12-Lost in the Spotlight
"A heartbreaking scene in District Eight, truly, isn't it Evelynn?"
"If you're a fan of underdogs, you've found your pick."
"So, Evelynn, with two-thirds of the districts accounted for in our morning-after reaping recap, who do you think are the biggest stars?"
"We'll see for sure when I'm interviewing them next week. But as always, the careers are the ones to look out for. Our three volunteers and their siblings are the ones I have my eye on."
"Well, call me a sucker for underdogs, because the triplets from District Eight have stolen my heart."
"Speaking of underdogs, District Nine's trio fits that description pretty well."
"Yes, well, without the stealing of hearts."
Gaspar groaned internally, outwardly doing his best to not show any emotions as he calmly pressed the mute button to avoid any further commentary. Getting reaped wasn't terrible enough, but they had to all make a complete mess of things. Now the entire country thought he was a joke, an afterthought that stood no chance. He felt like bashing his head against a wall, how could he blow his first impression like that?
Saint had yet to leave his room since they stepped foot on the train, and even Ignatius, rabid, psychotic Hunger Games fanboy that he was, walked away from the television to avoid the replays. Only his mentor, Kalista, a fierce woman in her late thirties with rolling auburn hair, piercing hazel eyes, and six vertical scars running across her cheeks, still sat on the couch and watched with him.
As the escort called out Gaspar's name, he watched in resigned horror as Ignatius punched a Peacekeeper and was forcefully dragged up to the stage, while a fearful Saint and stunned, out-of-it Gaspar followed.
"It could be worse," Kalista offered weakly. "I think."
"It doesn't matter, I can still salvage this. I thought it over last night, and I have a plan. During my interview I'll inform them that I was dealing with a case of food poisoning, and tell them I was throwing up all morning, and on the train too. Clams, or something."
On screen, Gaspar projectile vomited, spewing his breakfast onto the shocked escort, who let out an ear-piercing shriek.
"Doesn't look like Clams," Kalista pointed out, tilting her head. "Could ask Lucretia, she would know what it looked, felt, smelled, and probably even tasted like."
"I'll consider it." He snorted, though on the inside he felt himself slipping further into despair.
That feeling just about quadrupled when Saint decided it was his turn to make a mockery of things, making a mad dash for the crowd as the commotion drew away everybody's attention. It took just a few moments for Peacekeepers to catch him and drag the sobbing sixteen-year-old up to the podium. Any further formalities were cancelled as the three were escorted into the Justice Building, Saint and Ignatius with a tight grip and Gaspar with a healthy distance.
"I've seen bigger comebacks." Kalista shrugged, flipping off the television. "No point dwelling on it now, anyways. It's time for you to make your official entrance into the Capitol."
Gaspar nodded, tapping his hair to ensure that everything was prim and proper, while tugging on his sleeves to force out some of his anxiety. "Any idea what our costume will be for the parade?"
"If I were a betting woman, stalks of wheat."
"Ah, I just keep getting more appealing to the sponsors," he quipped.
"You're a heavyweight, kid. I'm gonna go fish out Saint and see if I can track down Ignatius."
"Probably watching Hunger Games replays in the film room," Gaspar said.
"Good place to start." She sighed. Ignatius's fervent passion had already begun to wear down their mentor, who snapped at him the previous night when he pestered her with personal questions of her time in the arena. She struck the fear of god into him, though, and he made sure to keep his questions to a minimum afterwards. "You go ahead and make your way to the door, they'll send a stylist to pick you up when they're ready for you."
As it turned out, Gaspar only had to wait two minutes before he was picked up, a Capitolite who looked like he had been dipped in a vat of blue dye escorting him out of the train. He wasn't fortunate enough to get a glimpse of the city, the train leading directly into the stylist center, a dimly lit warehouse with some sixty rooms lining the ends of the main hub. Most likely had to change locations because of all the extra tributes, Gaspar figured. Not that he minded delaying his introduction to the Capitol. He needed all the help he could get with making a good first impression, and he could only hope that his stylist had what it took.
