Logan Arteficavitch
District 7 Male, 15
Chariot preparation
I don't know how, but the fear that's been gripping my insides since yesterday is starting to dissipate a little. I'm still objectively terrified, and I know every day brings me closer to my potential death, but I guess that's just a human thing: to get used to some situation or another and make it the new normal.
Maybe for the rest of my existence, my new normal will be to be manhandled by some people I've never met, shoved into strange costumes and carted off to interact with a bunch of teenagers, each of which could potentially end my life in a few days' time.
The weird thing is that during the first few hours on the train, my entire body was actively rebelling against the idea. I didn't want to talk to anyone, I threw up my food and I barricaded myself in my room, as though that was going to be any use.
Now, I'm just here, standing in this dumb tree-themed costume, like "yeah, this is totally fine." My stomach is no longer twisting, coiling and threatening to send me barreling towards a bathroom to vomit. "This is fine", my ass, but at least my heart stopped feeling like it's going to quit on me any second, and my eyes stopped trying to escape my head as they widened to inhuman levels, in fear of what might happen in the Games.
Both organs are kind of necessary if I want to at least have a chance in this. My situation is far from ideal, probably worse now that the minutes are ticking down to my untimely and likely demise, but what can I say. It's nice for my nervous system to be overridden at least somewhat.
I busy myself by scratching at the fake bark painted on my arm. I don't get very far, peeling off only a tiny portion of it as my stylist enters the room.
"Other stylists are still preparing their tributes for the parade, but I was the quickest one so both you and Morgana have plenty of time before the chariots," she announces with such pride that I don't have the power to tell her that this might be because our costumes are literally just brown pants, a loose green shirt and lazy designs painted on our arms in a quick uncaring manner. I mean… it could be worse. It could be something utterly embarrassing, which has happened in previous years.
It's almost as though they do it on purpose.
"You can go sit in the common room with Morgana," she adds, beaming, when I don't reply. As I stand up, she sees my handiwork on my arm that she interrupted by entering the room and frowns.
"Stop fidgeting so much," she says hurriedly, as she runs across the room to get a can of spray-paint. I don't ask whether or not it's the kind that is safe for use on skin because, holy shit who cares Logan, you're a few days away from fighting other kids to the death on national television, who cares, who cares, who cares!
I doubt anyone in a hundred-mile radius cares whether or not this paint is safe, and this utter indifference and disregard for my safety almost sends me spiraling back into a hyperventilating state. Instead, I just turn off my brain, and think extra-hard that this paint design is super cool, despite obvious proof of the contrary.
So, I just let the stylist spray an extra layer on my right arm for good measure, obediently extending it out.
She inspects me from head to toe, one last time, ruffles my hair in a way that could only be described as stylish and ushers me out of the room.
In the lobby, I see Morgana, standing alone with her arms crossed protectively against her chest. I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet, not that I really wanted to, but she seems well put-together.
Then again, she volunteered for this shit, so already my opinion of her is a little…biased. My mom probably would not have been happy with me handing out judgement like this before getting to actually know her, but my mom isn't here right now. She hasn't been around since Peacekeepers shot her dead shortly after my birth.
Morgana is looking around curiously right now, peering at me momentarily before her eyes settle somewhere else, on the pristine white wall behind me.
Two servants dressed in red shuffle in, carrying a huge table which seem to bend with the weight of food on top of it. Sandwiches of different varieties, meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables litter the huge golden plates. One of the servants trips over her feet and nearly drops her end of the table. The other servant, a man, glares at her, his expression unreadable.
I ignore the fact that I'm in full chariot garb and jog over to them. They seem more talkative than Morgana, anyways.
"Do you guys need help?" I ask timidly.
I guess I was wrong about the "talkative" part. They both seem to shy away from my voice, hastening to set the table at the corner of the room in silence, picking up a few stray grapes that fell, while the young woman tripped. On second glance, both servants look eerily similar, in their late twenties or early thirties. They might be twins, judging from the identical curly black hair and the same expressive dark-brown eyes.
I want to ask them why they are so scared of me.
"You don't have to help them."
Morgana's voice rings loud and clear in the room.
I turn around. I know it's not smart, but I get a little defensive. I mean shit, I know she didn't bother, but that doesn't mean I can't be a decent human being.
"You don't have to help them," I answer back, aware of the fact that there are about a million smarter and wittier things I could have said, but here we are.
"I'm not saying this to upset you, you know," Morgana continues as the servants leave the room.
"They're Avoxes, which means they did something bad… and we're the Capitol's guests. We shouldn't be helping them, because it might get them into trouble."
I frown. That kind of makes zero sense on the "human-decency" front, but I don't want to argue anymore. After all, I know next to nothing when it comes to Capitol etiquette.
"Fine."
I back away from the food and the servants.
Morgana seems to be feeling out words in her mouth, unsure of where to lead this conversation. I have no idea either, so I stay silent.
I don't know much about her. She is familiar with Sunhdit, our only Victor, but I hadn't really bothered getting friendly with either of them on the train. I had higher trees to climb, so to speak. I was too focused on trying to not have a full-on meltdown, so sue me for not being the most sociable person right there and then.
