But one foot wrong and I'm gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it
All the lights are on but I'm in the dark
Who's gonna find me? Who's gonna find me?
-P!nk, One Foot Wrong
CHAPTER 17
BURNING UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT
Crescentia Monroe (18), District 1 Tribute
"Welcome, everybody! Welcome, welcome!" the Master of Ceremonies shouts out to the thousands of Capitolites who bought tickets to attend. But they aren't the only ones watching tonight's proceedings: every single television in Panem will be tuned onto the interviews. I wonder if my friends will be watching, Crescentia ponders.
Lavender will be beside herself with worry for Crescentia, and Gemma will be shaking her head on the couch, cursing the injury that prevented her from ever being considered as volunteer material. The girl from Eleven has a limp, why they thought a torn shoulder would put her out of the running is beyond me. She leans her head against the wall, feeling on edge with twenty-three pairs of eyes at her back. But they know I can do this.
Outliers do it all the time, why couldn't I?
Her hands fly nervously up to her hair, which has been elaborately done into double headband braids with thin golden vines running through them. Flowers grow off the vines, little delicate things, and she is feeling an irrational worry that they will all have fallen off by the time she reaches the chair she is supposed to sit in. This isn't like me, she thinks. Normally I'm not worried. It'll be just like dancing with Turmalin, right?
She's always felt like her dancing partner, Turmalin, was one step ahead of her. He was training to be a dancing instructor though, she recalls, rolling her eyes as the interviewer begins to engage in animated conversation with the crowds. People who can never seem to get to the point always annoyed Crescentia. Perhaps that was where she and Turmalin were similar… among other things - both had trained for the Hunger Games, and both had dropped out of enrollment to the Academy in order to pursue dancing - he too did not enjoy wasteful banter.
Dancing requires breath, and breath cannot be wasted on things that can be shown rather than verbally expressed, she echoes. Training five times a week certainly means there isn't any to waste at all. Her heart begins to ache thinking about the hours spent in the little dancing studio, where each practice began with silent acknowledgement and ended with a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, a sense of satisfaction and confidence that soared higher than the birds in the sky. The work is just as demanding as training to kill someone at the Academy, but the way it makes Crescentia feel is unrivaled.
"We're so close to kicking off the twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games, I can taste it! Are you excited?!" shouts Mr. Valentine in a grandiose tone.
"Nope," Castiel says dryly behind her, making her shake in silent laughter. The audience screams their approval, however, and Castiel shrugs. "What do I know? They always say yes."
"Well, well. That's great to hear!" Mr. Valentine continues. "We just finished up our interview with or glorious Head Gamemaker, and we're about to meet our fantastic tributes face-to-face for the second time!" This elicits screams from them again, and Crescentia exhales through her nose. These people are ridiculous.
"Ooh yes, I know we're all excited, especially after learning those scores!" The mass of Capitolites gets amped up, louder and louder until the cacophony is all any of the tributes can hear. Castiel says something else but it's lost in the roaring of excitement beyond the stage. The Anthem of Panem plays, the sound booming over them, and comes to a gradual end. Mr. Valentine drops his hand from his heart and seizes the microphone. "Alright, everyone! Give it up for the wonderful Crescentia Monroe!"
She's jerked forward like a marionette, but by her own premonitions rather than his words compelling her legs into motion. The shoes are really comfortable on Crescentia's feet, gold ballet flats accentuated with a light dusting of glitter that makes them shine in the lights. Shine. She used to detest her middle name for being so bland and boring, but when faced by the crowd, it is all she desires to do. To shine.
Confidence is key, and the dark purple dress the stylists chose for her certainly helps. It is burgundy and bright red in some places, creating a gentle ombre gradient. Two straps hold the dress up, but the right one is ruffled slightly to match the texture of the mid-calf length of the tulle ballet skirt. A third ruffled strap rests off-shoulder on her left arm, from which dozens of little golden flowers are embroidered into the dress, scattering around her waist.
"And how are you tonight, Miss Monroe?" Mr. Valentine asks her. "Are you enjoying your stay in the Capitol?" She shakes his hand and sits opposite him, trying to relax in the chair. Mother always told me I wasn't shining bright enough… the thoughts rush into her head as she reimagines the disappointment on her mother's face when Crescentia elects to pursue dancing instead of training. A former Career herself, Mrs. Monroe had been adamant that one of her daughters enroll in the Academy. Look at me now. She notices silver roses embroidered into the interviewer's suit jacket, and smiles to herself. Mine are gold, Valentine.
Compared to her, his suit looks like all of the color has been leached out of it. "I'm loving it," she grins, deciding on a voice with a sultry undertone. "It's so new and shiny, even compared to home," she tells him. "The showers in the training center have so many buttons! It's a nice change, Mr. Valentine."
This gets the crowd going, and she fights to keep her eyes from betraying the exasperation she feels. All these people do is blabber and cheer about nothing. Everything pleases them. If Crescentia had to bet, she could stand up and deliver a speech about the golden hair that has begun to collect in that shower drain, and they would still cheer and clap. So long as they get to see blood tomorrow, they're fine, aren't they?
"So, Crescentia, tell me," Mr. Valentine draws her back into the conversation. "We've all been dying to know why you aren't the selected volunteer. We all saw the fallout with this year's presumably selected trainee. So tell me, what prompted you to volunteer?"