The answer to that question was an emphatic no.
After two hours of having his hairs shaved, plucked, and waxed off his body until not a single hair remained on his body, punctuated by clipping and filing nails, scrubbing him with liquids that made his skin sting, and trimming and styling his hair with a meticulousness that even Gaspar saw as excessive, they were finally satisfied enough to let him put on his outfit. Two painful hours, being pulled and prodded and mocked and gossiped about by his prep team as if he weren't even there, and it was time for the grand reveal of what his stylist had spent one year constructing. A once in every twenty-five-years opportunity, a moment to pull out all the stops and make something spectacular that would dazzle the audiences and win over sponsors.
Yeah, he was a stalk of wheat.
"So," the stylist said, putting on his best southern drawl as he leaned over Gaspar's shoulder and looked at him in the mirror. "What do you think?"
"I'm wheat," Gaspar said. He was incapable of saying more without barraging the person who would be choosing his interview outfit with insults, and so he kept his mouth shut, his jaw clamped together.
"Isn't it. . . neat?" The stylist cackled, the prep team all bursting into giggles.
As Gaspar stared into the mirror, he wondered if this was what he deserved. If his own pathetic, terrible response to getting reaped was the reason this was happening to him. He kept his head low as he was led out of the prep room and into the chariot lobby, relief turning into frustration as he realized Ignatius was the only tribute who had been dressed yet. Ignatius was put in a matching costume, stalks of wheat reaching far above his head to reach where Gaspar stood.
"When I win, I'm going to murder our stylist," Ignatius threatened through gritted teeth. Gaspar wasn't able to find himself disagreeing with the urge.
"Maybe if one of us pretends a wardrobe malfunction makes us fall off the chariot and crack our head open they'll execute our stylists for ruining the Games," Gaspar said dryly. He was joking, but only barely. He was a junior politician, for Snow's sake, the Mayor's assistant, and a future senator with where his trajectory was headed. He felt insulted.
That managed to get a laugh out of Ignatius, the first bit of joy that Gaspar had seen out of the boy since the reaping. "You know," he said, as tributes began to filter out and get helped up onto their chariots. "Maybe this won't be so bad. I mean, look at everyone, I think we could take them all out."
"Maybe," Gaspar said, feeling a bit more confident himself seeing the District Eight trio load up in front of him. The tallest of them was maybe cracking five feet, and the girl would be four and a half at most. Even Ignatius, only twelve years old, could probably take on the three of them by himself. Though looking further forward and spotting the massive District Two family shook that newly earned confidence.
While most of the groups stuck to their own units, quickly loading onto their chariots, a few wandered. The oldest boy from District Three attempted to strike a conversation with the oldest sibling from District Five and Six, both of whom seemed disinterested. The Capitol siblings all spaced apart, like opposite ends of magnets that repelled each other with no specific destination or purpose.
Gaspar was just starting to wonder aloud why Saint was taking so long when he joined the two, flanked by their blue stylist. While Gaspar and Ignatius looked corny, cheesy, elementary, and cliche, Saint looked genuinely fearsome. Instead of the tired stalks of wheat, Saint was dressed in something entirely new. Black soot was spread in a line beneath his eyes, a grey bandanna tied across his forehead, and two katanas were sheathed across his back, forming an X. His tank-top and pants were a golden camouflage that would let one disappear into tall stalks of wheat, and most strikingly of all, on each of his cheeks three cuts were made vertically, fake blood trailing down his cheeks. He looked like a warrior, fresh from a battle, with tears and cuts across his clothes, and his hair a stylistic mess. And Gaspar was a stalk of wheat.
Saint looked uncomfortable in the get-up, and seeing the expression on Gaspar's face fed into that discomfort, leaving him squirming in his bare feet as he awkwardly stood between his brothers and the stylist.
Before Gaspar could formulate a properly scathing remark towards his stylist, Ignatius let out a sound that was halfway between a yelp and a squeal. "Oh! You're a genius!" He exclaimed, giddily jumping up and down in his seat.
