Hey guys! This chapter is a bit different than our usual- we're going to look at the interviews of the final eight's loved ones. We'll be back to the action next chapter!
ALSO- if you remember Nikki and Jason from Born to Die, and if you liked Jeremy in this story, and even if you have no idea what I'm talking about, I recommend you read their creator's new story! Domgk115 has created their own AU for Nikki and Jason and has posted the first chapter. I am the beta and it is absolutely amazing so far! Check it out if you want! Since it's nearly impossible to post links in FFnet for some reason, I'll just say that you can search 'domgk115' or 'A Career of Death' to find it.
Thanks to MaxMan667 for betaing!
Jabbock Darlson (20)- Victor of the 75th Hunger Games
Being so far away from home and from Alora is bad enough, but being surrounded by prickly, conceited Capitolites is even worse. My eyes scan the Square, watching as they blather to each other about which tribute they might sponsor, which they hope will die next, betting on what the cause of the next death will be. Like the girl from Eight besieged by lions and tigers, I plan my escape while trying to stay still as possible to avoid attention. Another sip from my fruity pink drink. It tastes unnatural and sickly sweet.
I miss Alora and my parents.
I glance up at the massive screen playing above Sponsor's Square. I couldn't care less about which tribute wins the Games now that both of my own tributes are fallen. Rai and Volt were both promising older tributes with decent training scores and fan-bases after their interviews. Yet Rai hadn't made it past the bloodbath and Volt had died on the sixth day. Volt had been our biggest shot at a victor; charismatic, crafty, clever. Too clever for his own good. At least he made a fool of that boy from Two. Maybe District Two will lose some credibility and reputation as Careers after the disastrous incident that resulted in both Volt and Cyprian's death, as well as the death of Pagani from Six.
I slowly get to my feet, wobbly and hazy from the alcohol in my strange drink, and hone in on a door at the corner of the Square. I make a beeline for it.
"Jabbock!"
I turn and blink blearily at the blurred person approaching me. "Yes?" I slur.
"Jabbock, I'm so glad to meet you!" the Capitolite woman professes. "This is my first time at the Square!"
A newmoney Hunger Games fan? I squint at her, making out lavender hair and a black and white polka dot dress. It hurts my eyes.
"Don't you want to come watch the final eight interviews with me?" she asks suavely.
Watching innocent children die onscreen is painful, but watching their families plead their executioners for mercy is even worse.
I miss Alora and my parents.
"Jabbock?" The woman seems a little amused, perhaps because I am drunk. Perhaps because she's realizing she has a future story to tell her friends about meeting the victor of the Third Quarter Quell.
"Uhhh..."
The woman gasps, turning back to the screen hanging up above us. "Oh my god, Logan's family!" she squeals. "Hurry, Jabbock, let's watch!"
She grabs my hand and pulls me back to the velveteen couch. I groan aloud, but she can't seem to hear me, eyes fixed on the screen.
"Logan is so dreamy," she sighs, eyes gazing into the dirty face of the Six tribute, covered in mud and blood. Not exactly what I'd called dreamy, but hardcore Hunger Games fans have a strange taste. Not to mention he's only eighteen. Still, I remember returning to the Capitol for the first time after my Games and having men and women throwing themselves at me. Babbling about all of my traumatic moments from the Games that they apparently thought were attractive. I sigh and lean back onto the ruby couch, wondering if the Gamemakers will send me word that someone is coming to visit me in my apartment tonight. I've already 'serviced' a few wealthy Capitolites in the weeks I've been here, and it's nigh time for another visitor. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I miss Alora and my parents...
"Are you rooting for Logan?" the woman asks cheerily. "He was allies with your tribute after all."