Because I have the same chances as everyone else here, trained or not. It even helps her case that years of rigorous training have given her a better physique than half of the small and thin tributes from the outer districts. "Well, Mr. Valentine, I felt that I've been waiting long enough to get the chance to enter the Games… having Nike be selected meant I wouldn't get to participate, with this being my last year and all," Crescentia lies through her teeth. Let them think I've trained my whole life. There is another reason too, apart from the odds. The same dissatisfaction that motivates Crescentia and her friends to steal fancy clothing from the various shops around town. The rush of excitement she had gotten from volunteering is still compressed in her chest. The excitement of something new.
"Good answer! We love a determined girl, don't we? So what - or who - did you leave behind to be here today, Miss Monroe?"
Now he's just padding for time. "My parents. My mother, she was a former Career actually. Would have volunteered for the sixth Hunger Games, but someone else beat her to the punch. My sister and I both train for the Games," she tells him, speaking slowly to choose what information she wants to share with him. "They aren't sure I'm as good a pick as Nike, but I can prove them wrong. My friends… if the three of you are watching tonight, know that I'm coming back." Crescentia takes a deep breath. "My dancing partner too," she decides on a whim, cracking her stiff neck almost on cue. It's a bad habit she's picked up, but a familiar one to the pair of them.
"Well, it sounds like you have quite the support group. Might I ask you one thing though, darling?" His teeth are dazzling, and he leans forward so that she can see the makeup lightly coating his forehead.
"Sure thing, Mr. Valentine," Crescentia answers.
He sighs and reclines in his chair, the massive auditorium silent once more. "I'm sure you've anticipated this question… how in the name of Panem did you get a one for a score?"
"I think all of my allies are wondering the same thing," she starts slowly again. "I took a chance in the demonstration room, and it didn't work out. Could I have done something safe? Sure. But I think no one is going to see me coming, not even the Gamemakers themselves," she whispers, as if confessing some great secret to the man with the red pompadour.
"A bold statement! I like that. You mentioned you dance, as well?" She nods in response to his question, and sees his eyes light up in excitement. "I know we're running out of time, but could you maybe do a quick spin or something for us?"
Crescentia smiles broadly over her shoulder at the audience, who is absolutely eating it up. They always love a good show. "Well, of course I can!"
She stands from her chair, the familiar rush entering her veins as she pirouettes in the air, the tulle skirt flaring up as she does. The buzzer signals the end of her interview, but her elation only ends when she has stopped. The crowd is roaring in approval, and she is reminded of the parade just four days before. Crescentia feels as though her skin is shining under the lights, and imagines how jealous Turmalin must be that she is dancing in front of the Capitol.
The noise of the crowd carries her backstage, and she smiles to herself.
Crescentia Monroe is finally on top of the world.
Hela Mistlyre (18), District 2 Tribute
He looks like a fool, and he's the one leading the rest of us.
The Capitol might adore Castiel's outfit, which must be an elegant play on his Reaping outfit, but when coupled with his over-the-top joking and excitement, it cloys in Hela's throat. Gross. He is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black leather suspenders, a black ribbon tied around his shirt collar like a bow tie, and the shiniest black shoes in Panem on his feet, the edges of newsprint socks making an appearance as he crosses his legs.
The shoes are even shinier than my hair. The stylists changed up her traditional combat braid to a more elegant half-birdcage braid, which still feels strange against her neck. The monochrome palette does look good, and she supposes the stylists have done a great job drumming up how charming and charismatic he can be. Castiel has the crowd laughing along with him, and she is thankful when he is dismissed. Hela sees Mr. Valentine stand up from his seat from her position behind the heavy curtain, and she tries to quell any uneasiness she feels.
"Please welcome on stage… Hela Mistlyre! Give it up for District Two!" a voice booms from onstage, the red-haired interviewer standing again to address the crowd.
At his beckoning, Hela struts out onto the stage with a certain swagger in her steps. Her dress catches the various lights that rain down from above like lilac and silver moonbeams, and a feeling of elation begins to unravel any tightness she has felt in her stomach. The dress is a black velvet off-the-shoulder gown that has a crossed-over paneled bodice, an attached belt around her waist, and long sleeves that start off tight but flare downward from her elbows toward a floor-length skirt. And it's honestly gorgeous. The bodice is embroidered with green dragons and gold swirls, the luxurious colors making her feel almost regal as she approaches the Master of Ceremonies. Mr. Valentine reaches out to shake her hand, but Hela deploys a frosty smile to her face as she ignores it, instead choosing to take a seat opposite him.
"Well, hello darling!" the interviewer gives her a wide grin, seemingly unfazed by her choice. His teeth are gleaming a blinding white in the beam of the spotlight. "You look wonderful tonight… quite the change from the usual image we have been getting of you, isn't it?" What an ass, she decides. I've looked fine the other two times everyone here has seen me. She would never quite admit it out loud, but the dress she's wearing - although her black pointed stiletto are a bit hard to walk in - might be the best thing she's ever worn on her body.
"Of course," Hela returns the grin, feeling the confidence heat up her face as the crowd drinks in her image. "The stylists fawned over me for hours, but I still think I look better with some armor on instead of a dress," she declares, eliciting a favorable noise from the crowd.
"That makes only one of us!" The man opposite her laughs, and the crowd follows suit. She begins to drum her fingers against the cool steel arm of the seat, the noise of her black acrylic nails lost in the commotion. "I'll stick with my suit, and let you don the armor. So can I ask you where you got that lovely necklace, Miss Mistlyre?"
Her hand flies up to the necklace she is wearing, the rough cube-shaped gem catching all of the lights, sparkling like she has captured a star and begun to wear it around her neck. "My sister, Lokir." Hela falls silent for a moment, unsure of what she needs to say since she knows her sister is watching her right now, eyes glued to the screen hundreds of miles away. "We live as wards of the Academy, since our father, Hannibal Mistlyre, can't be bothered to raise us at all. It was her parting gift to me, and it sure looks a lot prettier than some of the other tokens." She tilts her chin upward at the remark, knowing that her dark confidence isn't lost on the crowd. Insecurities can be laid at the doorstep and picked up on the way out. Insecurities can be expressed in the dark, or howling at the moon from the roof. Not here.
