six years.
Belladonna tries to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. "No, Caesar. I'm tougher than you think I am. I don't bow down to anything or anyone. However much I hate to say it, I have to give my mother credit for that." A grim look, but a small pleasure of the thought of her mother hearing this. Eternally annoying. There's Belladonna in a nutshell.
"So," Caesar says, "if you could tell your father or Kean something - anything - what would you say?"
The camera is too far away to catch the desperation, the sadness in the fifteen-year-old's eyes as she says, "Yes, Caesar. To my father...Dad, I love you. Kean, I love you too. I know it's too late, guys, but I have to say it. I have to. And who knows? Maybe I will come back to you. It is possible, you know."
"It's possible," Caesar agrees. "Very possible. Don't lose sight of your happy ending, Belladonna. Whatever that happy ending is, don't lose sight of it. Got it?"
"Got it."
Belladonna has just straightened her legs when the timer beeps. Caesar wishes her a happy Hunger Games, and sends her away with the Capitol applause ringing in her ears.
Alice Brendon has never stood out among the ninety-five she will be sent into the arena with. She knows it. She got no exceptional training score, and while she's not sure of her rank, she knows it is low, shamefully low. Whenever there are others, the thirteen-year-old is ignored, overlooked. Tonight, for three minutes, she will be alone in her glory, the one and only Alice Brendon ever to grace the stage with her shiny black heels cloaked in the black fabric of her long dress.
Her nerves creep up on the young girl, grab at her spine, spin her towards the doors. The doors that are all that separate her from the stage. For three minutes, she will be the only one in the light. For three minutes, millions of eyes will stare her down, wondering exactly how long it'll be before this girl is dead.
The Capitol had maintained a low murmur throughout Belladonna's interview, but as her interview comes to an end, it rises to a cacophony of noise and cheers and whoops.
Alice wipes her sweaty palms on her dress. The doors are hoisted open for her, and she walks between them.
"Alice!" Caesar rises and approaches the small girl, hand extended casually, amiable smile set on his face.
Alice smiles back. "Hello, Caesar. How are you?"
"Me?" Caesar grins. "I'm fine, Alice, just great. And yourself?"
"As good as I ever was," the girl lies.
"How are you liking the Capitol?" Caesar inquires.
"I love it, Caesar. The food here is better than I've ever tasted before. There's more of it, too; an infinite supply, it seems. The people are great, and everything is just so pretty." Alice smiles. "I love District Six, but there's no beating this place."
In District Six, the people are more sane. They're actual people, both in action and in looks. And they don't simply love killing children. But of course it's better here, Caesar.
Alice keeps a neutral expression, despite the thunderstorm in her mind.
"I'm so glad to hear that!" Caesar says enthusiastically. "So, you said you love District Six. What is it about it that you love?"
"My family lives there." The girl's voice is quieter now, more subdued. "Everyone I've ever known. My friends, my enemies...my life. Everything is back in District Six."
"You must miss them so much." Caesar's voice takes on a sympathetic tone. "Don't you?"
"Oh, I do, Caesar."
"Tell us about them," the man prompts.
"Who to start with?" Alice lets out a breathy laugh. "Leanna, she's my sister. She's fifteen. She's charming, and we're very close. My parents, they're so kind. They're always helping me out, and whenever I need anything, they do their best to get it. I love them all. I miss them, Caesar. I can't begin to explain how much."
"I can imagine how hard this must be for you," Caesar says.
Sure you can. Alice almost rolls her eyes.
"Tell us more," Caesar practically begs.
"There are two more people I have to mention," Alice says. "I can't ignore them. Not now, not here. They're two of the most important people in my life. My friends Jenna and Natalie, they've both been such good companions over the years. I miss them both, too."
"If you could tell them anything, what would you say?" Caesar inquires. "Your family, Jenna, Natalie, anyone."
