Sorry for being soooo late. You were right, Mel/Psychic…
--x
"Hello, I'm Harold Raymond, and you've just finished watching the Hunger Games: Day Six. Remember to send in your questions for me; if we have enough space, you may be featured on TGL!"
The camera panned to Bell, who had been watching the games playing behind Harold, but was quick to turn back into her peppy self.
"Thanks, Harold. This is Bell Voyeur, reminding you that we will be interviewing the families of the seven remaining tributes; but you heard that canon. One of the tributes is already gone, but they don't know it yet. It's sure to be our most exciting segment, yet!"
She flashed a brilliant white smile, waiting for the crew to collect themselves for the big finish.
"This is TGL, wishing you the best Hunger Games yet…"
"And may the odds be ever in your favor!" everyone finished.
"Good night, Panem."
A loud bell rang, and all the equipment began to power down, as the crew started to tone things down, and power off. There was still the distinct chatter about the day's happenings, particularly the District Six's death, but it was getting as close to quiet as it had been in a while.
Of course, that was always a signal for Harold to chat Bell up.
"Hey, Bell! You as excited about tomorrow as I am?" he said, slowly walking over.
"Of… Course, Harold," Bell replied, wrinkling her nose with distaste.
"You should be! I put in a word with the head executive, Bazenas. You're covering them!"
Bell was momentarily stunned; could it be that the death glares were finally getting through? It was all she could do to restrain herself from clapping in delight. An opening! This was her chance to get back her old job!
"Err… Thanks, Harold."
"No problem, Bell!" he replied, laughing uproariously, "It gets lonely at the top."
Despite the small kindness, Bell couldn't quite restrain herself from a grimace at her coworker's boorishness. After all, he had treated her with far too much chauvinism in the past to get away with it all with one kind gesture.
Bell smiled daintily. 'Chauvinist' had been on her word of the day app. It sounded nice, and she actually knew what it meant.
Her co-anchor ambled to the door, slapping two of the camera guys on the back, and chortling at some inside joke. That could have been her…
She sighed deeply, before snapping her fingers for her assistant to bring her purse over, so she could go home. Tomorrow would be a big day, whether the news was delivered by Harold, or not.
Hair? Set. Makeup? Yep. Adorable day-glo-pink glasses from 'Rosier Vision?' Check.
Bell was ready to face the districts, the Capitol, President Norris, or even that awesome District Two girl, all with her standard pep. Let the real games begin; the media was prepared.
She skipped breakfast, figuring she could take a weight-maintaining pill later, and hopped into the elevator that would take her up to the studio. It was rather convenient, living under the place where she worked.
Cheery elevator music played, and she clasped her rare kangaroo-skinned handbag tightly. The furry beasts had gone extinct nearly five hundred years ago. It had cost a small fortune, even by Capitol standards.
A pleasant ding implicated her arrival at the 17th floor, and she breezed out, clipping down the metal-tiled hall in her tiny, pink, shoes. She would meet with the executive, and, if luck was with her, the president.
Room 113 was the destination in mind, and the solid platinum numbering on the door indicated that she had reached her destination. Amping up her smile, Bell slipped in, hoping not to interrupt anything.
"Ahh, Ms. Voyeur! Do come in, Snow just left."
She was greeted by a jovial voice, though her happiness faded a few notches. The president was gone. Drat.
"Don't look so glum! We've got faith that this assignment will be much," Bazenas paused, looking up from his desk, "Easier. Harold will cover the Capitol citizens. We're sending you by hovercraft to the districts with living… Or maybe living, tributes. Got it?"
Bell nodded. It was a standard briefing. Though Mr. Bazenas, a somewhat portly man with pale pink skin (which suggested that during the dye fad, he had caught on; Bell was hopeful not to get that one back any time soon) and a bit of a beard, was a kind man in all respects, he had a schedule, as the heads of Panem-wide television networks often do.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, good! Now, good luck, and be sure to make us look good. The Hunger Games is in a great place right now; let's keep it there."
"Of course, sir," she replied, in her most professional tone. Despite her being under fire for the earlier interview problems, Bazenas had stuck by her, even keeping her in the company. She was determined to keep his trust.