"That's quite sad, isn't it?" Mr. Valentine replies, straightening the iconic lapels of his sugar pink jacket. "Hannibal was before my time, but I'd say you're following in his footsteps with that ten as a score! How impressive, might I add. How d-"
She cuts him off, her eyes clouding over with sudden contempt for him, though she doubts flaring her nostrils will let anyone know she's upset. "Let me make this clear," Hela says quietly. They aren't looking at my eyes, either, she decides. She is wearing gold and amber eyeshadow as make-up with dragon scale patterns stenciled onto the upper outer corners and inner corners of her eyes, and so far it is the most impressive look Hela has seen. I have to give them credit. They outdid themselves. "I'm not doing this to follow in anyone's fucking footsteps. I'm doing this for me. My footsteps."
"Very bold. I like that! As I was saying, how does it feel to be one of the top scorers this year?"
We have three minutes, but does he have to be so damn dismissive? "It feels nice to have scored well, but the boy in the suspenders is the one leading this charade, not me." She folds her hands in her lap complacently, sure that Castiel must have heard what she has said. As much as I like him, he's the top competition here, she thinks.
"Castiel? Do you think you're better suited for the role as leader?"
"Of course," Hela belts out a mocking laugh. "Any one of us could be, but since we both scored tens, it would seem up for contention." Too bad the others seem to like him better, she scorns them quietly. She knew it wasn't wise to seek asylum with them from her fears. They like me no better than anyone else. Her mind briefly wanders to Lokir, and quicker still to Asher, his gorgeous red hair dancing in and out of Hela's mental image as elusive as a fox.
"You mentioned he was leading the 'charade'. Would you like to elaborate for the crowd?" the interviewer prompts her.
"Well of course. It's all a charade, if we wind up killing each other at some point or other. You saw it last year when Talisa killed her ally." A few shocked murmurs come from the crowd, who seems to cling to her every word like a lifeline. "We hunt as a pack, yes. But we all know only one of us will come out of it alive. It is none of my concern… yet."
"Sounds like we're up for quite the show this year!" Mr. Valentine says, clapping his hands together. His hair, gelled into a pompadour that he seems to only bring out on the night of the interviews. "So are you concerned that you'd be neighbors with your father after this is all over?"
"He can always move out of the Victor's Village if it makes him uncomfortable, yes."
"Phew! Sounds like everyone should be watching out for you, eh?" There is a hint of kindness in his words, as though he is trying to bolster Hela in the eyes of sponsors, but his words come across as fake overall.
"Sure." she says coolly.
"Well, what kinds of weapons do you use, Hela? I know we are all dying to know," he asks as he gestures to the crowd.
"A net and a spear work wonders on some of the cannon fodder we have this year. A whip, however, has the potential to make things very interesting," she muses, a dangerous smirk crossing her face.
"Oh, I like that," the Master of Ceremonies compliments her. "Sounds like you earned your ten on wit alone… cannon fodder!" he guffaws. "Anything else you'd like to tell our audience before the buzzer goes off?"
"No, but I do have something for the tributes," she says, sitting even straighter in her seat. Hela doesn't bother looking behind her, where the other twenty-one tributes are lined up behind the curtains. They're listening. All of them, she knows. And it feels so good to be heard for once. "Get your sleep tonight, or don't… it really is up to you. But with less than twenty-four hours before we disembowel you, perhaps a better-rested mind might help you live."
The buzzer goes off, and Hela leaves as complacent as she entered, hoping her demeanor was well-placed enough to earn points with a favorable audience.
Brita Edison (17), District 3 Tribute
"The main reason why I volunteered and trained for the Games is to become a victor. It'd bring honor to my family, honor to my district, honor to myself, and with that status, with that power... I could change the world around me. Why wouldn't I want that?" the fourth Career on stage says. I'll admit, he seems like one of the more likeable ones. The boy has discussed his family and their charity work with a humble sort of pride thus far, and she can tell that the audience is loving it. After the scary girl from Two had threatened Brita and the rest of the tributes, he was almost a welcome sight on stage. Moses is wearing a fitted navy blue blazer with a bright red pocket square, but it's the shirt beneath that catches her attention. It's a simple white shirt, but tailored just tight enough to show off his chest muscles. The stylists darkened his eyebrows too, and it is becoming of him, or so she thinks.
Why do all of the enemies have to be so good-looking? Brita wonders as the Master of Ceremonies gets up to shake his hand as the buzzer goes off. He won a nine, if I remember right. Her own four seems weak in comparison, but there are tributes with worse scores. Girl from One did worse than me. It's something that doesn't quite sit right with her, taking a chance in front of the Gamemakers. Her turn in the demonstration room had consisted of her sweating bullets trying to display the survival knowledge she had picked up from the trainers. Why risk a low score? Her mind begins to wander again, but she's immediately snapped back into the present as Mr. Valentine turns back to the curtain and curls a finger at her.
"Our next young lady, Brita Edison!" A round of applause follows his words, and she crosses the stage. Her strappy black heels are surprisingly easier to walk in than she originally thought. Walking out of the styling room didn't go so well. She had almost knocked over a lamp, but perhaps now that all eyes are on her she has been able to get the hang of it.