I chuckle and take another sloppy sip of my drink, nearly spilling it on myself. "Sure, why not?" I mumble. I know I should give some speech about how I respect Logan for allying with Volt, and how I'm so sad that Volt's plan for poisoning the Careers went wrong, but I respect them nonetheless for being brave fighters and killing my tribute. Uphold the integrity of my district or whatever. But when I close my eyes, all I see is Pagani's head smashed into a pulp by Passion's mace. I shut my eyes tight and shiver.
By the time I've opened them, the screen has switched from Logan's current predicament in the arena to a pair of stern looking adults. The man has the same eyes as Logan. I imagine that it's always such a jarring realization for the Capitolites that their favorite tributes have actual families and friends; that they aren't just figures on a screen created for their entertainment. But the woman beside me seems enamoured with the slew of people on-screen.
"I'm Logan's mother," the woman on-screen says. She has tired eyes and deep lines in her face. So does the man who silently stands beside her, his arm wrapped around her waist. He stares into the distance as his wife speaks about how Logan is such a good boy, a hard worker, their reason for living. "I only ask that if any Capitolites have money to spare, to sponsor Logan." Her plea won't go over well with the Capitol. Requests for sponsorships from the tributes' families never do. They come across as desperate, cheap, lazy, even. The stress is apparent in her eyes, perhaps knowing that her plea is falling on deaf ears.
The screen then switches directly to a different group of people, so many that the camera has to zoom out to fit them all. A dark-skinned boy and a girl with pasty yellow hair are front and center. "My name's Dante, and I'm the leader of the Warriors," the boy says bluntly. At the mention of the gang's name, the kids around him all chant Warriors! in unison. "Well, Logan is our actual leader, but he put me in charge," Dante says, ducking his head a little, then looking up with fire in his eyes. "We keep the streets of Six clean and safe. And we know that Logan will win! We're the toughest gang in District Six and Logan is the toughest guy in that arena, for sure!"
The Warriors roar in approval. "And I'm the first female member of the Warriors, Mary!" the girl with dirty blonde hair announces loudly. "Pagani was my best friend, and Logan is going to avenge her by killing those cunts from One and Two!"
The camera quickly switches away from the group of kids as they all snicker and holler in agreement. The Capitolites gathered in Sponsor Square laugh uproariously, but the woman beside me frowns. "That was rude," she says bitterly. "They could at least have a sense of good sportsmanship."
I'm too drunk to respond or even to get upset at her lack of empathy. Instead, I just burst into laughter. She stares at me like I'm insane, and my cheeks turn red from embarrassment, but I can't stop. Not even when the screen shifts to show a pretty brunette girl with eyes filled with tears. "Logan, I love you so much," she says, sniffling a bit. "You're the love of my life. Please come home to me."
She pleads a while longer before the cameramen apparently get tired of it and switch over to an entirely new district. A dark-skinned woman and a younger man sit beside a window that looks out over the street outside. Ever since I visited all the districts for my Victory Tour, I can recognize those endless lines and grids of cables anywhere. District Three.
"I always knew that our Caillou would do well in the Games" the woman says, a forced smile on her face. The man sits beside her, stony faced, staring directly at the camera. "She's smarter than all of the girls in her class put together. And she's been helping me solve smaller cases for years now!"
"You're a detective, correct?" the interviewer asks behind the camera.
"Yes, that's right," she nods, again with a smile. "I work as a detective for the District Three Justice Building. Caillou has been helping me solve cases since she was a little girl. She always had so much potential to do so many different things! I've always told her to be confident in herself and her abilities. Everything can be useful in some way." Her words seem genuine, though watered down for the Capitol. She must have a lot of experience dealing with Peacekeepers and Capitol-loving types, being a detective.
"What can you tell us about your sister?" the interviewer asks quietly, directing their attention to the man. He rolls his shoulders, brow furrowing.
"She likes to paint," he says stoically, obviously reciting what his mother told him to say. "She learned how to mimic voices from our grandfather. He died in the factory."