"Alright, then," he said, awkwardly, as Bell wondered whether walking out at that moment would be appropriate, "Wait! Have one of the techies give you the schedule on your way to the hovercraft."
"Thank you, sir. Have a good day."
Bell stood up, walking assuredly to the door. The network boss was usually right. If Bazenas said that there wouldn't be trouble, than there wouldn't be. Everything would work out.
A teen in a fluorescent orange suit walked by, holding a stack of papers, and she snapped her fingers.
"You, I need the district visitation schedule for the day. Graph them to Holo-9, for Bell Voyeur."
His Adam's apple bobbed uncomfortably.
"Right away, m'am."
He hurried off, and Bell continued to the hanger, where Holo-9, smallest of the station's large fleet, had been set up. The door was open, and she slipped in, though she tripped over a pile of wires on the door's corner. Cursing (delicately) under her breath, she hastened to the small en-ship meeting console, where a single paper sat on a faux-wood desk. She sat down on the stationary metal chair, and looked it over. Because of small budget restraints, she would be meeting with all the families at once, in the districts that still had both tributes.
Which, she thought to herself, as the door closed a few yards away, could get interesting.
District Two, Kalika Hope and Soren Kailash
As Bell walked quickly into the cavernous Justice Building, she contemplated the color red. Red was a nice color, in moderation, but, really, painting the whole room that way was just… Uncalled for.
She was followed by her crew of six cameramen, all of whom were filming her, at every given moment. A team of Peacekeepers followed her, though there was not a fear for riotous behavior, in District Two.
On opposite sides of the room, two sets of chairs were set up. On the left, a woman, somewhat frayed around the edges, but with an air of power to her, sat as far as possible from a young man who greatly resembled her. Bell recognized her as Chandra Kailash, Soren's mother. The young man was not familiar, though she assumed he was a friend of the male tribute.
The right side, however, held a completely different set of people. Bartram Hope sat stiffly next to his wife, Bellona Hope. A stern-looking elderly couple lounged several feet away from the two, eyeing Bell with distaste. She couldn't quite suppress a gulp.
"Hello! I'm Bell, from TGL, and I'm here in the District Two Justice Building, where I'll be interviewing the families of Soren Kailash, and Kalika Hope," Bell gushed, beaming at the camera.
Chandra, on the left side of the room, raised an eyebrow at the vigor in her tone.
Ignoring her, Bell clicked over in her little heels, sitting next to Chandra with a pearly grin.
"So, Chandra, you must be so proud of your son, for making it so far," said Bell, flashing an illuminating smile around the room.
"He's a fool. And we don't yet know that he's alive," the woman said, bitterly.
"Well, Soren's supporters wouldn't quite call him that, but there's a good chance that your son is fine, Chandra!" Bell continued, trying to avoid any other mess ups.
"A good chance? No, I wouldn't say that. Joseph could have done better."
Once again, Bell was a bit surprised, but not thrown. She simply cranked her smile, which was already blinding Chandra as it was, up a notch.
"Can you tell us anything about your son? What was he like, growing up?" she asked, slipping in a subtle nod to the camera crew, to zoom to the youth sitting a few seats down, listening intently.
"Soren was always a character. Rude, disrespectful, and rebellious. He never appreciated anything I gave him, or anything the Capitol did for us."
Bell nodded sympathetically, beginning to get into the flow of the interview.
"That sounds hard, Ms. Kailash. Has he ever been interested in anything pertaining to the Hunger Games?"
The woman shook her head, wryly.
"Girls, if you count that. Nothing else useful."
"How would you project your son's chances?" Bell asked, preparing to wrap the interview up.
"Somewhere between 'nothing' and 'also nothing'. I don't doubt that he's dead, as we speak," Ms. Kailash finished.
Trying not to raise an eyebrow, Bell extended her hand, retracting it when the woman did not reciprocate.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Kailash," said Bell, nodding imperceptibly to the cameras.
The woman stood up quickly, and strode out, not making eye contact with the young man in the other occupied seat.
Bell, however, walked straight up to him.
"I think we have a bit more time to focus on our District Two boy. Are you a friend of Soren's?" she queried.
"No, I'm his brother. Joseph Kailash."
She nodded, the corners of her mouth once again tilting up.