"Well, I hope your hands aren't tired yet, folks! We've got a long way to go." Mr. Valentine says with a cheerful smile. Being from Twelve must suck… they're last for everything. "So tell me, Brita: how have you found the Capitol so far?"
She wasn't quite expecting a question like that, but answers the question with a bite of sarcasm at the back of her mouth. "I think it has been a wonderful experience. The technology alone is fascinating… back home in Three our showers only have two settings, and the only elevator is in the Justice Building. Ours is actually broken, so the lot of you might want to look into that."
Mr. Valentine laughs. "Noted!" he says, a hand placed dramatically on his chest.
"The food is good too," she continues. I can make them like me too. "Much better than what my brother can cook." Brita winks to the cameras, and gets rewarded from some laughs in the crowd. Hopefully he takes that to heart, so he can make good on the fancy new kitchen we're going to get.
"Haha! Much better than what I can cook too, I'm sure. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. You certainly look splendid tonight, Miss Edison!" he compliments her. Not as good as the Careers, she'll admit. But the gold mini dress she's wearing reflects the stage lighting with all of the sequins sewn onto it. It has a slightly flared skirt with a mesh lining on the hem and a tie-back detail running up the bare skin on her back, making her feel scandalous rather than smart.
I like it though. "Why thank you, Mr. Valentine! If I come back here, you should definitely show me those cooking skills. You'll have some time to learn, I'm sure. A couple of weeks at most, but I'm hoping I can be here sooner than that." Brita hopes the cameras catch the secretive look in her eyes. I've got one hell of a plan too, but I need allies to help me out.
"We wouldn't want to set the stage on fire, now would we?!" the interviewer laughs. "Those curtains were expensive! A bit dirty though, if you ask me," he jokes back with her. The curtains are perfectly clean, lathered and scrubbed down before each appearance on air. "Have you made any allies, Brita? Clever girl like you, should be able to find some."
Ouch. Despite her mind going there, Brita had not been wanting to discuss her options on stage in front of not only the other tributes, but the entire world as well. "Honestly? I've talked to a few people… one of them wasn't keen on my inclusion, but I figure when I find them after the bloodbath tomorrow perhaps they will reconsider," she tells him tentatively, and he leans forward in his seat looking concerned. Mr. Valentine takes one of her hands in both of his, which are surprisingly soft.
She looks into his slush-colored eyes and sees actual compassion there, in place of the hawkish superiority she faced with the stylists trying to comb her auburn hair into a sleek high ponytail. "I have no doubt they will! You certainly seem capable." The crowd murmurs in agreement. "What about Edward?"
Her stomach lurches at the mention of her district partner, who is no doubt bouncing on his toes behind the curtains. "Edward, no. He's fucking hopeless, honestly."
"Well that isn't very nice of you!" he exclaims indignantly, any compassion shifting into a look of shock. Good. I'm not here to be pitied, she thinks.
"It's the truth, Mr. Valentine," Brita tells him with a sharp nod. "You'd better prepare yourself before he comes onstage. Maybe duct-tape a mirror onto his forehead… he hasn't shut up about meeting you all day." He looks a bit confused by her words, but regains his composure. The crowd has fallen a little too quiet for her liking. At least I took him down lower than me, she thinks, a feeling of vindictiveness sparking like electricity in her fingertips.
"Well, you seem prepared! I best prepare myself too, then," says the interviewer, standing up to shake Brita's hand rather formally. "Best of luck, Miss Edison, especially with winning over those allies! I'll be rooting for you."
The buzzer goes off, and she fights back angry tears as the crowd remains oddly quiet, trying not to ruin the black eyeliner on her face. I'm not sure anyone will be rooting for me.
Siren Thalassa (17), District 4 Tribute
The resemblance is uncanny. Creepy is a better word for it. She and Alton stand in line, watching the scrawny boy from Three on the stage. If possible, the audience is even quieter than they had been with Brita's exit, because he is dressed very similarly to the Master of Ceremonies. Deliberately, too. Where Mr. Valentine is wearing a sugar pink jacquard suit with large silver roses embroidered into it, Edward is dressed in a candy pink jacket, a powder pink shirt, and the same black dress socks and shoes as the interviewer. Even his hair is dyed a temporary red, slicked down with gel, slight red stains visible by his hairline. It's quite a strange experience to see him walk out and shake Mr. Valentine's hand. Edward looks like the more pathetic version of him. The crowd seems to think so too, especially when he begins to talk about his excitement for the Hunger Games. I've never seen that from a Three tribute before. Hell, I'm not excited for the Games, but he is?
While he and some of the other tributes seem ready for the blood and the macabre excitement of the Games, Siren is ready too. I'll do what I have to do to survive. Sometimes you have to do things you aren't proud of to survive another day. It's a sentiment shared by Alton's mentor Talisa, the Victor of the last Games. You have to do whatever you need to do. She killed the boy from District One when his back was turned just to come back home.
I'll do whatever it takes, too, she thinks as the buzzer sounds and she needs to shake the thoughts out of her head. I'm next. Siren fruitlessly smooths the front of her strapless gown, adjusting its sweetheart neckline as she does. The dress itself is gray and silver in color, covered in overlapping sequins to resemble fish scales alongside some gorgeous metallic purple and gray-blue accents. The skirt begins to transition into a dispersing gradient of iridescent white and holographic palettes to resemble ocean waves and seafoam. So far, the only outfit she would label as tacky is the kid in front of her, as both she and Alton look stunning tonight. District Four always gets some of the best stylists. I suppose it's easy to mirror the ocean's beauty, isn't it?
They added some sea-salt spray to give her hair more volume, something which she genuinely enjoyed. The beachy waves remind her of home, as a few days in the Capitol have started to turn her hair softer and slicker. It almost makes me feel like I'm up on the cliffs again.