Alice brings a shaky hand through her amber hair. "I'd say...I'd tell them not to worry. If I come out, I come out, and if I don't, I don't. It's too late. There's nothing they can do about it now."
"They could sponsor you," Caesar suggests. "Or contribute to the funds, at the very least. Doesn't your district have a sponsor group?"
Alice smiles. "I give money to them every year, Caesar. The sponsor group, that is. The thing is, Jenna and Natalie, I can't ask them to donate their money. I'm not going to win."
"Why not?" Caesar looks shocked.
"Oh, perhaps if there were fewer tributes I'd have a chance. I'm not a weakling, Caesar, not even close. But I'm not stupid, either. There are ninety-six of us. It'll be a bit harder to win."
"Oh, come on," Caesar snorts. "Tell us what you're going to do when you win."
"Well, I'll finally be able to show people at home what I have to offer," the thirteen-year-old says. "They'll finally know that I'm not a weakling. But that's a long ways away, Caesar."
"But it's still in the foreseeable future," Caesar points out.
"So it is."
"May the odds be ever in your favor."
"Thank you." Alice nods in gratitude. "I wish the same to each and every one of you. I hope I see you again."
The timer beeps, and Alice's pointy heels clip the floor, signaling her steps toward the door. The Capitol cheers and whoops, and it ends just as it began.
Bright orange. That's the first they see. Capitol orange, the color of just the prior day. Whoever his stylist was must have been not quite on top of things. What a shame.
Bright white. His teeth. His lips are peeled back, and the lights shine off of his teeth.
Blue then; his eyes. Brighter than those of most seventeen-year-olds, they gleam under the fashionable lighting.
Even after you get past these, and manage to focus on the boy himself, the excited hands waving in front of you may block your view. But Caesar raises his hand for silence, and the hands retreat to the laps of their owners.
"Ladies the gentlemen, I'm so very pleased to welcome Tyrus Duncaine to the stage!" Caesar hollers. "Welcome to our happy community, Tyrus!"
"Actually, Caesar, I believe I'd better welcome you to the land of Tyrus Duncaine." The boy gestures all around him. "Fabulous, is it not?"
"The land of Tyrus Duncaine?"
"That's right." Tyrus grins. "It's all mine. Or it soon will be, once I go out there and win these Games."
"You're going to win?"
"Of course." Tyrus rolls his eyes. "How could I not? I need to come back and, ah...hang out with all those lovely ladies out there." He winks at the crowd, and said ladies shriek with excitement and admiration.
Caesar smiles. "I'm sure the ladies would be very happy with that."
"I'm sure they would be," the boy agrees. "I mean, I am me, after all. And I'm awesome."
"You sure are."
"I am," Tyrus repeats. "Better than the rest of those fools." He jerks his chin at the doors, behind which seventy-five tributes still sit. "I mean, look at some of them."
"Go on." Caesar looks mildly entertained.
"Look at Jeremy. He's five. And he thinks he's one of us Careers?" Tyrus shakes his head in disgust. "He won't last a minute. And that six-year-old from Five? He thinks he's so smart. He thinks he's going to beat me? A little baby six-year-old obsessed with some spacey thingy, beat the lord of the arena? The lord of everything?"
"So, you don't think some of the tributes will pose a challenge?"
"Not any of those tributes."
"Not any of the young ones?"
"No, not any of the young ones," Tyrus agrees. "Not any of the weaklings, either. Yes, Alice, that includes you." He grins at the camera. "So, once you winnow the ranks down to people who might have a chance, there are only a few of us left. And when you select the victor, well, we all know who that'll be."
Caesar laughs. "What do you think your odds of survival are, Tyrus?"
"One hundred percent, obviously." Tyrus grins. "And you know it, don't you? You know that I will do justice to the name Duncaine. I'll beat ninety-five butts with my handy weapon, just you watch!"
"Ah, yes, your handy weapon." Caesar leans forward. "So, Tyrus, you're on your pedestal the opening day of the Games. The gong goes off. What do you do?"