"Are you more worried about your brother than your mom is?" she asked, fiddling with the nearly invisible microphone at the collar of her coat.
"Of course, Bell. I want him to be the one coming home safe."
Bell made a sad face, bobbing her head slowly.
"I wish him luck, too, Joseph."
The youth nodded ruefully, before pulling off his own little microphone, and handing it to a cameraman. Bell sighed inwardly; she had been hoping for a cut-free interview, but he was messing up the shot.
"Thanks," he said, just loud enough to be heard, walking out after his mother.
Bartram and Bellona began fixing up to be seen up close, the man straightening his carmine tie, and his wife applying a coat of red lipstick. The elderly couple looked on in distaste.
"Next," chirped the oblivious anchorwoman, "I'll be talking to the parents of Kalika Hope."
She strode quickly to the opposite side of the room, before settling down in the chair opposite the two grim-faced adults.
"How do you feel about your daughter's involvement in the games so far?" Bell chirped, leaning on the left armrest of her chair, as if preparing for a comfortable talk with an old friend.
"She's been careless," Bartram muttered gruffly. "That fever slowed her down."
"How have you been dealing, without her around?" Bell asked, simultaneously nodding at Bartram's comment.
Bellona put a slim, pale hand on her husband's shoulder, arranging her face into a pout.
"My daughter meant the world to me. I only hope that what we've done for her will be enough to get her home."
Her husband nodded, though behind the woman's eyes, there was a nearly unnoticeable spark of deception.
"It puts a strain on us all, I'm sure. But you must have seen the lots? What are your feelings on the fact that your daughter's chances our projected as the highest?" questioned Bell, who was picking up a dishonest vibe from the couple.
"Of course. We have money on her, ourselves. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact," said Bartram, "Money that we both need to be back at work, earning. Good day to you."
He took his wife's arm, and they strode out of the building, without, Bell noticed, handing back their microphones. Was that legal?
She shrugged, standing up, and joining the older couple, who were wrinkling up their wizened features, glaring at the door.
"Are you the grandparents of Kalika Hope?" Bell asked, hoping for a better interview opportunity.
"No. I'm Mania Odyne, and this is Mantus. Luxe was our daughter."
"Was she a friend of Kalika's?" Bell asked.
Honestly, she had no clue who 'Luxe' was, and was racking her brains for the answer. It only took a few seconds, and she came up cold.
"Luxe died. Even with the best medical care District Two could provide, the internal bleeding killed her before the second night of the games," the old woman, Mania, said, with a somber air about her.
"The first casualty of the Hunger Games," Bell said, matching the woman's sad tone, and adding a false pout for good measure. "We at TGL would like to honor your loss. Thank you for coming forward."
She nodded slowly, and the two stood up and left, though they handed their microphones two a crew member.
"Don't leave just yet, we have five more families to visit! Stay tuned for District Four!" Bell chirped to the camera, rapidly recovering from her 'anguish'.
The makeshift set quickly began to disassemble, and the film crew, Bell included, soon returned to the hovercraft.
Bell took the opportunity presented by the thirty minute between-district flight, to catch up on some gossip about the victor from a year back. Finnick. He was so dreamy, and if she was a few years younger… She settled back into her chair, reading a magazine, as the flight moved by, faster than she had expected.
District Four, Maren Ericsson and Actassi Peixoto
The smell of the ocean was something of a constant in District Four. Not so in the Capitol. Even Bell's nose, what with its altered-beyond-reason state, could tell the difference. Bell hated the salty scent, and though being in the Justice Building dulled it somewhat, it was all she could do not to breathe solely through her mouth.
Which looks bad on camera.
The room was set up in a way reminiscent of District Two's accommodations, though with much less red, and a lot more wooden detailing. It must have cost a fortune, considering the district's proximity to District Seven.
On each wall, a row of chairs were occupied by several people. On the left, were a small couple, with chestnut brown skin, and thick black hair; Meena and Ervin Peixoto, the parents of Actassi, and a fifteen year old boy that Bell didn't recognize from the interviews immediately after the reaping.
Seated to the right were Edmar and Leda Ericsson, who both were of average size, well-tanned, and seemingly prepared for the interviews. Also, a girl and a boy around Maren's age sat a few chairs down from them, looking a bit less confident.