"So, what's it like back home, for you?" she finally settles on.
"Eh, I get by. Go to school and stuff. Live with my sister and her …friend," I say quietly, not sure why she wants to know and slightly reticent to elaborate. "You?"
"I'm alone," she answers bluntly, and I'm a little taken aback by the edge in her tone.
"I mean, my brother got killed by rebels before I was born, my dad and mom were both killed by Peacekeepers," I venture, partly in order to make her feel better about her own crappy situation.
I don't tell Morgana that my family desperately tried not to pick sides, even though we suffered greatly from the bombings and the chemical weapons from both the Capitol and the opposing forces.
We tried to stay neutral, we really did. The dumb part is that we ended up helping a Capitol soldier anyways, when he showed up wounded at our doorstep. We weren't supposed to, but we did because my parents were decent people and believed in the inherent goodness of others, and we paid for that dearly.
Dahlia, my sister, is my only family now.
Even though I don't give her all these details, Morgana hums in sympathy. I see it in her eyes that she understands that my story has layers I am not willing to unveil just yet.
"So, you, your sister and her friend live in a foster home, now?" she asks.
"No, I've been…we've been on our own since that stuff. We manage," I say. I don't elaborate on how exactly we manage, despite the fact that she'll probably figure it out on her own.
Us managing, it's not completely the truth, but I don't trust Morgana enough to start explaining to her the complexities of my family situation. If I bothered to get into the details of it all, Damon is more than just my sister's friend. He is a couple of years older than she is, but he's essentially adopted us into his life and has been good to us. Him and my sister both work their asses off, and pick up some pretty shady or questionable tasks around the district, in order to pay for the cost of living in our tiny property.
Damon's taught me practically everything I know about survival, about defending myself. He's been as close of a father-figure as I've ever had. When he told me he wanted to get married to Dahlia, I couldn't be happier because they're both good people and he's always felt like family to me anyways. We managed, somewhat, all these years because Dahlia has always put her ass on the line for me to have a decent life in District 7. Because of them both, I was able to grow up into a decent guy, I think. I know a lot of things, I go to school, I didn't end up a serial killer, so as far as I'm concerned, they did right by me and raised me properly.
But I'm not going to start telling all of this to Morgana. As far as she's concerned, we just manage.
Morgana is smarter than she lets on, because I'm pretty sure she realizes that I'm stalling. I mean, it doesn't take a genius, but still. I'm impressed when instead of prying, she opens up about her own life.
"I didn't really know my parents. They both died fighting for the rebels in the Dark Days," she starts.
I'm a little weirded out by the fact that she's telling me this, I didn't ask after all, but I listen all the same.
"I don't really get all of this…" she gestures with her hands in a way which encompasses the entire room, "bullshit. I've never had this, so it's weird."
I get that. I understand what it's like to feel like you're completely out of place. Hell, I've been feeling this way non-stop since we gotten onto this stupid train. I don't belong in these Games.
Morgana takes a few steps in my direction, clearly uncomfortable but making the effort all the same.
"I kind of hate the rebels for what they did, do you understand me?"
I don't. I can't even begin to understand Morgana. I nod all the same.
"Don't get me wrong, I hate both sides because I've never been allowed to be anything more than a potential threat to our new government. It sucks, because my parents caused so much pain, and I didn't even get to know them. I grew up hating the cause they supported as well as the cause they opposed, because they left me to my own devices," she enunciates as though she's telling a story that she's rehearsed, and then abruptly stops, wrapping her arms around her waist, once again.
No matter what she's doing here, she's clearly suffered a metric shitton because of her parents' allegiances.
I find myself relating to this person who, minutes ago, I felt the need to build up internal walls to block out. Again, I don't want to judge too quickly, but I think that if there is one person out there that hates both sides as much as I do, it's her. For different reasons but still. It's easy to forget that most people aren't cardboard cut-outs. Everyone has their reasons, Damon's voice echoes in my head and I frown, my lips forming a straight line.
"I don't really like talking about this stuff, so don't expect me to open up like this again," Morgana says, a smirk pulling at her lips. I'd be lying if I didn't feel more confused than when we started this conversation, but somehow, I'm more at ease.
"So why are you …um…not to be rude, but you know…why are you telling me all of this?" I ask, unable to keep the lack of comprehension out of my voice.
"I don't really know…I guess I want someone from back home to understand," Morgana utters, almost to herself. I don't understand, but I'm one-hundred percent sure she doesn't either. Not completely anyway, and that's fine. We're just kids, trying to figure out our place in this universe, as corny as that sounds.
To come to think of it, I actually do feel better, knowing that someone here knows me a tiny bit, even as superficial as it is.
"Why did you volunteer?" I ask, the tension almost gone from my voice.
"I had my reasons," she says quickly, but then adds, "I thought I was good enough to survive and had nothing to lose, so why not."
I nod. That makes a lot of sense actually. Not that I would do it in a million years, but if I didn't have Damon or Dahlia…maybe. Maybe I would have, you never know. Being alone sucks, as I've come to discover over the course of the last day.