An elbow in the rib from his mother shuts him up. His frown deepens just as the camera switches to someone else. I let out a hiccup of a laugh, still red in the face. The person onscreen is now a young girl of a fair complexion with dark freckles and brown eyes. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a smooth ponytail.
"My name is Jessica," she says. "And I'm… Caillou's best friend." She looks pained. "I've known Caillou my whole life. My parents worked with her grandfather. He was the kindest man I've ever known… and Caillou is truly his granddaughter," Her eyes look a little misty, and her lip trembles. "All I want is for her to return."
All I want is to return back to my own home. Being away from Five is bad enough, but having to watch the interviews of others' desperate loved ones is even worse.
I miss Alora and my parents.
Bellona Presque (26)- Head Gamemaker
I don't often go to parties. I prefer to be the observer of the human animal rather than a participant in their strange rituals. Still, some observation is possible even in the belly of the beast, and it helps that the giant television on the wall is playing the interviews of the final eight's families. My employees convinced me that I should take a break during the interviews to celebrate another successful Hunger Games, but I can never truly stop my work. As bodies swim and pulsate in the flashing lights around me, I keep my attention fixed on the screen, evaluating the camera angles and lighting of the interviews. Making sure they ask the right questions. Interesting ones that will provoke emotion and memories of their dear loved ones.
"Miss Presque?"
My assistant's voice drags my focus away from the television. Aelia is looking at me with raised eyebrow and a hand holding out a blue drink in a strangely shaped glass. "Why don't you take a real break?" she asks, accentuating her words with a slight shake of the glass.
I don't drink often, but I know I should tonight to please my Gamemakers. Make them think I'm one of them. On their team. I take the drink with a grateful nod. "You should take one too. You're my aide in the office, but not my party assistant."
Aelia's blue face tattoos disfigure as she smiles. "Thanks, Miss Presque."
I take a sip of my drink, turning back to the screen that is now showing the family of Passions Mavros' family. Her parents sit in front of their hearth which is decorated with various Mavros Inc. products, all jet black. Standing before their parents legs are two young children, both below Reaping age. The little boy fiddles with a toy train in his hands and fidgets restlessly, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. His older sister stands with her head held high, a toy sword in her hand. Her eyes are green like Passion's and her hair is the signature Mavros black. I see a Career in the making.
"We are so proud of our daughter," Passion's mother chirps, hand on her younger daughter's shoulder. "She's always had a healthy sense of competition. I know she won't let us down."
"Do you think her sense of competition is due to how you raised her?" the interviewer's voice issues from behind the camera.
The woman smiles like a black widow that is descending on an oblivious fly. "Why yes, I do," she purrs. "I've always cultivated self-sufficiency in my children. The Mavros family hasn't gotten where we are today by letting others surpass us. That's why our Passion has the most kills in the arena. Four already! Isn't that right, honey?" Her voice is sickly sweet as she turns to her husband.
The man beside her grunts noncommittally, staring right at the camera. His gaze and stance are intimidating from years of experience in business negotiation. He would make a good Gamemaker.
"What about you, little ones?" The interviewer cooes to the children. The little girl's face brightens immediately. "My name's Precious Mavros, and I'm going to win the Hunger Games one day!" She pushes out her chest and grins widely, as if practicing for her Reaping introduction.
"So cute," Aelia murmurs beside me. "We'll have to keep an eye on her."
I glance at my assistant. She was hired onto the team to make the Gamemakers comfortable and help with minor problems they may have, but she has potential to be more. I will have to keep an eye on her myself.
The screen switches to a new scene, now showing a different family. Their eyes are darker, their faces lined with grief.
"Are you still supporting Passion in the Games?"
"Yes, of course," the man says with a strained smile. He looks familiar. Then it hits: it's the Koche family. "Our family has served the Mavroses for generations."
"Is it true that your son Callum volunteered for the Games so he could protect Passion?"
They all look pained at the mention of their fallen loved one; all except the little girl in the front, staring at the camera with eyes so like Callum's.