All in all, a good interview setup, if Bell did say so herself.
"Welcome back! It's me, Bell Voyeur, in the District Four Justice Building, interviewing the families of Maren Ericsson and Actassi Peixoto," she said, exuding excitement. Despite the smell, District Four was Bell's favorite. She had even put down a few dollars on Actassi, because Finnick had said to, in an advertisement.
She practically danced over to the Peixoto couple, sitting across from the two people happily.
"Were you expecting that your son would make it this far?" she chirped, beaming widely.
The woman spoke up, in a raspy undertone.
"Ervin, he not speak good. We not think Actassi live so long, but we proud. Very proud of him."
Bell nodded, hoping the microphones were enough to help the Capitol viewers understand the woman's strange accent.
"That is, uhh… Wonderful, Meena. Can you tell us anything about your son?" asked Bell, tilting her head to the side, as if it would help her comprehend.
"Oh, Actassi, he is- how you say? Good son. Work hard. Learn to talk good. He very smart boy," Meena said, tilting her head to mirror Bell, "Is this how you speak, in Capitol?"
The boy in the chair a few feet away stifled a laugh.
"Err, yes, very nice. What sort of work did your son do?" asked the puzzled anchorwoman.
"He was fishing-man. Take care of dock. Fix boats."
"That's a good occupation. Thank you, Mrs. Peixoto. Have a good day," Bell said, quietly, as the aged woman helped her husband up, and made for the door, as one of the crew helped her take off her microphone.
Bell turned to the boy.
"We have a few more minutes. Who are you?"
"My name's Tasino. Actassi was a friend of mine," the boy replied, looking tritely remorseful.
"Oh, then having him gone must be so hard on you!" said Bell, falling for the act completely.
"Yes, we all want him home safe," Tasino sighed, looking down at his toes.
"Can you tell me anything about Actassi?" Bell asked.
"He's always been very quiet. Honestly, no one was expecting him to make it past the Cornucopia, even. It should have been me, or Trafford, or even Havelock. Actassi was nothing."
Bell grew visibly more uncomfortable.
"I take it you two parted on a difficult note."
"Call it… Friendly competition," Tasino said, smiling like a crocodile.
At least, that's what Bell thought. She had never actually seen a crocodile, but she had heard that they had weird smiles.
"Well, thank you, Tasino. Goodbye," she said, looking pointedly at the door.
He stood, reluctantly, before walking out, handing his microphone to a crew member with a scowl.
"Next, I'll be speaking with the parents of Maren Ericsson," said a slightly calmer Bell, clipping over to the other side of the room, to sit across from the Ericssons.
"Hello, Bell!" chorused the two adults, smiling broadly.
"Hello to you, too," replied Bell, sensing an easy interview, "And if I might say, your daughter has been doing very well, so far."
"Well, she's a real fighter, my girl! We just know that Maren can win it!" said Leda, smiling proudly up at Edmar, who put a well-tanned arm around her shoulders.
"Can you two tell me anything about what she was like, growing up?" asked Bell, grinning openly.
"My daughter, she always had her own way of doing things," said Edmar, looking off into the distance, a faraway look on his face.
"And she loves clam strips!" added Leda.
"That's very good," said Bell, nodding thoughtfully. "What would you say her biggest strength is?"
"Oh, she's just the best at everything!" said Leda, as Edmar shrugged assent.
"Really," said Bell, contemplating the fact that these two people were, in fact, exceeding her own peppiness.
"Yes, really," Edmar replied.
"Then, thank you for your time! I'm sure you're both busy people, so I'll let you two go, now."
Their faces fell fractionally, but they both stood up, and left, handing their microphones to a Peacekeeper, who looked like she didn't know what to do with them.
Bell stifled a laugh. Maren must have had an 'interesting' upbringing. She turned to the two teens, who had shuffled over to fill Maren's parent's empty seat.
"And who might you be?" she asked, smiling at the two of them.
"I'm Jay Poole, and this is Nerine Shelton. We're good friends of Maren's."
"That's wonderful! What message would you give her, if you could?" Bell asked, a bit skeptical, seeing as Tasino had only a few minutes ago walked out.
