The dress hung on the hanger, glaring at Quinn. It was beautiful – the drape of the satin folds, the delicate straps, the exact shade of pale blue it should be. And it would suit her- the hours spent in fittings would be worth it, all of it would be worth it in the end. The end was predetermined. She would wear the dress, smile for the crowds, transform into the deadly siren prototype all the District One girls were reduced to and win, only to wear more dresses and have to smile for more crowds. At this point it was practically undoubtable.
Faint sounds of celebration on the streets began to reach her as she carefully slid the dress over her head. Russell Fabray had forked out a small fortune for it, but she would be representing the Fabrays in-front of Panem, and if there was another victor in the family there was a chance he could make Mayor next term. If they played their cards right – he would say – if they played their cards right, they would be respectable again and the disgrace she had brought upon them would be wiped away. Quinn wasn't naïve; she understood that to him she was just another risk he would take in a high stakes game, his winning hand at cards. So, no sum was too much for his Baby Girl and the Fabrays would glitter on their stage as bright as the diamonds they sold, impeccable and pristine.
Quinn pulled back the curtains and watched the commotion on the street below.
It was Reaping day, a Day of Celebration- it did no good to think about the sick feeling in her stomach or the itch of the cheap polyester lining fabric on her skin. As long as no one else could see, it didn't matter. The rest of the district was happy, why couldn't she be? One was renowned for its success in the games, despite Two overshadowing them, their obnoxiously overachieving older sibling. They had a solid chance of victory, after Jean-Paul's win 4 years earlier (He had bludgeoned the boy from 2 to death with a tent pole in the final two- there were no weapons that year). A frantic elation swept through the district, garish paper banners and decorations draped over buildings, and swarms of people moving over the cobblestones, low murmurs of voices rising like smoke above them.
It was so easy for them, she thought, to be happy today. They didn't have to die- One's extremely illegal yet somehow openly active training centre and volunteer programme secured their safety. It was for the best, they said- children didn't die, only hardened soldiers who wouldn't be missed. Orphans and social climbers made up the ranks in that army, that way no loved child could be lost. 'For the greater good and the glory of the district' had been embedded into them, a monotone voice repeating over the speakers in the training room over and over and over, until it was engraved permanently in Quinn's mind. And she had been chosen as their sacrifice.
Perhaps that was why it was harder for her to celebrate- the chance of a violent impending death unsurprisingly does that to a person. But she would win, she had no choice now. The Fabrays, once powerful mineral merchants able to boast of their descent from Capitol migrants, became the laughing stock of One after she fell pregnant with Beth at 16. Their supposed friends delighted to see the high and mighty brought low, helpless and at the mercy of vicious gossip. She knew what they had called her, thought about her- a slut, a whore, a pathetic bitch who had destroyed her family because she couldn't keep her legs closed.
Her father hadn't spoken to her for a year, and her mother had smiled her broken smile at the dinner table, eyes darting between the two of them like a frightened rabbit, desperately attempting to make conversation. Their family had only become somewhat civil after she had given up Beth for adoption – Quinn had begged them not to, but they had sent Beth to the Training Centre arguing it was for the best. Beth would end up like her, yet another forgotten innocent sacrificed to the Games. Quinn fought to hold back the tears- if she stained the satin there would be hell to pay. Maybe if she was a victor, she could get Beth out, keep her somewhere safe?
Then again, Victors' children were never safe from the Games. Not that anyone else was either.
Their tolerance of her was conditional, and her father had made it clear that her penance would be the Games. Only when the Fabray name was restored would she be welcome there again. Family love wasn't supposed to be conditional, was it? She had only made a mistake. But the loneliness of being the town pariah had worn her down, and she returned to their dollhouse broken but resolute. She would win, she would play their part, she had no choice.
The girl in the mirror smiled tiredly, golden hair pulled back into an elegant twist with strands carefully constructed to frame her face, proudly displaying her mother's best earrings. What better way to advertise the business? Cynical, but true. She looked beautiful, possessed by the phantom of every identical District One girl tribute with a ridiculous gemstone name and bleach blonde hair. Their names were forgotten now, after all many didn't have time to make a lasting impression.
Containing a sigh, she made her way down the stairs to the proud gaze of her parents. Quinn blocked out their appraising noises, panic seizing her nerves. She barely even noticed the journey to the town centre, swept up and carried by the jostling motion of the crowd. Her face remained serene; a narcotised vague smile was painted on her quivering lips. It wasn't even the possibility of death that was holding her mind hostage (although that was definitely part of it)- it was the realisation that she had no control over her fate. She would either die in the arena or become an empty-headed socialite after, another tool for her father to profit from. It was hard to imagine which was worse.