"Run to the Cornucopia, like anyone with any hope."
"What do you do there?"
Tyrus presses a thick finger to his temple. "I'd grab a weapon or five and some supplies, and hack away at the other tributes." The seventeen-year-old grins, wide and feral. "I'd kill them and watch as their blood splatters the ground."
"What weapon?" Caesar inquires. "Let's say you could pick anything. Anything from a wooden club to a solar gun. Not that those will be available, but let's say they were."
"Solar gun?" Tyrus repeats. "Like those guns the Peacekeepers use?"
"Yes."
"They're certainly very deadly," Tyrus says musingly. "I think I'd still pick my sword, Caesar."
"Sword?"
"Of course. Nothing kills better than a sword. And I want to kill a lot of them. It's my goal. I'll kill them and then come back here as no longer the Capitol's favorite tribute, but the Capitol's favorite victor."
"He going to be your favorite victor, folks?" Caesar hollers to the crowd. They answer in the affirmative through cheers and screams of admiration. Tyrus stands and flexes his biceps.
"How many ladies just fainted?" he yells. "Quite a few, I'd imagine. Am I right? Tell me, am I right!" The applause nears an ear-shattering level, and he says, "I think I am!"
"I'm sure you are," Caesar agrees with a sort of fascinated yet repulsed admiration. His lips part, as if to let through more words, but he clamps them shut again.
"Of course I'm right," Tyrus says snarkily. "I know who I am, Caesar. Man, if I was a lady, I'd be fainting and drooling all over me!"
Caesar laughs. "And when you won, what would you do?"
"Why, I'd ask the handsomest victor ever out," the boy says, rolling his eyes.
"Do you ever wish you could do that?" Caesar questions. Had he not been the most excellent actor of his lifetime, tears of mirth would have lready sprung from his eyes, made their way down his face.
"Oh, yes," Tyrus says. "You ladies are all so lucky you might get me!" He flexes his biceps again, and wallows in the screams of delight. "That's right! Just hope you're the lucky one!"
The lucky one that he would use for a day, then dispose of. Tyrus grins at the image of a young woman slumped on his doormat, beating at the door, grabbing for the golden doorknob, devastated that she was not worthy of him.
"Well, when you win, anything will be possible," Caesar says. "No one will ever be able to deny you anything. Doesn't that just sound fabulous?"
"Oh, it does," Tyrus agrees. His mouth twists, and Caesar shivers in the knowledge that whatever this boy wishes leeway to do, it is not in anyone else's best interests.
"That's great motivation to win, isn't it?"
Tyrus rolls his eyes. "I don't need motivation, Caesar. I'm Tyrus Duncaine. I've got these Games in the bag," he boasts. "Just you watch. I'll beat the life out of anyone who steps into the arena alongside me!"
"Good luck," Caesar says, rather gravely. The two of them stand and clasp hands, Tyrus looking rather unwilling, Caesar too practiced to show his disgust. "May the odds be ever in your favor, Tyrus Duncaine of District Six."
Jonan Spoke is not the nervous sort. He had watched Meyla shivering with nerves, and why not admit it? He had laughed at her.
He resented her as well. Had he gone first, he would have broken all of their news, gotten all the fame there was to earn. He would have been the star of the Spokes. The last of three Spokes ever to be reaped - that he knew about, that was - but the most memorable. The best.
But no, darling little Meyla had gone first. Beautiful, smart, charming Meyla had stolen the hearts of the Capitol.
Not that Jonan expects to win any hearts. He may only have eight years of experience, but he knows he's by no means an interesting boy, one that millions of critical funny people would admire.
"Next up, Jonan Spoke!"
The eight-year-old hears Caesar call for him. His ears perk up, and his eyes light up. He pats down his rumpled suit and strides to the doors.