Nerine cut in.
"I'd tell her… That I miss her. And that Jay just isn't the same as her. And that if she doesn't come back, I swear I'll- I'll… I don't know what I'll do."
Jay put an arm around her shoulder, but she actually hissed at him, and Bell watched in bemusement as the teens backed away from each other.
"Whoa, Nerine. Ease up," he said.
"I take it that you two are eager to get her back?" asked Bell, hoping the cameras were getting everything.
They both nodded.
"What would you say her biggest impairment is?" she continued.
"Well," said Jay, "Maren has no sense of judgment. None. The crazy District Two girl probably looks like a frightened kitten to her, and it could get her killed."
Nerine shrugged, but nodded nonetheless.
"Fair enough," said Bell, "Would you put money on her coming back?"
"Yes," said Nerine, at the same time Jay said "Not much." He was backhanded almost immediately.
"She is our friend, and we are being supportive!" cried Nerine, giving him a harsh look.
Bell tilted her head again, before deciding that, while Finnick was gorgeous, the majority of the people in District Four were completely insane. Like, run-into-a-machine-of-death-because-they-feel-like-it crazy.
But hey, being hot cancels that out, right?
"Thank you two for your time, and I wish Maren Ericsson the best," Bell said, emphatically, gesturing towards the door, where the teens, glaring daggers at each other, walked off, handing a cameraman their microphones.
Bell was glad they did; the little chips cost the network money that could be going into her salary, and by association, her frivolities.
"Goodbye, District Four!" she chirped, once again entering the hovercraft, in preparation for her trip to District Seven.
District Seven, Carden Chaney
District Seven was much quainter than District Two, or even Four. The Justice Building was slightly run down, and most of the houses surrounding it were smaller than even the meanest of the earlier districts' accommodations.
Bell heaved a sigh. Didn't anybody care about appearances, anymore?
Followed, as always, by her crew, she slammed her shoulder into the large oak doors, entering a smaller, shabbier, room than any she had been in recently. Eugh. More wood. Bell decided that she hated wood.
Instead of the previous district's set up, there was merely a small row of roughly hewn chairs situated on the far wall. She turned to the cameras, her back to the occupants.
"I'm now here in District Seven, with the family of Carden Chaney. After this, we'll take a short commercial break. Better make it count!" she said, grinning widely. Two more to go…
Finally, Bell got around to actually looking at the people in the room. A tall, muscular, blonde man sat in the farthest chair to the left, next to a boy, only slightly bigger than Carden himself. He was fidgeting uncomfortably, and chewing on a hangnail. A woman, with glossy brown hair, smacked his hand, and he immediately stopped.
A good set up for an interview, Bell mused.
She clicked over to the chair adjacent to the family, and launched right into discussion.
"Mr. and Mrs. Chaney? Hello, thanks for being on TGL. And you must be Arvid!" she chirped, sticking out a hand, which the little boy shook tentatively.
"Thank you too, Bell. But please, my name is Gideon, and my wife is Yvonne. We're grateful to be here, today."
"Well, isn't that sweet! I know you folks must simply adore your son, Carden. He certainly has captured the hearts of Panem!"
Arvid raised his hand, which elicited a smile from Bell.
"Yes, the gentleman in the back! Don't worry, dear, you can just talk if you want to."
"Oh," he said, grinning. "Mum said I had to raise my hand if I wanted to talk. I just want Carden back, though dad says he's doing really good."
Bell nodded patronizingly.
"Don't we all? What can you tell me about your brother, Arvid?"
"Carden's the nicest guy ever. He's a really good cook, and he's an awesome brother, and he's really nice, and he helps me with memorizing my trees every night, and I miss him a lot, and I wish he was back, and he's really nice, and-"
Yvonne cut him off.
"Arvid, don't ramble."
The little boy turned pink around the ears. He put his hands in a bunch behind his back, and stretched.
"Sorry, mum. Can I go outside, now?"
The two adults looked to Bell, who shrugged Arvid took it as a yes, and practically ran out of the room, microphone and all. Bell sighed.
"How would you two say Carden does in school?" asked Bell, getting the interview back on track.
Gideon looked to his wife, who made a strange hand gesture, and mouthed 'I don't know'.