But whereas singing to the great blue expanse is often a solo event, the euphoria of tonight will be shared across Panem. At Mr. Valentine's call, she sashays out onto stage. The crowd goes wild, and Siren tosses back her hair exaggeratedly, making a big show of adjusting the waves to frame her face. She shakes his hand and sits carefully in the seat. It's a definite change from entertaining sailors in the pub, that's for sure. All eyes are on her.
"Well hello, Miss Thalassa!" he grins at her. She shoots him back a dazzling smile to rival his own. Fully aware that the cameras are focused on her, Siren bites her lip in a seductive manner. Hey, the flirty angle has worked before. Talisa certainly could have drummed it up a bit more, but the other girl had instead tried and failed to appear intimidating. Not as successful as Hela, that's for sure. "I must say, I'm certainly impressed by your abilities to acclimate to all of this so rapidly! And I have to let you know just how fantastic that dress looks on you, my darling."
Oh! "Why, thank you, Mr. Valentine!" she says, giggling a little. "You look amazing too, I'm digging the roses!" she winks at him.
"O-ho, thank you!" If he is blushing, she can't tell behind the light layer of makeup on his face. I wonder how good-looking he is off air? "Now, we've all been wondering just how you managed an invite with the Careers? How do you think the Pack will perform this year?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I think we'll do fine, to be honest with you. I might have been Reaped, but a six is a pretty good score, I must say. We do have a couple of blossoming romances within our group though…" another wink sends the audience crazy. Of course. They're suckers for a good romance. Part of her feels bad for throwing it out there, but if it'll take the attention off the fact that she was Reaped by the system, Siren decides she can live with it.
"Care to tell us who to keep our eyes on?" he asks her, and she shakes her head.
"You'll just have to watch and see," she tells them, a rueful smirk on her face.
"Oh alright, Miss Thalassa. I suppose we can wait a few more days. So how did you get that six, might I ask?" He leans forward on the edge of his seat, as if the words Siren is going to say are the most important thing in the world to him. It feels good to have such an attractive man lend her an ear… most of the men on the waterfront and in the shipyards are usually the most weathered of the lot. Whereas their skin is beaten down by the sun and the wind, Tarquinius Valentine's face is smooth and blemish-free, even without the makeup if she had to guess.
But of course, they're all perfect here. Nothing is ever wrong enough for them. The people of the Capitol have never had to experience some of life's hardships and tragedies, and part of her wishes they would. But hating them for something they haven't done, and it certainly won't earn Siren a family. Maybe Dad will turn up if I have a nice enough place for him to stay. Maybe her father doesn't recognize her - he certainly has never been invested in her life - but perhaps he could learn to love a daughter, and she could have a family.
It's more likely he'll never show up. He hasn't, and he won't, the realist in her silences the optimist, and she has to blink to filter out the harsh lights she hadn't realized she was staring at. "Sure. I work as a trawler and one of my co-workers was also enrolled in the Academy. I guess he was never fully invested in training, but he taught me a great deal of spear work. We would practice a lot on the docks after work." Until the sun set, and he went home to his family. And you went home to nothing. Maybe that's why she's been looking so hard at the ragtag group of Careers as if they are a family. In a way, they are. Until they die, that is.
But all of the little moments over the past few days in the Capitol have begun to coalesce into something that makes her feel whole. Like dancing with Crescentia, or pushing Alton to act on his feelings. She has even seen Castiel and Hela, who seem so driven for the victory, stop and have such human moments with the rest of them. Part of her knows that she needs to keep a distance from them. The Careers always crash and burn. But even though Hela has already approached her with plans for when that happens, Siren knows that she can't kill any of these people. I have to have a different contingency plan… maybe I can ally with that girl from Six instead, and I won't have to face any of the rest of them.
"I think that's quite impressive, Siren," the interviewer is saying, and the crowd is nodding along in agreement. She hasn't been quite paying attention the entire interview, but answering most of his questions vaguely is sure to leave her with a mysterious aura for the audience to digest. "Well, time's almost up for us, but I want to wish you the best of luck as well finding your place with them," he says gently, and she looks up sharply at his intuitive words.
The buzzer goes off, and Siren sees something reflected in Mr. Valentine's eyes that give her hope. It takes her a minute to realize that what she sees is simply herself, radiant as she burns under the ethereal spotlight.
Nyxandrea Nexus (16), District 5 Tribute
The metal is cool to her touch as her fingers nervously caress the spires of the sun. Her brother's necklace feels heavy around her neck, a constant reminder of what she has been taken from. Though parts of living in District Five were never her favorite, Nyx misses the comforting sense of familiarity that accompanied waking up every day in the gray urban landscape that she and Sorrel call home.
The homesickness seems to permeate her skin. The feelings are unshakable as Nyx tries to avoid looking out behind the curtains to where the tall boy from District Four is being interviewed. He looks amazing in his petrol blue suit, which favorably compliments his olive skin.
"Come on, you know I can do this!" the boy cheers, pumping his fist into the air. She can see the stiff collar of his white undershirt from behind the stage. It's almost as bright as Mr. Valentine's teeth. The vast amount of technology available in the Capitol has amazed her since they first stepped off the train. The cosmetics that these people wear…
Part of Nyx wants to feel jealous at all of the glamourous Capitol ladies with their faces caked in makeup, their elegant hairstyles and outrageous dresses. They're so refined. She's always had a problem being as ladylike as some might expect someone of her age to be, and after seeing Brita and the three Career girls walk out on stage with their amazing dresses and flawless complexions makes her more than a little self-conscious.