Jonan squints as the fury of lights hits him. He rubs his eyes, then puts his arms to his sides. He often fought with Meyla, for she insisted he was tired each night, while she was the one rubbing her eyes and yawning.
The room becomes a swirl of light and color and sound. When it settles back to a comprehensible state, Jonan blinks and stares at the man in front of him. Caesar wears his famous blue suit, lightbulbs and all.
"Hello, Jonan," Caesar says cheerfully.
"Hi," the boy mutters. He's never been a social person, and greetings do not come naturally to him. He can remember many a time when his mother chastised him for not greeting that stranger she called brother, not using his friends' name. All of that came easily to Meyla. The perfect are never lectured.
If Mother was here, Jonan is sure she'd tell him to shape up, answer Caesar's questions in complete sentences, to be more polite. Polite, like Meyla. Proper, like Meyla. Good, like Meyla.
Boring, weak, pathetic. Like Meyla.
"How are you tonight?" Caesar asks. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I's fine," Jonan says stiffly.
Elaborate, Jonan. His mother always stretched out the A in "elaborate". She'd tell him to stretch out what he was saying to match her overly warped A. Jonan would only obey to shut her up.
But now, she is in District Six, a safe long distance away. And Jonan is content with his short answer.
"That's great to hear," Caesar says enthusiastically. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?"
"The Games, ya mean?"
"Yes."
"Well, I's not nervous at all," Jonan insists, trying to keep the shake in his voice to a minimum. But he can't be scared, not even nervous. Not with Meyla around.
"You're not?" Caesar says. "Why not?"
Jonan falters here. "'Cause...'cause...why would I be?"
"Oh, I don't know," Caesar says with a shrug. "Maybe you'd be afraid you'd be killed. Or do you not see that as a possibility?"
"Well, if all the tributes is like Meyla is, then I's got a good chance of winnin', I reckon," the eight-year-old says.
"Ah, yes, Meyla." Caesar grins and leans forward. "What do you think of your twin, Jonan?"
The boy groans inwardly. Why did Little Miss Perfect have to be drawn into this? But he also sees this is a time to vent everything about the darling, lovely Meyla.
"I hates her," Jonan says emphatically. "All the growners, they's loving her and stuff, 'cause she so nice an' pretty an' kind an' helpful an' just damned perfect."
"You don't like her much, I collect," Caesar says with a laugh.
"Yeah, I sayed that." Jonan grips the edge of his seat. "An' she always tellin' me to be like her, like the growners tell me. They says I shouldn' talk if I ain't gonna talk normal. She say I talk Outskirter-like, an' that ain't nice, that ain't nice at all."
"Outskirter-like?"
"Yup," Jonan confirms. "Outskirters. My fam'ly, we's Outskirters. We's some o' the poorest folk in the district. We live near the fence, far away from the town. That why they call us Outskirters."
"And Outskirters have their own lingo?"
"Yup. I dunno 'bout other districts, but you c'n identify an Outskirter based on his speech in Six," Jonan says. "Ya won't find it oft'n in adults, though, they all seem ta lose it over the years. But Meyla always speak so formally for an eight-year-old, and me Aunt Trinda still speak like me."
"So would you consider yourself an average Outskirter child?" Caesar inquires.
"Caesar, we's the trash dump of District Six," Jonan says. "We don' get or have no good people. The townies, they ain't carin' 'bout us. We don' have trends or averages. I go 'round an' get food whenever I can an' pick through the trash, and that pretty normal. Meyla don't pick through trash to find food, though."
"Well, if you win the Hunger Games, you can move your entire family out of the slums," Caesar says encouragingly.
"Betcha I c'n do that, Caesar." Jonan smiles. "I's stronger an' tougher than Meyla."
"See? She's not better than you. Remember that."
Jonan shrugs. "Will it matter when she dead? 'Cause she gonna be soon."
"Are you going to kill her?" Caesar looks skeptical.
"If I gets the chance, maybe." Jonan is clearly uncomfortable.