"Our son is… Very smart. Quite capable. He shows a lot of promise, maybe as a shop supervisor. A lot of creativity, y'know…
He gestured off into the distance awkwardly, and Bell got the sense that they were pretty much the opposite of Maren's parents.
"Would you put money on him coming home?"
The two were silent, not even looking at each other, just at the floor. It was hard to even look at them, uncomfortable as they were.
"Well, thank you, I suppose. I wish your son the best of luck."
They murmured assent, before standing up, and walking slowly to the large doors, where Gideon held them open for his wife, and they stepped outside. Bell sighed again, but not audibly.
"This was District Seven, home of contestant Carden Chaney. Don't look away, we'll be right back, in District Nine!" Bell said, perkily.
She was glad the interview was over; the two had not been the subjects she had expected to be talking to.
A buzzer rang, and the crew began to lower the cameras, a bit more hushed than they had been in District Four. No one liked to see parents so little involved with their children, not even the most hardened cameraman.
Reapplying her makeup, bell walked stiffly out of the building, flanked by four Peacekeepers on either side. A small crowd had gathered outside; though Capitol reporters were a daily occurrence in the earlier districts, it was apparent that it was not the case in District Seven.
The crowd parted to the Peacekeepers, and Bell walked through, unharmed. But she couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if they had been gone. She was the recipient of some hate-filled looks; something she was not used to. TGL covered only unbiased stories, eliminating any reason for it.
Bell wondered idly, upon reaching Holo-9, what their problems were. Most likely something in the water.
District Nine, Diane Glenn
If the District Seven residents had been odd, Bell was unprepared for the malevolence in the faces of the people gathered around her hovercraft as it docked. She wondered if she had something in her teeth; there was nothing wrong with her outfit, which ruled that, as a reason, out.
She internally shrugged. District people were weird. Simple as that.
The Justice Building, at least, was built out of stone instead of wood, which was a relief. Bell really didn't like wood. It gave you splinters; thoroughly unpleasant. Especially with nails as long as hers. It was next to impossible to use tweezers.
Bell was, fortunately, surrounded by Peacekeepers, who were adept at holding back a crowd as small as the one gathered there. She made it to her destination in relative peace. Ha, 'peace'. They were 'Peace' keepers.
Well, she got it, anyway.
The doors were huge, and made of the same stone as the rest of the building was. Twice as heavy as the last set, and Bell had strained to open those, even. She had to be helped by a crewmember, and a broad shouldered female Peacekeeper.
Nodding her thanks, she walked in. The clicking of her heels on the cold tile echoed back on the stone walls. On the far side of the room, similarly to District Seven, four chairs had been set up. Saida Glenn, Esau Glenn, Rigel Glenn, and a shapely girl with large blue eyes, and dark brown hair, who Bell didn't recognize.
She turned to the cameras, smiling as widely as she could. It was beginning to hurt.
"Hello, and welcome back! This is Bell Voyeur, in District Nine, with the parents and… Friend… of Diane Glenn! Let's go talk to them, now."
The cameras followed her, as she walked quickly to a chair across from Saida and Esau, who smiled nervously.
"Well, Saida, you certainly raised a fine daughter! And if I might say, you two look just alike!
The woman blushed; though her red hair and hazel eyes almost exactly mirrored her daughter's, her figure was not quite there.
"My thanks, Bell. It is good to have you here."
Rigel and Esau nodded in silence, the little boy playing with the leather straps on his sandals.
"Can you two tell me anything about what Diane was like, growing up?" Bell asked.
Esau cut in, smiling.
"Diane was always a hard worker. Unlike her brother here," he said, playfully ruffling Rigel's mop of black hair, as the little boy squirmed in his seat, "She spent a long time trying to get to know a bow and arrow, even though she would have most likely been assigned a gun, like most women on the hunting force."
Saida nudged him.
"Esau, that's Capitol thinking. She can do what she wants. No offense, of course," the older woman added, looking, wide-eyed, at Bell, who shrugged.
Meh. Just a bit more for the editing guys to cut out.
"Has she ever been interested in anything, other than archery? Painting, poetry, anything?"
Rigel, in his high voice, added his own thoughts.
"Not 'nuff time, right, daddy?"