"Callum was a loyal servant until the end," their mother says, poison dripping from her voice. I sense some animosity between the employers and the staff.
"He did what he had to do," the little girl says suddenly.
Everyone turns to her, and her mother nudges her with frown. "Gemma…"
The screen goes black for a moment. I let out an unamused sigh, shaking my head. "How could parents be so upset that their child volunteered for the Hunger Games?" I ponder for a moment. "Perhaps they're upset that he died so early on…"
"He betrayed their family by volunteering to help someone else," Aelia says. I glance over at her. She continues to surprise me. "Blood is thicker than water," she says.
I raise an eyebrow, glancing back at the screen. I've never felt much toward my own family, so the notion is one that I've never related to. But family has caused various problems for us over the years. I think back to last year when the boy from One held a grudge against the guy from Two because his brother killed his cousin. Such is the nature of victor families and Academy drama. I wish we could do away with it, but the Capitol audience does love it. And of course there was the problem of the tribute from Twelve this year who was the secret son of my own Gamemaker Livianus. I huff and shake my head at the thought of my ridiculous employee. Luckily, that problem was solved in the bloodbath. The truth of Rylex Steele's heritage will never see the light of day. If it did, I'm not sure how the Capitol citizens would react.
The screen is now showing a different setting. A man sits in the center of the frame at a small wooden table, his gnarled hands clasped in his lap. He has the dark olive skin and amber, searching eyes of Leto Larston. He smiles good-naturedly at the camera. He's not the kind of Career family that we're used to seeing. For one, he's all alone, without any other children or Leto's mother in the picture, and he's certainly not the wealthy or fairly well-to-do father that we see of so many Careers, Passion included.
"What do you do for a living, sir?" the interviewer asks respectfully from behind the camera.
The man's smile is crinkled. "I work at a factory that constructs Peacekeeper gear and weapons."
"And how do you feel about Leto's performance in the Hunger Games so far?"
The man's smile dissipates as he nods sternly. "Leto has shown the best performance out of all the tributes so far. She may not have the most kills, but she has the clearest head and a sportsman-like attitude. No matter what has happened in her alliance, she has remained sober in mind. She will win; there is no doubt about it."
I can only imagine how the Two academy is planning to clean up the mess left by Cyprian's betrayal and subsequent death. Perhaps they sent Leto's father into his interview with some scripted lines to say. But somehow I doubt it- the intelligence and insight in his eyes says otherwise.
"Might we ask where Leto's mother is during her daughter's interview?"
The man's face falls, the shadow of his frown darkening his face. "Leto's mother has had no hand in raising her daughter," he says grimly.
"Surely she is proud of what Leto has accomplished?"
"I would not know," the man sharply says. "I haven't spoken to her in over a decade."
I smirk at the screen. We already knew all of this, of course. It's standard to obtain as much information about a tribute's home life as possible, but this year we were even more scrupulous since we had to have a wide variety of their loved one's voices for mutts in the arena. Specifically, loved ones who have died. It had been a bit of a chore finding clips of the tribute's dead loved ones so that we could isolate their voices. Security cameras at workplaces in the districts were our lifesaver.
For as much work as we put in, not many tributes have stumbled across the mutts at the bottom of the cliff. Still, it was worth seeing Thorn from Eleven try to kill Passion using the mutts. The look of panic on his face when she stood on that platform will live in my memory for years to come. I knew that it would be incredible to see a tribute use the feast item pertaining to those mutts, and I was right.
There is an awkward silence on screen before it changes abruptly to a pale-skinned girl standing on a District Two street. She is dressed in an elegant pleated skirt and a simple but tasteful blue blouse. Around her neck is a silver necklace with a star-shaped charm that glints in the sunlight, and light brown hair tumbles down her back. She gulps as the interviewer focuses the camera.
"What is your relationship to Leto?"
"I'm her best friend," the girl says with a nervous smile.
"And who are you?"