"Are you a killer?"
"I dunno, I's never gott'n a chance to find out before," Jonan says. "Ya never go 'round unarmed in the outskirts of Six, but I's never had to kill some'un before."
"In the arena, if someone's attacking you will you fight back?" Caesar inquires. "Try to kill them, perhaps? Or will you run away?"
Jonan flares with sudden anger. "I ain't gonna run away from no one! I's never gonna run away! I's gonna take my weapon an' face them and make them bite the dust! Meyla'd run away screamin' like a little baby." He grins in triumph. "But I's Jonan Spoke, and I ain't never gonna give up an' run away."
Caesar grins. "That's good to hear. So you think you can win?"
"I's not sure, Caesar," Jonan admits. "I' not an idiot. There's ninety-six o' us, and only one's comin' out. I's on the younger side, so my odds ain't as good as some."
"How far do you think you'll get, then?"
"Farther than Meyla," Jonan says immediately. "'Cause I'm the strong one, 'member? I betcha I's gonna live a week or two. Maybe three. But I c'n guarantee the day Meyla dies, I'll be alive an' well."
"Confident, I see," Caesar says. "Am I right in saying you got a seven in training? A seven?"
"Yup." Jonan's chest swells with pride. He knows the Gamemakers changed the ratings to accommodate a younger age group, but he doesn't care, because he got a seven, a seven.
"Such an excellent score for someone your age," Caesar says. "And ranked fifty-fourth, am I correct?"
"Fifty-fourth," the eight-year-old confirms. "And ya know what place Meyla in, Caesar?"
"What place?"
"Seventy-first. And she gots a four." Jonan grins. "She gonna die soon, Caesar, an' I's gonna be happy."
Caesar chuckles and checks the time. "Well, Jonan, we're running out of time. Good luck in the arena. May the odds be ever in your favor."
"Thanks, Caesar."
The males stand, and the Capitol does as well, stomping their feet and cheering. The timer beeps, and Jonan leaves the stage.
The six-year-old sits on the cold floor, clutching his knees to his chest. He rocks from side to side, the way is sister Medrada always rocked him. She was twice his age, but they were the best of friends.
But she'd told him...she'd said...
Coby Roose feels a hand on his thin arm. He jerks his head up, his sister's name coming to his lips.
"Meddie..."
But it isn't her. It's a tall man with close-cropped styled hair, and unnaturally colored eyes. Coby scoots away from the cold hand, and its owner straightens.
"You're expected onstage in one minute," he says stiffly. "Get up, kid."
Coby's pupils dilate with fear as he sees the twin doors looming in front of him. Behind them...
"No," he whispers. "I's not going out there..."
"Get up." The man grabs Coby by the arm and hoists him to his feet. "You're going out there whether you want to or not!"
Coby feels tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He starts to sniffle as the man hauls him toward the door.
"Stand up straight," the man says brusquely. "Chin up, eyes open, hands at your sides. Get a smile ready. Look confident. Heck, do whatever your mentor told you to do. I suppose it doesn't really matter. You're going to die anyways."
Coby obeys, and feels despair come over him. He knew he wouldn't win, he knew there was almost no chance he'd be the victor, but to hear it from the mouth of an adult...
It seems moments later that the doors are hoisted open, and the man jabs Coby in the center of the back. The six-year-old casts a fearful glance back at the man. Was he really forcing him in front of millions of people?
"Coby, Coby!" Caesar says enthusiastically, several meters away. Coby looks nervously at the interviewer. "Oh, don't be nervous. It's only three minutes, and we're actually very nice people."
The young boy mutters something, and reluctantly walks over to the seats.
"How are you tonight?" Caesar asks.
Coby glances nervously at the crowd. "Oh. I's...I's doing all right."
"Are you sure?" Caesar lays a hand on the young boy's knee. "You seem pretty nervous."