The Master of Ceremonies winks at the boy. "Well you know what they say, Alton. 'May the odds be ever in your favor'... and I certainly think you have some odds on your side…"
"And do we?" Nyx murmurs aloud, resting her head against the wall. The first thing the stylists did when getting her in the room was take her hair out of its usual ponytail. Her light brown hair has been done in a half-crown braid that she wishes she could replicate at home. It looks so much better than anything I could have done. It might get in the way, though, to have loose hair when running. Another nail is driven into her heart when she thinks of running in the morning with Dean, before dawn had broken into the sky.
"Well, there are two of us." Sorrel's words startle her, for she hadn't realized she had spoken aloud. She looks behind her in line, eyes connecting with Sorrel's. He gives her a reassuring smile, she is grateful to have an excuse to look away from the massive crowd since the stirrings of stage fright have begun to make an entrance in her stomach. "You know I'd do anything for you, darling," Sorrel whispers, lips twitching into a smile.
"I sure hope so, Sorrel," Nyx admits, folding her arms across her chest. He's so damn unflappable all the time, she complains to herself. It's hard to tell if he's teasing me or not. Since their shared moment on the parade, when Sorrel had grabbed and kissed her with his warm, sultry lips, she's been questioning him the entire way. Hell, I've been questioning myself too. The only romantic knowledge Nyx has ever had was a halfhearted version of "the Talk" with her mother, and it's easy enough to see how well that panned out for her.
Sorrel nods impassively, though his eyes speak differently. "Hey," he addresses her, taking one of her slender porcelain hands into one of his own warm brown ones. "It's gonna go fine, okay? Promise. Don't overthink it, N-" he catches himself, earning him a smile from her- "Nyx."
He's finally coming around to not calling me by my full name. The thought makes her happy"I guess," she replies. "But we're going after a bunch of Careers. Brita didn't do so hot out there, see?" She's feeling a strange mixture of elation and fear right now that makes her want to dunk her head in a bucket of cold water. The world hasn't stopped spinning since I got here, she decides. And Sorrel is the only piece of home I have left. But does that warrant a relationship with him? Does he want a relationship? Do I?
"It's okay. The Capitol likes us. They cheered our names during the parade, remember?" He says gently, cupping the side of her face. The action makes Nyx blush hard, the heat creeping to her cheeks. Nyx tries to hide her face with her hand, but Sorrel gently lowers it. Her nails are polished navy blue and coated with a chunky top layer of glittering colors that sparkle like a trapped galaxy at her fingertips. Nyx stares at her nails, trying to ignore the line of tributes behind them or the crowd in front of them.
She's about to protest that the chariot rides was all his doing, when he interrupts her. "Besides," Sorrel says, his expression stolid, "You look absolutely gorgeous."
Now she blushes even harder, but the sleeves of her dress aren't enough to hide her reddening cheeks. They're about three-quarters down her arm, and slightly flounced. The dress is a blue-gray star mesh dress with tiny sequinned and embroidered stars subtly scattered all throughout the fabric. It has a bustier underneath that helps accentuate what little chest she has to work with, and a full midi-skirt to hide her runner's legs. I almost look like a proper lady, Nyx thinks. But there is still the shadow of doubt in her mind that she can't erase, no matter what lies she tells herself. "You really think so?" Nyx asks him, staring into his dark brown eyes.
The first genuine grin Nyx has seen today breaks through his normal unyielding neutrality, as though the heat from her flaming cheeks has somehow softened the rigid ice of Sorrel's own. "I know so, darling." Sorrel squeezes her hand and she wants to melt right then and there, the soft glow of his three-piece suit illuminating the small space between them. In the darkness behind stage, it has changed from a black suit with cornflower accents to neon blue ones that glow faintly in the shadows. It has neon blue pinstripes and a dress shirt that is partially blocked out by a black waistcoat. Sorrel is wearing a black tie with neon blue circuit patterns, and even his shoelaces seem to glow a little.
It makes all of the stars and sequins on her dress reflect the dusky light, so that the two of them are bathed in something soft and secret. Like an entire constellation is mapped out between us. She breathes slowly, wishing that she could be back under the slate gray skies of District Five, with Sorrel's hands in her own. Had things been different, I might have walked with him rather than running with Dean, she ponders. I don't want the Games to take this away from me.
The voice of the interviewer cuts through the somber air behind the curtains. "And our next tribute is the lovely Nyxandrea Nexus, give it up for District Five, ladies and gentlemen!" Sorrel gives her a smile and lets her go, gently disentangling his fingers from her own. Whatever smiles he had worn are gone, replaced by his usual indifference. But it's easier to see him now, through his eyes. Nyx isn't quite sure what caused him to act this way, always the most mature and refined member of her brother Solander's friend group, but she wants to find out. I want to know why I am able to crack it.
"Well hello Miss Nexus, how are you this evening?" Mr. Valentine asks her as she walks out in her blue-gray pumps to shake his hand.
"I'm doing alright, and uh, w-what about you?" Nyx stammers in embarrassment, the thousands of eyes in the crowd all set upon her, watching her struggle.
The interviewer chuckles, his eyes full of warmth. "I'm fine! But we're here to talk about you, darling," he grins. Different when Sorrel calls me that, Nyx decides. The same feeling of butterflies fluttering inside her chest does not surface when Mr. Valentine addresses her the same way. "So how are you enjoying your stay here so far?"
"I miss home, you know," Nyx admits. "But…" In truth, she does miss the familiarity. The novelty of the Capitol is entertaining but it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth by how ecstatic they are to send her to her death. "The Capitol isn't a bad place to be," she finishes lamely.