Their stylist gave a cocky grin as he dipped into a bow. "Oh, I know. Still, it doesn't hurt to hear it stated."
Gaspar gave Ignatius a look, his face contorted into that of someone who had just gotten a surprise birthday party, when it wasn't his birthday.
"Don't you see it," Ignatius exclaimed, slapping himself on the forehead. "He's Kalista!"
Gaspar glanced at Saint, then back to Ignatius. "Am I missing something?"
"154th Hunger Games, after Careers killed Kalista's ally at the bloodbath, she stalked the six feet tall wheat fields that surrounded the cornucopia, stole two katanas from the weapon stash while they were sleeping, and then took them out, one by one. Every time she killed one of them, she marked the kill by cutting a line down her cheek. At the final four, she killed all three of the remaining Careers without them seeing her even once." Ignatius's hands fluttered about in messy excitement. "You're Kalista!"
"And we're the wheat field," Gaspar muttered.
"Our mentor did that?" Saint stuttered, his hands flapping around as he attempted to calm himself.
"What did you think the scars were?"
Even Gaspar jumped in his seat as Kalista appeared on the opposite side of the chariot, arms crossed as she looked them over. "Not bad," she said, coming close to Saint and examining him as he squirmed and sunk into the ground. "Not what I'd call a spitting image, but hey."
"And why is Saint the one with the outfit, exactly?" Gaspar asked, unable to keep the bite out of his question, as much as he tried.
"Your stylist asked me who I thought would pull off the look the best, I told him Saint." She shrugged, not even bothering to turn to face him.
"You-"
She spun around. "Everyone will be paying attention to Saint during the parade, and nobody will notice the stalk of wheat sitting next to him, yes. Trust me, you'll be fine." Kalista spoke with authority, not allowing Gaspar to finish the sentence that he hadn't figured out an ending too yet. It wasn't headed anywhere good, that was certain.
Still, he opened his mouth to shoot back a retort, until he saw the expression that Kalista wore, and thought over her words. Nobody would notice him. The puzzle clicked into place, and Gaspar felt like an idiot. The three of them had the most pathetic first impression imaginable yesterday. Dressing up as a warrior, specifically their mentor from 20 years ago, would come off as inauthentic, laughable. All the jokes will be about the 'warrior' who ran and cried when he was reaped, while the stalk of wheat that vomited on his escort goes unnoticed. Just long enough to get a good training score and go into the interviews with everyone having forgotten all about his reaping incident.
Before he could think of a response, deafening cheers began to flood into the room as the massive gate slowly opened. Everything began to speed up, as Saint was quickly helped up onto the chariot and placed in between Gaspar and Ignatius. Ahead of them, District One's horses kicked off, leading their chariot out into the center of the world, every single eye in Panem facing them.
He didn't need to be the opening act, the center of attention. He would be quiet when he needed to, and when they least expected it he would show all of Panem what he was capable of. Gaspar Malasache, victor of the 175th Hunger Games. It had a nice ring to it.
"Hey," Saint nudged him in the shoulder, scratching the back of his neck as he dodged his eyes between his two brothers. "I'm sorry for making a mess of things at the reaping, and for taking the spotlight while you two are stuck being wheat. We're still allies, right?"
Gaspar only felt the smallest twinge of guilt as he nodded his head, smiled, and said, "Yeah, of course. Allies."
A/N: Hello there true believers. The story chugs along at a speed that would be insulting to compare to a snail. Surely and slowly, I hope to be able to finish this story. My normal writing process has been thrown in the garbage because of Lilith, so I'm not overly confident on how my writing has been in this and the past (and next) few chapters, but I hope that it turned out well enough that you all don't feel disappointed. Thank you to Santiago for Gaspar, Saint, and Ignatius! I loved the dynamic between these three, and look forward to exploring it more as this story gets further in! I hope you all enjoyed seeing this 3rd straight trio. Next chapter we'll get the D10 duo as they go through the parade proper, and the first night at the training center. See you when I see you :)