"I - I's a bit nervous," Coby admits. "I means, there lots o' people out there, watchin' me. 'Course I's a bit nervous, Caesar."
"I can understand," Caesar says with a smile. "But we're all friendly people, remember? We won't hurt you."
Coby frowns at this. "You - Meddie say you kill in the Games."
Caesar raises an eyebrow. "We don't kill, son. The person with the weapon kills. You've seen the broadcasts, right? The guy with the weapon, he's the one that kills. Not us."
"But...but Meddie say..." Coby furrows his brow.
"Who's Meddie?"
"Medrada. She me sister," Coby explains. "We's good friends."
"So, you get along?"
"We's good friends," Coby repeats. "But she always in me nightmares."
"Why?"
Coby shivers. "The night b'fore the reapin', I dreamt she was reaped. An' then I was reaped' and we went in t'gether. It was 'n awful dream, Caesar."
"Did you tell her about it?"
"I telled her, Caesar," Coby answers. "An' she telled me, Coby, you ain't gonna be picked 'cause you're only six an' your name ain't in there many times. Her name was in twenty-four, I thinks. But she wasn' reaped, I was."
"Did she come to say good bye to you?" Caesar inquires.
"Y-yes, Caesar, she comed." Coby takes a shaky breath. "She was cryin' all over the place an' tellin' me she was so sorry. She told me to win 'cause I had to win for her."
"And do you expect to win?"
"I's an Outskirter. Outskirters don't win nothin'."
"Exactly! They don't win nothing, they win some of the time."
"Huh?" Coby stares at Caesar.
"Even if you are an Outskirter, you can win things," Caesar says encouragingly.
"No, I can't," Coby says sadly. "Outskirters don't win nothin'. We are nothin'."
"That's not true!" Caesar protests. "Just do your best!"
"But they..they sayed..."
"Who said what?"
"What always sayed Outskirters weren't worth nothin'," Coby says in a small voice. "An' one telled me they hope I getted reaped so I dies in the Games." He wipes a tear from his eye.
"Don't believe them," Caesar says. "Come on, Coby, what are your strengths?"
Coby shrugs. "I...I guesses I's fast for me age..."
"That's good," Caesar says. "What else?"
"I's got allies."
"Cool! Who?"
"Kaila," Coby says quietly. "Her name Kaila an' she be helping all the littles."
"I heard about her alliance," Caesar says. "Are you excited to join?"
"'Course I's excited," Coby answers. "I didn' think she want no Outskirter on her team, but she sayed sure I could join. I's very happy."
"I can imagine you are," Caesar says.
"Yeah, but I knows I's not gonna win," Coby says unhappily. "I knows, Caesar, an' nothin's gonna change that."
"Don't lose hope so soon," Caesar says. "Medrada would want you to win, wouldn't she?"
Coby nods. "Meddie sayed I better win for her."
"So you have to do your best, don't you?"
"I supposes yes, but I knows I's not gonna win." Coby shrugs. "Meddie, I misses you! I wanna go back home, but Meddie, I's not gonna be able to. Meddie, I's sorry..." Coby fights back tears. "I wanned ta live with you forever an' ever, Meddie, but I can't, not now." The tears start to come. They drip down the young boy's cheeks, and he doesn't even try to hold them back. "I loves you, Meddie, and I's always missin' you. Good bye, Meddie. I dunno if I get another chance ta say that."
"The longer you fight, the more time you'll have to talk to her," Caesar points out helpfully.
Coby smiles grimly. "I's always fightin', Caesar, but as I's sayin', I's an Outskirter, an' Outskirters never win no fights."
"In District Six, perhaps not," Caesar relents. "But this isn't District Six. This is the Capitol, and the arena will be the arena. Everything is different. You can start anew."
"I supposes you's right, Caesar..."
"Just remember that," Caesar says. "Keep fighting, and who knows? Maybe you'll turn out to be the strongest soul in the arena. Don't make assumptions this early on. Maybe you'll be the victor."
