District Ten is exactly as bad as I expected it to be. I helped kill their strong female tribute. I outright did kill their even stronger male tribute, who was a relative of an apparently well-liked victor. All throughout the 'tour' of a nearby working farm and the showcase of some trick riders, the mayor keeps on a clearly forced smile that I see fall away the moment he thinks I'm not looking. I hide out in the prep room in the Justice Building over lunch, not even tempted by the tantalizing smells of roasted meat wafting through a cracked window and pointlessly try to re-word my speech notes. No matter how I say it though it sounds like I'm gloating over my part in the deaths of two tributes who had a genuine chance to go back-to-back in District Ten victories.
The victory rally in the mid-afternoon continues to carry this strong discontent. The crowd applauds as I take the stage to give my now-quite-mangled talk, but it is brief and minimal and the clapping echoes have already died long before I reach the microphone. I force myself not to look at the families near the front as I talk about the fierce competitiveness of their now-dead loved ones. I know if I do then I'll get my words even more messed up than before, and they seem to have decided to hate me anyway.
Mayor Wilson is no softer in his reply and his obviously scripted words are clipped and forced through another false smile. I wonder if I'll have to go through this in every district where I was involved in the death of their tributes. I count subtly on my fingers as Wilson continues to extol virtues he clearly doesn't believe I have to the stone-faced crowd. The boy from Nine and the girl from Six were both pack kills. There's also the pair from Eight and the boy from Six as well as my former allies from One and Two. Even the boy from Three was considered partially my work as he got sick from eating the fish I caught and discarded. If you count the other tributes that our alliance killed at the bloodbath, there's someone from every remaining district.
Then again this level of anger could be due to the strong chance their tributes were considered to have. And of course the other volunteer districts are usually pretty good about it unless there was any backstabbing that went on. But I expect Eight to be bad too. Between spearing Jannifer who was pleading for mercy and defeating Markus in that final fight I imagine I don't have too many friends waiting for me there.
The speeches end as always with the presentation of a commemorative plaque by the Mayor. He shakes my hand briefly and leaves me holding the metal-and-wood lump that's probably supposed to be a cow. I'm not sure if this is supposed to be a subtle insult somehow but I put on a smile and say thanks all the same.
Mags takes it from me and passes it to a handy Games staffer, then leans on my arm back to the upper room of the Justice Building, letting her strong presence shield me from any more of the silently radiating anger.
"They're not usually like this," she tells me as we reach the safety of my prep room and I stumble into a handy chair, finally able to relax a little.
"And don't you go blaming yourself for it," she adds as she leans over, covering my hand with her own smaller, wrinkled one. "I suspect there's some lingering…issues from…well."
She clears her throat pointedly and suggests that only Jackie Ledger, a middle-aged woman who she frequently swaps recipes with, will be present from Ten's compliment of victors at the banquet tonight. I wasn't expecting to see Pelline Smith unless she was forced to attend and last year's victor Oryx is definitely not the small-talk-over-fancy-meals sort. I realize I don't know who the others are and Mags tells me a few amusing stories about Annie Blake, who generally avoids media attention but has developed a distressing addiction to cosmetic surgery over her many years. She won just a few years after Mags and they were apparently friends once, though they drifted apart once Annie stopped mentoring. Their only other victor was an entertaining older man named Abram, who used to dress like every stereotype from the movies set out here including full riding boots and a broad hat, whenever possible. I belatedly recall Mags talking about attending his funeral a few years back where half the victors turned up wearing matching cowboy hats to honor him.
"Will Eight be this…you know…like this?" I ask her and she taps her fingers thoughtfully.
"I can't say," she says, giving my hand another squeeze. "It's true you and the boy fought for the crown, but you both fought fair and he did kill Anita. Their girl never had much chance, that was clear enough. All you did was give her mercy."
I close my eyes, remembering the jolt of my trident as it ripped open her throat with its razor-sharp back-hook. She bled out at my feet after begging me not to kill her and I stood over her body and smiled. I can't imagine their district will have any warmth for me after that. And any misstep in that final fight could have meant Markus Weitz sitting here on his victory tour instead of me. I try to imagine what reaction Greta, Ric and Oris would have had for him as he took the stage in Four. Would they have hated him for killing me? Or would they have been accepting that this is how the Hunger Games goes, that the anger and loathing shouldn't be directed at the one kid who was strong or smart or lucky enough to survive. Then again I did volunteer. I expect that for many of the outer districts that is enough to make me a valid target. Most of them probably don't even remember why I stepped forward. I've noticed my comments about doing it for Oris in interviews before and after the Games have been pointedly absent on any replays.