His father nodded, wryly, shaking his head, as if to clear it.
"She never had enough time for anything else, really. Not many friends. Just her and the rabbits."
Bell shrugged assent; fair enough. All three people would have to be working to support any kind of family.
"How did she do in school?"
Saida looked thoughtful.
"Well, we don't really intervene much with what she wants to do, but I suppose she did a good enough job in classes. She was never really into it, though. Not her thing."
"Now, I know everyone is wondering, did she have any relationships? I know the tension between your daughter and Hetcher is pretty obvious."
The two looked puzzled, and Rigel went so far as to utter a loud 'huh'?
"Well, maybe not as obvious to you. Thanks so much for coming today, and I wish your daughter the best."
They nodded, and goodbyes were exchanged, as the two ambled out of the room, Rigel dawdling behind them. Bell turned her attention to the girl in the only remaining filled seat.
"And, what might your name be?"
The girl made a tiny choking sound in the back of her throat, but managed to spit out "Cyrene."
"Are you a friend of Diane's?"
Cyrene blushed a bit, turning away.
"I guess I was kinda mean to her. But, well, no one else really wanted to come. And I felt bad, 'cause she had to leave so suddenly. And so did Wilder."
Her voice trailed off, as she stared pointedly at the floor.
"I'm sorry, Cyrene. It must have been hard for you to see not one, but two of your classmates leave. What was your connection with… The male tribute?"
"Oh, Wilder?" she muttered, continuing to stare at the floor, "We were kinda a thing, you know. Once. Difference of opinion, and all."
Bell nodded sympathetically, flicking her metallic gold hair behind her shoulder, and leaning in confidently.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"He… He said he thought I was stupid, that we were all thick-headed, and he wanted to leave. He said he wanted me to come with him, anyway. And then I slapped him, and told him to go, well, you know…" she stopped talking again.
Suddenly, Bell rescinded her desires to be young again. Twenty-five was young enough, and had a bit less drama.
"Dear, he sounds like a jerk. Who in their right mind couldn't appreciate the Capitol, and everything we do for you? You've got a long life ahead of you, and you'll find someone better. Promise."
Cyrene started crying, and ran out of the room, all but throwing her microphone at a crew member.
Bell shrugged.
"Something in the water, definitely," she said pointedly to the camera, as a few cameramen laughed.
They set back up for the final flight to District Twelve, where Bell could only hope that the locals would be more accommodating.
District Twelve, Hetcher Smith
There were no people waiting for Bell at the stop in front of the District Twelve Justice Building. Everything, even the building itself, was covered in a fine layer of coal dust. No one was outside.
The eerie calm was even more daunting than the angry faces of District Nine, or it would have been, if Bell was paying attention.
"Finally!" she chirped, alighting on the worn pavement, in scuff-free, shiny pink shoes, and freshly applied lip enhancer.
The flight had been longer than the last; district Twelve was very remote, deep in some weird almost-flat mountains, that the Peacekeeper she had asked called 'Appaloosa' or something equally absurd. What kind of name is that?
Followed by her weary entourage of Peacekeepers and cameramen, she pushed open the tiny door, and entered a wholly unremarkable room. Though, she had to admit, there was much less coal dust, a plus that she enjoyed.
On the far end, several rickety chairs held three fidgety teenagers, an older man she recognized as Trahern Smith, Hetcher's father. Also, a very slight girl, with olive-toned skin, heavy black hair, and grey eyes, looked a bit put-off, like she was in a perpetually bad mood, as she gazed through hooded eyes around the room.
"Well, thanks for sticking with us! I'm Bell Voyeur, in District Twelve, my last stop today, with the family and friends of Hetcher Smith!" Bell said shrilly, glancing happily at the camera, her eyes lighting up at the term 'last stop'.
She strode directly up to the huge, towheaded man, situating herself across from him.
"Hello, Trahern! I'm sure you're very proud of your son?"
He grunted.
"Doesn't really make a difference, I got three more of 'em."
The three blonde teens rolled their eyes, and audibly whispered about their father.
"That's a way of looking at it, I suppose. Can you tell me anything about Hetcher's childhood?"
Trahem made a few more indistinguishable noises, almost as if he was thinking. What a shocker.