Morgana is socially awkward, perhaps more so with me since I'm younger and she clearly doesn't really know what to make of me, but I still feel like we formed a slight bond during our conversation. I would be lying if I said I understood her reasoning, and the questioning look she gives me indicates that it's the same for her but maybe… maybe we could learn to support each other through this shitty situation.
I decide to ask her, because why not. I risk it, even though I probably already know the answer.
"So… do you want to be allies?" I ask, my voice betraying my nervousness, once again.
Morgana frowns, almost apologetic. "Sorry, no, my plan is to go with the Careers. I wish I could help you, but I think it'll be safer for both of us if we keep it at this."
Again, she gestures around herself, waving her arms as though it'll explain what she means better. "And I've trained, so I'm ready. I hope you are too, but I can't ally with you."
"I really appreciated the talk though," she mentions, almost as an after-thought, but I can see in her eyes that she's sincere. I am almost certain she won't be talking about anything even remotely related to her life in District 7 in the near future. That kind of talk doesn't get you into the Career-exclusive alliance.
So that's one thing cleared up. She never had any intention of allying with me, because I'm not trained. I'm nothing like her but she still made an effort to talk to me right now, because of some sort of weird intra-district allegiance we're supposed to have. The fact that she implicitly thinks I'm weak is disheartening, but I appreciate the honesty all the same. I won't let it phase me.
"Sure, alright. Well, good luck mingling with the Careers," I shoot back, and she smiles at me, warmly and sadly. She's clearly apologetic, but she's also not going to back out of her decision.
As more people are whisked into the common room, I catch a glimpse of the other kids who are stuck in this mess with us. Quite a few of them are my age. I wonder what Damon would say about them. I wonder what my mom would. Dahlia always told me our mother had a beautiful voice, and when I think hard, I can hear it in my head. She died when I was too young to actually form any coherent memories, but somehow the melody she sang when she put me to sleep is engraved into the grooves of my brain forever. More than ever, I wish I could talk to someone I trust, so they could counsel me on what my next step should be, because at the end of the day, I'm just a fifteen-year old dude who has no idea what he's doing.
"Hey," Morgana calls after me as I try to shimmy towards the food.
I stop and look back at her.
"Don't forget about your angle. You're a nice kid, but it's all about the way you sell yourself to the crowd," she says, smiling at me. It's a genuine smile, so I smile back.
"Sounds good, you too," I shoot back, sending her some finger-guns along the way. She frowns, but I laugh a little, because no matter what, she's not as scary as she was ten minutes ago. Even though she doesn't want an alliance, I'm sure I can figure something out.
As I take in everyone's costumes, ranging from outrageous to awful, I start making a mental list of the vibes I'm getting from the different teenagers I see. Some are terrified, some are playing it cool, others are downright excited to be here. They've all got different approaches, playing them up for the audience that is about to greet them.
Morgana's right, it's all about the angle you play. Damon has often told me it's the way people perceive you that makes you or breaks you. Even though it kills me to bring up the tragedy of my childhood for the sake of sympathy, to use my brother's horrible death as a crutch to stay relevant, maybe my story will strike a chord in the Capitol audiences' hearts. Maybe they'll see my family did not back away from helping their forces, despite the horrible price we paid after.
I'd be the last person to vocally support the Capitol on a regular day, but the fact of the matter is that my sister Dahlia remembers the exact night when the rebels broke into our home. My mother was pregnant with me at the time, my brother Aiden was three and Dahlia was five. The rebels forced our entire family into the backyard, threatened my mother. Just after, they punctuated their message as they bashed Aiden's head in, by swinging him by the legs into the small concrete wall that delineated our garden. My entire family had to watch. That's how I know the details so vividly… my sister Dahlia never really got over the incident.
Only a few months later when I was born, Peacekeepers came and shot both my parents, because they got intel that the Arteficavitch family held a rebel meeting in their yard. My sister and I escaped by hiding in the attic. These armed men who were supposed to protect civilians like us didn't want to hear that this so-called meeting was nothing more than the rebels barging into our house uninvited and killing an infant in cold blood, as retribution for us betraying a cause we never signed up to support in the first place. It didn't matter that we saved a Capitol soldier and nursed him back to health. No one really listened to what any of us had to say.
I lost both my parents and Dahlia lost her childhood, so as far as I'm concerned, both sides committed monstrosities against our family. But I won't ever say that. I won't say that to a single soul, I'll act like a good Capitol-supporting citizen and maybe they'll let me live.
If I play my cards right, I might be able to spin a story from this.
Notes: Here's the lovely Logan from District 7! All-round cool guy who doesn't have an ounce of an idea as to what he's supposed to be doing! But hey, he's staying positive.
Let me know what you think of him. Do you have any idea as to whom he might ally with?
On a completely unrelated note, Greetings from Halifax! I apologize about the wait for this chapter, and I just wanted to say that I've got a week of vacation, and am hoping to update every few days to make up for the longer wait-time for Logan's section. Next chapter, you're going to dive deeper into the mind of the one-and-only Morgana. How did you like her, from the glimpse you got in this chapter?
Peace and love.