Pelagius and Euthalia arrive to help me change into my evening wear—for once not green, but a sparkling bronze-tinted black. Apparently there's some heavy bronze eye make-up that's supposed to go with it but when Mags and I both argue how stupid it would look on me my preps relent. Phineas is in the middle of an interview of his own, discussing the personal style he has 'helped' me create. He doesn't see me until the dinner table and I avoid his dark glare and expected temper tantrum by collecting a plate from the barbeque buffet and finding an empty seat amongst some other young people.
Thankfully the only Capitol kids present are boys, both a year or so younger than me, who both seem genuinely in awe of me for my strength and fighting skills. It means I get to re-live several of my bloodier arena fights for them and the nineteen-year-old son of the Mayor rather than having confusing thoughts about girls as I enjoy the grilled steaks and skewered vegetables.
Once the food is done and the tables start to be pushed back against the walls, I notice that there are a few girls around, all clearly from the richer part of the district, and while they do flirt with me (and I instinctively flirt back) none of them tries to drag me off into a corner. One of the girls, who must resemble someone back home as she looks oddly familiar, obtains several large pitchers of the alcoholic punch for us to drink and I decide it's a safe enough group to join in.
Oris and I stole some of Ric's beer back when I was thirteen and both drank enough to be sick that night and the next morning. Greta made us do extra chores for weeks when she found out, though I remember that night she stayed up with us thinking we were sick of some illness going around the school. I haven't had more than a sip of anything alcoholic since and the sweet, fruity flavor of the punch makes it much easier to drink than the old cheap beer Ric had hoarded.
After three or four glasses I'm starting to feel it kick a bit. The conversation seems funnier and more engaging, the girls prettier and my clothing is far too hot. I pop the top two bronze buttons of my shirt, fumbling with the second one slightly, and use my fingers to comb my hair back from my warm face.
"Want some help with the rest of them?" The girl who brought the drinks asks as she slides onto the arm of my chair and starts running her fingers down the collar of my shirt. For some reason the hazy choice about whether I want this or not seems a lot clearer than the last time I had someone pawing at me.
I grin at her, reaching out to pull her more into my lap, mind fumbling for a witty reply when I see the flash of silver. Even with my reflexes dulled by alcohol I react instinctively thanks to five years of training and a lifetime of Oris trying to sneak attack me. I get my arm in the way of her blade, gritting my teeth as I feel the skin of my wrist peel. The pain follows in a sharp wave a second later, but by then I already have her arm in a lock, wrist bent away and controlled. She screams and tries to bite me and I'm forced to twist, adding a little pressure so that she's pushed to her knees. I slam my left elbow into her face hard, twice, and feel the satisfying crunch of her nose shifting. I shift the angle to aim the next jab for her throat, but strong arms tug me backwards and for a moment I'm back in the arena, surrounded by enemies, trying desperately to fight them off. Then I see Mags nearby, her face a quivering mask of fury and I manage to calm down.
I nod to the peacekeepers who were holding me and let Mags and Pelagius drag me off into another room where one of the Games staffers who's a trained medic patches up the long shallow cut down my right arm. From the receding shouting I guess that more peacekeepers arrived to take the girl who attacked me away. I briefly consider going after them to find out why she attacked me and what they're going to do to her but when I try to stand my head swirls, a mixture of shock and alcohol, and the medic pushes me lightly back into the leather armchair. He gives me something for the pain which makes me feel even heavier and slower than the drinks did and I have to hope, as he steps outside to report to whoever he takes orders from, that no-one else tries to attack me while I'm drugged.
Eventually Mags returns to sit with me, still fuming at the poor security screening and the incompetent peacekeepers who let in a vengeful girl with a five-inch knife strapped to her leg. My prep team and an escort of peacekeepers arrive soon after to escort me back to the train.
"It was her cousin, apparently," Pelagius informs us stiffly as we make the short journey from the car to the platform. "The girl tribute. According to the Mayor's assistant, the two girls were close and she was unhinged after her death."
He sniffs and shakes his head, clearly perplexed at the thought of someone being so hurt or angry about a loved one dying that they would throw their own life away for revenge. Which is strange since the Capitol generally loves Games allies trying to avenge their fallen friends. I guess in their heads these storylines are meant for the movies or television, not real life. From what interactions I've had with Capitol people over the last six months or so I've noticed that many of them don't seem to think of the Hunger Games as real life. To them it's just another entertaining show.
"What will happen to her?" I ask once safely aboard the train. My prep team look at one another and shrug, unsure and unconcerned. I glance at Mags, who shakes her head sharply and scratches her ear, then says, "I'm sure whoever is in charge is taking care of it. You go get some sleep now."
She helps hustle me into my room where I climb under my sheets, head still spinning a little from all that has happened. I shift around restlessly, trying to find a comfortable angle without leaning on my recovering arm and end up tossing and turning for most of the night.