She sighs, eyelashes fluttering. "Adrienne Starlet, heiress to the Starlet fortune. I gave her the star brooch that she wears in the arena." A brief but genuine smile flashes on her face. Then her brow furrows again and she takes a deep breath. "But I've never wanted to have everything handed to me. That's why Leto and I always wanted to represent our district in the Hunger Games."
She inhales deeply. "Leto, I never got the chance to tell you, but… I wish I had. I like you as more than a friend, and… I hope that we can be more than that if- when you come back." She looks paralyzed by panic, eyes wide, hands wringing in front of her skirt. This is good. A love confession always gets good ratings with the final eight interviews.
"I've never doubted you for a second, Leto," she finishes.
So much for blood. If this girl is willing to disavow her own family's fortune for some girl she met at the training academy, then how can it be thicker than water? Leto's own mother wasn't willing to be interviewed for her own daughter's legacy, nor did Raven's father about his son, or Blossom's entire family. Aelia's maxim is clearly bullshit.
"Miss Presque, I wasn't joking when I said we should take a break." Aelia grins at me, revealing pure white teeth. She reaches for my hand, hesitantly, as if afraid that I'll bite. "Let's leave the interviews to the interviewers."
She pulls me away from our little circle of light, dragging me into the smoky party. I quickly grab my electric blue drink while I still can, and smirk as I spot a group of people in the dimly lit corner muttering to each other, sending furtive glances my way. Maybe they would like to have a conversation with the youngest Head Gamemaker in history. It doesn't hurt to meet with the fans and tease features of next year's arena, some real, some fabricated. Aelia may want me to stop working, but the toil never truly ends as Head Gamemaker.
Tag Nylon (13) - Victor of the 77th Hunger Games
The white marble floor of our apartment practically shakes with every beat from the music outside. I swear I can see the windows wobble with every particularly loud thump, but it must be my eyes playing tricks on me. There's no way the Capitol would make the Training Center apartments with flimsy glass that could be shattered from a party on the street level. I lean back on the maroon velveteen couch, propping my bare feet up underneath me, intently watching the television screen before me.
I'm being too paranoid, and it's easy to see why. After Thimble's death, everyone was on edge. This year had been the first time that both Eight tributes had made it out of the bloodbath alive in several years, and we had been ecstatic at the thought of another victory after my own a year ago. His death had shaken that naive hope. Reminding us that fighting skill isn't the only thing that guarantees a win in the Games. The Gamemakers are cruel, and mutts are around every corner in this arena, as well as dehydration and hunger.
Cecelia is the only one who sits on the couch with me. We seem to be the only ones taking this seriously. Instead of preparing for the difficult days to come, our escort prefers to celebrate the fact that Flux has made it into the final eight. As if placement means anything in a game where the stakes are life and death. I recall Caesar Flickerman consoling me during my victor interview, saying that Seb did well because he placed fourth. Anger boils deep in my chest at the memory, almost as deep as the hole caused by the absence of Seb. Sock, too. And now Thimble. My friends, my trainee.
Our escort lets out a startling whoop! Cecelia and I both turn over our shoulders to stare at her. She's waving joyfully out the window, down to the revelers below. Apparently some of our admirers are trying to get our attention from down on the street. I turn back to the screen where Flux is currently shown, walking around the perimeter of the island, slightly dragging her twisted ankle behind her. The injury doesn't seem crippling, but without proper rest, it will get worse. I can only hope that Raven will talk some sense into her after she returns to their camp.
After showing Flux's activities in the arena, the screen switches to a pair of adults sitting in what is clearly a small apartment in Eight. The sight of my home makes my heart ache, and for a moment I wish all of this to be over so I can return to my family and friends.
But I push the thought away and force myself to persist. I can't feel fatigued yet; there is still much ahead of us.