Mr. Valentine smiles. "I can get behind that! We certainly love it here." The crowd cheers in response, a sea of cascading jewels down the slope of bleachers, their hair and clothes all brighter and more eccentric than the last. "So, we all saw that wonderful kiss between you and your district partner Mr. Nettleson back just a few nights ago… and we've all been dying to know, do the two of you have any feelings for each other?"
"I-We." Nyx stops herself from stammering any more to the audience, who is leaning forward in anticipation. I'm not that easily swept away by romance, her brain protests. But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Nyx sighs. "Yes," she affirms to the man in pink sitting across from her. The crowd goes crazy, cheering and hooting like a bunch of young children. Their confidence in her makes her feel strangely better, as though the burning spotlight and her flaming cheeks can be forgotten about. Nyx raises her chin, grass-green eyes sweeping out to take in the crowd.
"I've kissed him again, too," she says, blushing. I've never been a good liar anyway. The roar is louder as she decides that she feels something for Sorrel. The faith of the crowd carries Nyx through the remainder of the interview, and even with her standard score of a five, she is feeling better about her chances. Like Sorrel said, there are two of us. We can make that work. I can make this work.
The buzzer rings in her ears, but no longer does it sound like a cry of doom - like the Reaping bell - and instead it feels liberating. No longer does it make her feel nervous that she will be scorned, or feel misplaced like poor Brita.
The only timer that matters now is the sixty seconds before the land-mines deactivate and the Games begin tomorrow.
Axel Richthofen (16), District 6 Tribute
He narrows his eyes as the boy from District Five takes his blushing partner's place on stage. Though Axel noticed the boy's suit had dusky neon accents to it behind the curtain, the spotlights have effectively eradicated the traces of neon from whichever components of his suit were glowing. The accents now look a pale cornflower blue.
The pinstripes need to go, Axel bemoans the choice. They look too much like Mr. Yorusco's stripes, he thinks to himself. His boss had worn pinstripes too, the tight custom-tailored suit barely able to confine his massive bulk. Bitch was greedy like a pig too, Axel scoffs as he remembers his fist connecting with Nandan Yorusco's nose in the Justice Building. Bitch said he'd miss my service.
He leans against the wall, the matte leather jacket making a soft sound as it brushes against the smooth concrete. The stylists did a number on me, he groans. How dare they force me into this charade? Isn't killing me enough? If there's one thing Axel won't admit to anyone - especially given the prevalence of the question being issued forth from the interviewer's lips - it's how much he actually enjoys the Capitol in comparison to home. If this is what the devil is willing to give me in exchange for the cost of my soul, who am I to begrudge it? After all, every human is flawed and capable of great sins and atrocities. At least the rest of them are worse than I am, he scoffs, condemning them within his own mind.
Just because the beds are softer and the water doesn't smell like rust doesn't make this place any more magical than the slums back home, he decides. Neither place, in Axel's book, is worth keeping around. He doesn't look as extravagant as some of the other tributes, such as the Career girls or the boy from Three, whose stylists thought it was such a good idea to dress him up in the same color scheme as the infamous Master of Ceremonies. Axel's wearing a black matte leather blazer with epaulettes on his shoulders that clink softly when he moves. They're composed of silver spikes and draping thin silver chains on the shoulders, and seem to serve no purpose besides making him look like an informally decorated Peacekeeper.
If Mercedes' hair wasn't blocking the stage, I could get a ticket to watch this mess, he thinks. Not that he is interested in the other tributes, but when the pair from District Five kissed each other on the chariots, the attention they got was sure to resurface down the line. Ten bucks they don't even like each other, and it's all a scheme, he grins. His district partner slouches against the wall, a few strands of hair escaping from the high chignon with dutch braids her stylists teased her dark hair into. Finally, he has a clear view of the stage. Axel could have stepped off from the wall, but looking eager to meet the Capitolites isn't something that he's interested in. I couldn't give a rats ass, unlike this kid.
The other boy's hair has had some work, with texture spray and curl cream worked through his curly black hair to give the steel wool texture some more volume. He isn't listening to what the boy says - personally, Axel could care less - but the crowd seems excited by how charismatic he sounds. Imagine being nice to these glitter-fed Capitolites. He is certainly impressed by the stoicism on the boy's face. It takes a lot to keep up a mask like that, he muses, the amount of courteousness between tribute and interviewer laid on so thickly that it becomes smothering and Axel wants to gag in disgust.
"So, Mr. Nettleson," the interviewer smiles graciously. "You moved to District Five from… District Eleven, was it?" Murmurs arise from the crowd, and Axel wants to roll his eyes. "Would you be kind enough to share why you had clearance to move?"
Sorrel shrugs elegantly, his face remaining composed. "My father works for a Capitol program that was working to research means of generating sustainable power through photosynthesis," he explains. "I moved to District Five at age four, sir," he says respectfully to the man. Ouch, Axel thinks. He can't imagine moving between Districts; most of the unlucky souls born in the cesspit of District Six stay there until they die. Part of Axel wonders if the boy must have started to act so prim and proper as a way to cope with his new surroundings, much as Axel had fallen into pace with the criminal underbelly of Six through putting on a mask of his own.
But his sympathy for Sorrel ends there, a fleeting notice overshadowed by growing resentment for the boy. He's well-spoken, and Axel finds it jarring how smoothly their conversation flows in comparison to the breathless, blushing girl that went before him. Mr. Valentine smiles at the other boy with his dazzling white teeth, further deepening the scowl on Axel's face. "So, Mr. Nettleson, how is it that you came to know MIss Nexus, if you don't mind me asking?"