"Maybe," Coby says doubtfully.
The timer beeps, startling the young boy.
"Maybe we'll meet again," Caesar says. "Good luck in the arena. Ladies and gentlemen, Coby Roose! District Six!"
The dark haired, dark eyed five-year-old stands between the doors. They have been opened, and the footmen now usher him through, but he passes onto the stage rather reluctantly. Carson Powers was always a shy child, and he is not nearly accustomed to every living soul in Panem knowing his name. The prospect of walking in front of the Capitol, in front of the cameras, everyone watching their screen, sends violent shivers down the young boy's back.
Caesar stands by the two large chairs, hand outstretched, mouth set in a practiced smile. Carson fiddles with the hem of his suit. He stands past the doors, far enough away for them to be hauled shut. When the doors come together, he whips around, stares at his blocked-off entryway, eyes wide.
"Come here," Caesar croons. "Don't be shy, Carson."
Carson fixes Caesar in a suspicious gaze. His lips are sealed shut, much to the man's dismay. How to make him open up, to speak? But the young boy does take two steps forward. Two steps of progress. Not much, but it's enough to give Caesar hope.
"Carson, I'm just going to ask you a few questions, okay?" Caesar's voice is quiet, comforting. "After three minutes, we'll let you be on your way. Just three minutes, okay?"
Carson nods slowly, and toddles over to the chair. He is five years of age, but he is short in stature, his face is small and round, an expression of extreme fear and shyness is on his face, and he walks with the unsteady gait of a much younger child. The chair is too high for him, and it takes a moment for him to get onto it.
"So, Carson, how are you tonight?" Caesar asks from the other chair.
The boy's face twitches, and he glances fearfully at the audience. He says nothing, just looks around with a nervous and yet attentive focus.
"How are you?" Caesar repeats. When this attempt has no effect on the boy, he says, "Look, Carson, we don't have all day. Just three minutes. Tell us. How are you feeling?"
"I - I'm nervous," the boy murmurs. "Tomorrow...tomorrow I go into the arena. I'm scared." He shivers. "They'll come after me with knives and swords and weapons and they'll chase me and I'll die with lots of blood." He says this earnestly, as if he has a vivid picture in his mind, his last view of the arena, and there could be no deviating from this reality.
"You think you'll die tomorrow?" Caesar's voice is skeptical and yet concerned, a careful mix. "Why such pessimistic thoughts, Carson?"
"I'm going to die tomorrow." Carson's eyes are wild, full of fear. "They'll come after me with their weapons, and I won't stand a chance, Caesar. They'll kill me. I'm going to die by tomorrow."
"Don't be such a pessimist," Caesar says. "You can fight back, right? You're not helpless. You had three days of preparation, did you not?"
"Yeah, but I'm five," Carson murmurs. "Five-year-olds don't win the Hunger Games."
"No five-year-old has ever competed," Caesar points out. "You'll make history! Well, you've already made history," he adds with a small laugh. "You're famous."
"Famous," Carson repeats. "But I'm gonna die tomorrow, so what does it matter?"
"Everyone knows who you are," Caesar says. "You're history. You've gone down in history already, that's what I mean. Carson Powers, the first five-year-old from District Six ever to compete in the Hunger Games."
"And die."
"Come on," Caesar says. "Surely you have some strengths. Of course you do. What are they? Tell us, Carson, what are they? If you're going to win, how will you do it?"
"I'm not going to win."
"But if you did, what would assist you?" Caesar inquires.
Carson shrugs. "I'm small, as you can see. I can hide."
"If they can't find you, they can't kill you," Caesar says brightly. "What else?"
"That's pretty much it," the five-year-old admits glumly. "I can't even lift most weapons, Caesar. And I'm fast for my age, I guess, but I'm slower than just about every other tribute, I'm sure."