Flux's mother has her dark skin and curly hair, and her father has her almond-shaped, twinkling eyes. Even in this moment, he smiles genuinely at the camera, an arm around his wife. "We're so proud of our Flux," he says lightly. "We always told her that she should act more mature. And she's matured so much on camera!" He smiles. "I can't wait for our little girl to come home." A bit of wistfulness creeps into his voice.
His wife doesn't seem to share his optimism. Her knee bounces from anxiety, and her teeth visibly grind together. She glances at the camera nervously when the interviewer addresses her.
"What do you think of Flux's performance so far, Mrs. DuBois?"
She swallows hard. "Very proud," she whispers, voice hoarse. There's a very pregnant pause. Then, "I just want my daughter back." She looks away, tears filling her eyes. Her husband's face falls and he rubs her shoulder comfortingly. The camera zooms in to catch her tears, but she resolutely wipes them away with a sniffle. When it's clear she's not giving them anything else, the camera switches to another scene.
This time a group of teenagers stands in front of a large mural. My heart swells at the sight. Behind them, large portraits of Thimble and Sparrow are spray-painted onto a concrete wall. Thimble's black hair and dark eyes are contrasted against the white clouds behind him, like he's ascending into the sky. His eyes are peacefully closed. Beside him, Sparrow flies with sparrow wings, true to her name. Her green eyes are bright, staring directly at the viewer, a small smile implied in their depths. Above them rises a glowing yellow sun where various artist tags are signed in a rainbow of colors. It seems every artist in the district helped create the mural.
"Flux will win the Hunger Games, you'll see," the kid in the center of the group says bluntly. He stands in between Thimble and Sparrow with his muscular arms crossed, brow furrowed. He has the exact look of a young rebel kid that I've seen so many of on the streets growing up in Eight. "She has the best position in the arena and all you Capitol people know it," she spits out, barely hiding his rancor behind a mask of nonchalance. "She killed those lions and she has water and food, and no one is even close to her except Raven. Another win for District Eight will happen this year, mark my words!"
The rest of the group claps and hollers in agreement at his proclamation. A few of them have a purple tint to their fringe. I uncomfortably shift in my seat. It's become the style around Eight and the Capitol to dye their hair like mine. My stylists here won't even let me change it.
"And when she gets back…" He looks over his shoulder, then back to the camera with a smirk. "... she'll paint something that will blow all of us out of the water."
Another hoot before the screen turns black, and I'm staring at my own purple bangs for a split second before the arena is once again shown on screen. Claudius Templesmith's voice gently narrates the scene. "Such a promising tribute, this little Flux."
"She's doing well," Cecelia says quietly. A light tapping comes from behind us. Our escort is trying to communicate with our fans on the street again.
The scene then switches to Raven, who is sitting at their fire in the shelter of the building. He shivers, warming his hands before the flames. "Now what about the nation's most faithful big brother…?"
I expect to see Raven's grieving parents, forced to recount their young daughter's violent death and beg for mercy for their sick son. But instead, I'm suddenly staring at a scene that looks remarkably similar to the room I'm sitting in right now. The skyscrapers of the Capitol rise in a large window in the background, a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. And front and center is our fellow victor, Johanna Mason.
She stares at the camera with that familiar mysterious smirk. "Raven Lavalée is one of the most promising tributes I've trained in years. In fact, I would say he's the most promising." The corners of her lips rise minutely at the recollection of an unknown memory. And though I've only spent four- ehh, five days with him before the Games started, I felt a real connection with him. And I mean a real connection. Like something that you only feel with the right person maybe every decade or so."
The cameraman is clearly afraid of where this conversation is going, the cameras moving slightly. Johanna rolls her eyes with a click of her tongue.
"Don't get cheeky with me," she says, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. An eyebrow raises. "I'm sure you all know what I'm talking about. How it feels." Her mask falls just for a moment before she picks it right back up, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. I remember the mysterious gift that Raven received from Johanna a week ago. Suddenly I wonder if all this isn't just a show for the camera to drum up sponsorships.