"Well, I don't really recall much about the boy as a kid. Good worker, though. Not much else."
He settled back into his chair, appearing to be done talking.
"Err… Thank you, Mr. Smith," Bell said awkwardly, gesturing lamely at the door.
Trahem yanked his microphone off, handing it to a broad cameraman on his way out, and closing the door loudly behind him Bell breathed a sigh of relief; people like Trahem were interview suicide.
She turned to the three juveniles, looking for an opening.
"Can you tell me about your brother?" she asked, not focusing on any one in particular.
The tallest, most likely the oldest, spoke up.
"Well, he's a pretty good guy, in general. Not really much else," she said, shrugging, and messing idly with her thin, blonde, hair, "I guess he's easy to work with. But he's a bad talker, and he's an open book."
The slightly younger looking girl nodded, adding her own shrug.
"He can be kind of a jerk about dad, sometimes."
Bell nodded, trying to act interested. This was possibly the most boring family she had ever interviewed.
"He's got a better name than me, and he promised he'd volunteer if I got picked," added the young teenage boy, who looked slightly bored.
The air settled into a dead silence.
Struggling for something to say, Bell fell short of thinking of anything relevant, sighing in defeat.
"What are your names?"
The oldest girl was the only one who answered.
"He's Natch, my little sister is Tige, and I'm Gerry. Hello."
Sensing that the teens were a lost cause, Bell sighed again.
"Well, Gerry, Tige, and Natch, thanks for joining us on TGL," said Bell, her voice unusually devoid of pep.
"Any time," said Tige, as they all walked out, completely forgetting about their microphones. Bell had to bite her lip to avoid sighing. Twice was enough.
She tiredly turned to the last girl, who looked about sixteen, maybe seventeen.
"And who might you be?" asked Bell, smiling thinly.
"I'm Hana Lubomira. Hetcher's girlfriend."
"Oh! Then I'm sure you miss such a wonderful guy. Can you tell me about him?"
Hana paused, looking even more sullen than before.
"He likes the District Nine girl," she said dully.
"I'm sorry, Hana. Sometimes it's difficult, being in the games. But, can you tell me anything about, say, when he was little?"
She looked thoughtful, which was a pleasant adjustment from her air of misery.
"We used to try to trick Mrs. Everdeen into thinking we were Capitol people, so she might give us sweets, like she used to have. We never got one, though. Sad."
Bell nodded.
"Did he ever show any signs of being a good fighter, or 'a survivor' if you will?"
Hana gave a shrug.
"No, he's always been a bit of a goof, though everyone can tell. Like Gerry said; he can't talk. He could never fool anyone."
"What would it be like, seeing him win?" Bell asked quietly.
"It would mean that he was coming back, and that District Nine was dead. Two good things. But I could never watch him kill someone. It hurts to think about it."
Bell put a hand on Hana's shoulder.
"Thank you for being so honest with us. I wish Hetcher only the best."
Hana bit her lip, nodding shakily to Bell, before sedately leaving the room, handing her microphone to a Peacekeeper. She shied away from touching the man's hand, though, simply dropping it into the outstretched palm.
As the doors closed, Bell ruminated about the last interview. She had gained a further facet of insight into why Hetcher made the choices he did. She had learned even more than the citizens would, watching the edited version at seven o'clock.
Not everything she had learned was good.
But in the hovercraft, as Bell skimmed idly through a ragged gossip magazine, it became evident why she was such a good reporter, and Capitol citizen.
She wasn't forgetful.
But that night, as she took a long, steamy shower, and curled up under thousand thread count silk sheet, Bell would not think of Luxe Odyne. She would not wonder if Rigel Glenn was behaving. She would not pray for Carden Chaney to come home, and prove himself to an absent mother.
Bell Voyeur dreamt about being promoted.
Like she always did.
And always would.
--x
And the thanks goes to all of you, especially the following people: Mel, for being psychic, and knowing I'd post late, Maren, for convincing me to see How to Train Your Dragon, and Jak, for inspiring Arvid Chaney. Hugs to all of you, and thanks for putting up with a late author, who had to write this, and a rather long essay.
Also, big thanks to whoever nominated Bovine Plumage for a Verita award. It's a huge honor. :)