"Optimism," Caesar reminds him. "If hiding is your strength, then stay in hiding and don't come out until everyone else is dead."
"I won't win."
Caesar laughs. "Were you always a pessimist in District Six as well?"
"What's a pessimist?"
"Someone..." Caesar frowns. "Someone who always has a bad take on life, I guess. So, in District Six, were you a pessimist?"
Carson shrugs again. "Dunno. I never really thought about it."
"Well, what were you like in District Six?" Caesar inquires. "Tell us about your life there."
Carson furrows his small eyebrows. "We weren't exactly Outskirters, because we lived near the town, but we weren't nearly rich enough, and I was always looking for food."
"Tell us more," Caesar urges.
"I had a bunch of older siblings," Carson says. "Momma and Poppa made a bunch of them get jobs, because there were a lot of us and they needed more money."
"You have older siblings?" Caesar asks. "What are they like?"
"Some of them are really nice, Caesar, but some aren't," the boy says. "The morning of the reaping, some of them were telling me...they were telling me I wasn't going to be reaped, no matter what, because I hadn't taken any tesserae. And my big brother, he was telling me I'd be reaped, because he wrote his name on my slips."
"Some of them are nice, though?"
"Yeah, but they lied and said I wouldn't be reaped..." Carson's eyes are wide, afraid.
"Did they come to say goodbye to you?"
"Yes."
"What did they tell you?" Caesar asks. "And what did you say back to them?"
"They said I wouldn't die," Carson mumbles. "They said I'd be the one to come out alive."
"And what did you say in response?"
"I said they'd also said I wouldn't be reaped, and they lied," Carson says tearfully. "And now they said I'd win, and that's how I know I'm going to die, Caesar. Because they lied."
"They may have lied once, but that doesn't mean they're lying this time," Caesar says. "And it's more like they didn't know, I assume."
"They lied," Carson says plaintively. "They lied to me, Caesar."
"Can you forgive them? How good are you at forgiving people?"
"I hope so." Carson sniffs back tears. "I just want to go home and see them all again. I want to see Momma and Poppa and all of my siblings, even the ones that lied! I love them and I miss them so much and I just want to see them again."
"Carson, they're listening to you now," Caesar says. "Is there anything you would like to tell them? Anything at all?"
"Y-yes, I think so..."
"Well, then now is the time to tell them."
"Okay," Carson sniffs. "They - they're listening?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? How do you know?" Carson says accusingly. "Don't lie. Don't ever lie. Not like my siblings lied." His little face scrunches up at this, and fat tears roll down his bony face.
"It's mandatory viewing," Caesar says simply. "Everyone is watching. And you're their child, Carson. Even if they didn't have to, they'd be watching this interview."
"Oh."
"So, speak to them."
"I miss you," Carson says through his tears. "I miss you so much. Momma, Poppa, and all the rest of you, I miss you. But you told me...you told me...you said..." The five-year-old looks up at Caesar. "They're listening, right?"
"I'm sure of it."
"You told me I wouldn't be chosen," the boy continues. "You said I wouldn't be picked at the reaping. You lied. You lied to me, you... You lied." He wipes the tears from his face. "And then you said I'd win, surely I'd win. But you're lying, I can tell. You're lying. And I want to see you again, I really do, but I won't be able to because you're lying, I'm never coming back, never ever."
Carson brings his hands to his eyes now in a hopeless attempt to staunch the flow of tears. Caesar pats him on the shoulder, murmuring for him to stop worrying, if he tries his best surely he has a chance. But despite Carson's age, he is not fooled.
Carson Powers is not coming back.
A/N: And there's District Six. I hope you liked it. Some notices, most of which I've already mentioned numerous times.
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I made a ranking list of all ninety-six tributes in order of most likely to win. It's a bit faulty, as you might expect, but it's the list. I'll be revealing the pre-Games list before the bloodbath, but now I'll only give you your tributes' ranks. PM me and I'll tell you them.
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