Johanna clears her throat. "Raven's father may not believe in him, but I do. He has a long life ahead of him, I'm sure of it."
With a wink, the editors cut away to Raven again in the arena, his pale face and blank eyes. I think of Flux, of another year of extra food for District Eight. And I, ashamed, hope that Johanna's words won't come true.
Rowan Loukios (29)- Former Gamemaker
The bright light of the television illuminates the glass table in front of me, the purple shag carpet beneath it. The dark curtains drawn over the windows keep my apartment sequestered from the partying happening on the street. I lean back onto my plush couch, staring at the screen. The light burns my eyes in the darkness of the room.
The girl from Nine is standing triumphant after her battle with the Career from Four. Her bright red hair streams behind her like a flame blowing in the wind. Her pointed nose is now crooked and marred with blood that drips down her jaw, but she looks unaffected. Her green eyes are sharp as ever. The scene is unabashedly one of glory.
Then the television screen fades to complete black. Then a short sentence in white letters appears on screen.
No one in District Nine volunteered to speak for Blossom Urakaka.
The absence of an interview for Blossom makes sense. I can imagine the endless discussions after she pulled that stunt earlier today with her token, the team arguing for hours about how we should handle a tribute who so openly disregards the rules of the Games. Bellona likely wouldn't want to punish her too harshly, but it is possible that President Snow will be angry if she doesn't get her just desserts. I've seen Hunger Games reviewers and commentators have been calling for her death. Cheating isn't taken lightly in the Hunger Games, and using a token as a weapon is clearly against the rules. Still, Blossom has her supporters who argue that she would have won the fight regardless- Marlowe was injured, overpowered and out of her element. The coin down her throat was just the nail in the coffin.
I sigh to myself. Even though I'm no longer a Gamemaker, I still spend hours everyday combing the CapitolNet and television for public opinion, even keeping up with the betting stats. I miss meeting with my other statisticians and reading the latest bets, predicting which way the sentiment would swing within the next couple hours. The excitement and panic after attribute died when all the bets changed. I heave a sigh and place my chin on my hand, taking a small drink from my glass.
My tablet pings from across the room and I heft myself to my feet, waddling over to it with my bathrobe flapping around my ankles. The bright screen displays a new message from Marcelle.
We got word from District Nine. Apparently her family is in some kind of cult that rejects the rest of the district and they didn't want to be interviewed. Seem like a lie to you?
If Bellona knew that Marcelle still was in contact with me, it may cost Marcelle her job. I feel a twinge of guilt as I type out a reply.
Nah, I've heard of things like that happening in Nine. Probably true.
I press send. Marcelle has been a little paranoid of Bellona ever since the Games started. She keeps me updated of Bellona's whereabouts and any behavior she finds strange, as if it will result in anything. She hopes that I will be rehired somehow. I wonder if she knew that President Snow was involved, and the actual circumstances behind the whole situation, if she would still associate with me. Fear has a distinct power to ruin relationships, especially when it comes to the Hunger Games.
And most of Marcelle's quandaries are pointless anyway. Usually the Gamemakers will poke and pry until they can get even a sentence out of reluctant loved ones, and typically we set up the tribute's mentor to speak about them if no one wants to, like what happened with Raven this year. But there's nothing suspicious about giving up in this instance. Airing a message such as this to the nation makes it clear that Blossom is not accepted by her family nor by anyone else. Using your token as a weapon is not something taken lightly by Hunger Games enthusiasts. It was a clever play, to be sure… statisticians are not allowed to bet, but if I could, I'd bet on her. And then I'd bet that her family would all be killed because of her unfair play.
I put down my tablet and return to the couch, propping my feet up on my glass table and staring at the television screen. Templesmith's voice now narrates over the pitiful predicament of the girl from Eleven, huddled in the snow alone, her small form visibly shivering. If I had to bet who would die next, this girl would be a safe one.