Her hands were slick with sweat, but she couldn't risk staining her dress by wiping them. What could she do? She wanted to scream, run and disappear somewhere, anywhere away from here. But she knew her place, to be a good obedient daughter, and she knew what it was like to live alone, broken by rejection. She needed the Games, she insisted to herself, and besides it was too late now.
As they reached the Justice Building, the crowd parted like the Red Sea before her. They were ever so, ever so grateful of course- she was the price tag for their children's safety, the symbol of their district's pride. A thousand awed eyes were fixed on her dress, her hair, her face, her body, her smile – a bitterly ironic contrast from the avoiding eyes and mockery two years ago. Now they worshipped her, their perfect idol, a vision in rhinestones and rose blush, crafted from their forges, their metalworks. She walked down the hushed aisle, aware of her father's presence behind her, a cruel parody of what could have been – giving her away as a perfect virginal bride- had she not fucked it all up. Or had he been the one to fuck it all up? She was no longer sure. Did it matter now? Did anything? Instead, he would surrender her to the Arena, negotiating her away as easily as terms in a business deal.
They reached the front of the 18-year-old section. A dreadful sense of déjà vu chilled her bones, as if she was watching her own funeral. She had walked in the footsteps of the tributes of past games, now she would inherit their fate. Their ghosts reached out, fingertips brushing along her exposed collarbone. What were their names? Say our names. Quinn's mind was blank and overrun with fear. She tried to whisper that she didn't know and that she was sorry, but her lips barely moved, her throat a dried-up desert. No need to be sorry, they seemed to say, you're one of us now anyway.
Her brain just about registered the mayor reading his speech, and once the bizarrely dressed escort made his way onto the stage to read the names even the ghosts fell silent. He was new this year- there was no explanation for why Salacia Apicius, their fuchsia-haired escort for the last 12 years wasn't there. Perhaps she was getting too old, too unfashionable for the Capitol, and had been forced into retirement as an escort to one of the lesser districts. Since the tributes in the outer districts rarely got sponsors, it was considered a nice break for the hard-working escorts for the career districts. A nice break of watching children die. Or perhaps she'd simply disappeared, to wherever the things the Capitol tired of went.
Anyways, the new escort introduced himself as William Schuester. She guessed he was somewhere around 30 years old (it was always difficult to tell with the plastic surgery) yet dressed like a five-year-old in a ridiculous lurid orange sweater vest. His curly hair was a matching shade of tangerine, and he paired it with black shirt and brown trousers (God knows why). The overall effect was that he looked like a highlighter.
"The Capitol loves each and every one of you so much, so the Games are a brilliant opportunity to show just how much you love them back. The districts matter so much to me, and that is why I am so proud to be representing district one this year." He spoke into the microphone, his voice almost manically upbeat.
How could he be so excited? Was it just the delusional Capitol mindset where children dying was somehow the sign of a reciprocal relationship? Maybe he was new and naïve, and somehow still believed the games were a fair, voluntary, test of strength. There had always been rumours of re-education camps for the more 'independently minded' citizens- maybe he'd been fed so many pills that the Capitol were always right.
Beaming to the crowd, and with that irritating, overeager air, he walked over to the great glass bowls.
''Whoever is reaped will fight for honour and loyalty for their district. So now, for the all-important names…''
Quinn fought the urge to laugh bitterly. No one from 'One was ever reaped into the games. The names never mattered. Schuester's job was pointless, and the entire district knew it.
"The female tribute from District One is… Alyssa Locket''
The crowd looked bored. Quinn didn't have time to notice who it was- probably some twelve-year-old, who would go on to brag about her 5 minutes of fame later to her friends while they stupidly discussed stupid plans to volunteer as soon as they were old enough.
It would be so easy to not move. She could just let the girl be reaped, hiding quiet in the crowd, but the judgement and blame and guilt would destroy her. Maybe it would destroy them too though, to lose a child the way she had lost Beth. To force them to care the way she and Beth and those unlucky ghosts before her had to care. Maybe then they would mourn for them all, all the lost children in unmarked and unvisited graves.
Except they wouldn't, and sentimentality never got anyone anywhere. Fighting the urge to bolt and escape to some non-existent safe haven, she called out ''I Volunteer'' in a clear voice.
Her face calmly arranged, she strode to the front in her crystalline heels. Feeling the cameras and cheers fall on her, she remembered a tale in a textbook from long ago, before the Great Disasters. A queen who had walked to her execution with poise and dignity and practiced laying her delicate neck on the chopping block so she could die perfectly. Now, as she ascended the steps to her fate, she understood what that felt like.
There would be no escape, and so she smiled at the cameras. Undoubtable, unavoidable, predetermined.
She was crowned their champion waving, head held high, her smile cut sharper than diamonds, waiting for the axe to fall.