Sorrel takes a deep breath, never dropping his chin from it's position as he stares directly at the top of Mr. Valentine's head. "Well, sir, I've known her for quite some time, to tell you the truth. After the move, you see, I developed a… friendship with her brother Solander after the move." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he talks, which seems to unnerve the interviewer. "I met her once when I was over at her house, and chanced upon her from time to time back home," he admits. The Capitol coos at the boy, a light smattering of applause rippling through the crowd. Axel pulls his lighter out of the pocket of his black fitted pants, which have taken on a metallic sheen in the incendiary red light backstage. He is no longer interested in whatever unrequited love affairs the District Five tributes are having, and flicks it open and closed with a small snick as the metal locks into itself.
It's an old habit he's picked up, and one that has clearly begun to annoy Mercedes, who must actually be paying attention to the interviews. She turns around slowly to stare at him in annoyance, and he shakes his head, chuckling in monotone to himself. "Problem, princess?" he enunciates slowly, lazily raising an eyebrow to her as her expression becomes affronted.
"No, Axel. I'm not the one who has a problem," she huffs. He sends a smug, condescending smile her way, basking in Mercedes' irritated glare. This is too easy. He puts a foot against the wall, his buckled boots catching a sliver of light from the stage. Axel continues to flick the lighter open and closed even when she's turned back around, even more pleased with the way the muscles in her shoulders seem to tense up.
He shrugs. Doesn't matter to me. Axel certainly is no stranger to doing controversial things just to do them. To see people's reactions. As if on cue, he rubs his bicep, where a curling snake tattoo makes its home on his arm. The stylists debated for an hour whether or not they should cover it up, until he snapped at them. Why would it matter if these sleeves cover it up anyway? They still insisted on covering something up, and settled on the dark circles under his eyes, attacking them with foundation and primer.
They left a thin edge behind to blend with smudged black eyeliner. It makes him look more fresh-faced than he had when he originally surrendered himself to the prideful stylists, temporarily eliminating the insomnia he has been struggling with for the past few years. His hair too, was not spared from the zealous hand of his stylist, who spiked up his dirty blond bangs with volume and life by a touch of texture gloss, even going as far to trim his undercut.
The boy's buzzer finally goes off, and he listens to the interviewer call Mercedes on stage as if his head is underwater and Mr. Valentine in his pink suit is some kind of god calling down from the heavens to rouse him. He watches her go, her stride nervous as she walks out on stage in brown criss-crossing lace up heels with silver studs, her walk mirroring the lack of confidence she knows she must be feeling. Mercedes wears an olive green ombre mini-dress with an A-line babydoll silhouette that accentuates her hips rather nicely, Axel notes. Here I was thinking she was just broad in all the wrong places. The thin spaghetti straps of the dress help to show off muscles he knows she earned working shifts in the aerial hub, and Axel defensively crosses his arms in jealousy, lighter held in his closed fingers.
If all goes to plan, she'll be dead and he'll have her supplies by the time the sun sets in the arena, and Mercedes Benson won't have to worry about his habits where she's going. Everyone's quiet when you put them six feet under, he remembers Volvo telling him. Mr. Yorusco entrusted Volvo to teach Axel the workings of their world, and so he learned. He watches Mercedes talk animatedly to Mr. Valentine, their momentary dispute forgotten about, and narrows his eyes. People only talk to you when they need something, he contemplates, remembering countless nights doling out drugs to the strangers who would ask and the strangers who would pay, like his father. If they don't need something, they don't care.
He opens the lighter again, remembering robbing the pockets of an unconscious druggie who had tried to get his fix without paying Axel. Remembering how empowering it felt to knock the light out of his greedy eyes, Axel wonders if killing would yield a similar feeling.
Death is more final, he decides as Mercedes is ushered off the stage. "Alright everyone," the Master of Ceremonies calls. "Please welcome Axel Richthofen of District Six!" calls Mr. Valentine in his ridiculous pink suit from the stage. Axel sighs, shaking his head.
He steps out of the shadows and into the intense light of the spotlight as it beats down on his shoulders, feeling its scouring gaze heat up the piercings in his ears and burn the back of his neck. He pockets the lighter and surveys the audience with a stony expression, wishing there was still gas left in the wick and gasoline drenching every member of the crowd. His fingers twitch as he ignores Mr. Valentine's handshake, instead taking a seat and staring blankly ahead of him. We do this the hard way, he silently challenges the man, who seems to understand.
His fingers twitch again, opening and closing a phantom lighter. If I could ignite this world and burn it all down, I wouldn't hesitate. But it is not the lethal flames of intentional arson that lick at his boots; rather the quiet burning of the spotlight above.
It pisses Axel off to no end that the penance for his deeds has come early.
Author's Note: *long internal scream*
Well, uh… it's been a while, huh? I suppose I don't get much of an excuse, so I won't really bother trying to explain why these POVs were hard for me to write or what's been going on. One chapter closer to the bloodbath, I guess. Major thanks to our resident stylist, ShunKazamis-Girl, who worked really damn hard to make sure all of these interview outfits were amazing. What did you think of the ones shown so far?
The outfits might take a couple of days to be fully posted onto the blog, depending on their schedule. The blog has been finished for a while now, and does include pages on every tribute as well as other supporting characters, so make sure to go check it out!
Sponsoring will remain open until I post the bloodbath, but do please consider getting those in if you haven't. A poll will also be posted up on my profile when the next chapter is posted (since the interviews will be over). Information about it can be found in the sponsoring section on my profile. If any of that is confusing to you, do feel free to ask.
Anyway, have a nice day/night, and I hope you all are doing well wherever you are at! :)