The faces of her family as they stand on the front porch of their run-down house- shack, rather- tell me that they feel the same way. A pair of young girls clings to the leg of the woman, who has green eyes just like Luna's. The man stands off to the side, his arms crossed and a scowl across his face. All of them sweat in the ever-present Eleven heat, all thin as a rail, all dressed in cheap clothing that is stained from working in the orchards. When the interviewer asks how they think Luna will survive the winter, the man grinds his teeth and looks away.
"Luna is a capable girl," the woman says timidly. She clearly doesn't want to be on display for the nation, like most people from the outer districts, but she pushes through her anxiety with a gulp.
One of the girls at her feet pulls on her dirty jeans and says something too quiet for the microphone to pick up. The man snorts in derision, shaking his head, and the woman shoots him a warning glance.
She turns back to the camera with an uneasy smile. "We have faith in our daughter. I know that she will do anything to survive, because…" she suddenly trails off, tears apparent in her voice. "because that's what we've always had to do."
The interviewer tries to let the moment breathe, let it sink into the minds of the viewers and spring tears of their own. But Luna's father has different ideas. He bristles at his wife's words and uncrosses his arms, approaching the camera. Whoever is operating it swiftly moves back, instantly recognizing what's going on.
"And who's fault is that?" the man hisses, eyes wild. "Not mine. And not Luna's."
"Henry-"
"Don't touch me," he snarls, pushing the woman's hand off his shoulder. She steps back, glancing at the Capitolites behind the camera nervously.
"Sir- we know that this must be hard for you-"
With a snarl, the man lunges forward like a wild animal, like he's frenzied. He grabs the interviewer and punches him hard across the face, sending him sprawling onto the muddy ground. The Capitolite gasps for air like a fish out of water, his perfectly coiffed black hair now disheveled and covered in dirt. The man continues punching him as dozens of people surround the scene, trying in vain to pry them apart.
"That's for my daughter!" the man shouts, just as Peacekeeper arrives to smash him in the side of the head with the butt of his gun.
The camera switches immediately back to Luna in the arena, peacefully unaware of the chaos happening outside her childhood home. She lies completely motionless like she's already dead. I wonder absent-mindedly if her father will be executed after that disaster of an interview… It's a shame when that happens. It's certainly not the first time, and it won't be the last. Too many families just can't accept that their child might die for the glory of Panem. As if it's any different than dying in an accident or from illness. Young deaths happen all the time; wouldn't they want their child to be renowned and celebrated after that death, rather than simply forgotten and given some plain, unremarkable grave? No honor or achievements to be reckoned?
There's no point in trying to make sense of the districts' ungrateful citizens. There is no sense to be made from it.
I'm almost numb to it anyway. I've seen too many Games in my time, analyzed too many odds.
I glance at my tablet to see I have a new message from Marcelle.
She should be in the office! She's out partying with the others instead of monitoring the interviews. There's no way that a fight like that should be televised…
The message continues for several paragraphs, and I sigh and throw the tablet across the room. Bellona can't be expected to control every single thing that happens on the television, and Marcelle can't keep dumping everything on me. Like there's anything I could do about it, even if I was still a Gamemaker.
Faint sounds of the party issue through the walls. I turn the volume up on the television so all I can hear is the swirling winter winds of the arena, watching as the girl from Two trudges onward over the hills, ankle-deep in snow. The Games are my life. Even if it isn't my job anymore, it's still the only thing in this world that makes any sense right now.
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you thought of the interviews in a review? Who was your favorite family? Which was your favorite perspective to read?
Also- I'm putting up a poll on my profile about the final eight! Answer with who you think will win!
The next update might take a bit longer than a week to post. I have to work on my thesis all next week so I'll be quite busy, plus I have an exam. I might take the week off and post two weeks from now instead to avoid overloading myself with things. But we'll be back in the arena, soon, I promise!
Until next time ~