~xXx~
My visit to District Nine is better in that no-one tries to kill me. Euthalia corners me in the morning to cover the dark smudges under my eyes with a careful coating of make-up. Enough that I don't look so tired but not so much that the foundation is noticeable. She warns me that if I keep looking like this when I wake up Phineas will find more 'creative' ways of hiding the signs. Designs that will make the heavy bronze eye-shadow I talked her out of in Ten look moderate.
I ask one of the ever-present Games staff to find me some sleeping pills for my nights; I have no desire to encourage any of my stylist's more ridiculous ideas and I have a suspicion that the nightmares which kept me tossing and turning for most of the last night won't be going away any time soon.
Before the Games my dark dreams always centered on the storm in some way. Now I have just as many where I'm snaring and spearing people I know in net traps. Or I'm trapped myself, unable to get away as my attackers torture me. Last night I kept dreaming I was tied up while Ida and her cousin carved pieces off me with their flashing silver knives. When I woke I'd manage to tangle the silk sheets around my legs enough that I thought I was still tied and ended up pulling a muscle in my leg trying to wrestle free, though the cut on my arm is essentially healed thanks to the fast-acting Capitol medicine.
It's mid afternoon by the time we roll to a stop in District Nine, though I've been watching the expansive grain fields roll past the train windows for at least the last two hours. They are replaced by a much less picturesque city full of large, utilitarian buildings. Storage sheds and a wide range of food processing plants, I learn on the brief tour that their mayor provides. The residential buildings run parallel to the factory district, cramped apartments full of mostly darker people who hurry their children inside when they see the cameras coming. There's no happy smiles here either, though I get the impression that it has nothing to do with the Games. Certainly no-one in the group seems to be acting like it's anything out of the ordinary.
We stay the night on the train, where I drug myself to try and avoid the nightmares. It mostly works as I sleep for nearly ten hours, though I wake feeling fuzzy-headed and dehydrated. A hearty breakfast helps a little, and the brief journey out to the fields gives me a chance to stretch my legs a bit and enjoy the weak winter sunshine. We're given a sample of the whiskey produced from the barley that's currently growing and the mayor gives a long spiel about all the different crops that are cycled through the fields in the different seasons. I don't really follow it so I smile and nod and sip the little cup of golden liquid, trying not to wince as it burns its way down my throat.
One of the workers starts to offer me another but I catch Mags' disapproving look and use it as an excuse to turn down any more alcohol. I want my head completely clear for the Victory Rally and the dinner tonight, just in case someone else tries to knife me.
I go back and forth about adding in a comment during my speech at the Rally about the boy from Nine who died to our volunteer pack early on in the Games but ultimately decide against it. I didn't personally kill him and I can't remember anything else about him to talk about that would make his family hate me any less. I make it through the ceremony on autopilot, forcing myself to smile to the frosty crowd as I deliver the scripted words and nothing more. There's a plaque and another clothing change (Phineas has given up his brief dabbling in blacks and bronzes and gone back to greens) and a long, boring dinner where I get to meet three of the district's past victors. I don't speak to them much; the older women both seem a bit strange and I notice Mags doesn't have much time for them either. The middle-aged Whisper is as quiet as her name suggests. She listens intently to the conversation though and a few times I look over and see her watching me, a strange expression on her face.
I wonder if there's something she wants to say to me, but she doesn't try to find me in the brief mingling of guests (apparently they don't do dancing or music much here). We leave for the train before nine, the memory of her strange smile still niggling in my brain, like an itch I can't reach. I ask Mags about her once we're on board and my mentor gives a confused shrug in reply.
"She's always been an odd girl. Very quiet, keeps to herself for the most part. Most of us leave her be. Did you ever see her Games? The forty-sixth?"
I have a vague memory of her arena from the replays we watched in training, with its layered fields of grasses and flowers separated by sheer rock walls and narrow dirt pathways. I don't recall anything about how she won; I assume like most non-volunteers she stayed out of trouble and fought it out with the last couple of people to win. Given her quiet nature, I guess she probably snuck up on them.
Mags shrugs and nods. "She killed six people with a woven grass noose. Including two of the volunteers. It was a bad year for us. Callisto took a heavy blow at the bloodbath from one of the bigger out-district boys. The wound got infected and she died badly."
I wince, glad once again that my teachers drummed into me how important it was to keep my injuries clean. "What about our boy?" I ask, curious, though I know he can't have made the top eight or I'd have likely remembered it.
"He was trained but he wasn't a volunteer. Picked a fight with the other boys in the pack a few days in, trying to prove he was just as good as they were. Needless to say he lost."
Her eyes take on a far-away look for a moment— probably remembering the many kids she took away on this train that didn't come back. I give her a smile and a brief hug and dose myself with more pills before going to bed. I dream of walking through a field of swaying flowers, using my trident to lop off the heads, only to have them turn into people as they fall. I wake in the early morning as the train rocks to a halt in another district where I killed both tributes to claim my crown.