The Chariots
While Rusk waited outside the Victor's Tower for his ride, he looked up at the sky, a fresh blue with promises of the day yet to come. The world was calm around him. In a few hours, the place would be swarming with tourists, so for now, he enjoyed his empty morning.
An empty morning in the Capitol. He wasn't used to the idea. In a normal year, he would only come to the Capitol if he has mentorship duties, yet now that Van had taken over for him, he was left with all the time in the world. If this happened any other year, he'd take the first train back to Nine, no question about it. He didn't have to be a rebel to dislike spending time in the suffocating eccentricity that imbued every corner of this cursed place.
But this wasn't a normal year. A normal year didn't involve deaths from Four or mysterious dealings from Ten, nor did he normally have this much motivation to do… anything, really.
It wasn't an empty morning either, not with what he'd signed up for. If anything, the unknown outcome only scared him more, much more than the regular mentorship responsibilities. He shivered in the breeze, though the Rockies summer air wasn't cold in the slightest. Nothing compared to the heat of Nine, but nothing worth shivering about.
He'd do it. For her. For himself. For justice.
He took deep breaths to quell his fidgeting. He closed his eyes and turned his nose to face the summer breeze so that he wouldn't have to look at Matza, who waited behind him by doors to the Tower.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" the old Victor asked. Though all the other Nines said they worried for him the word got out that he planned to visit Faridah's killer, she was the only one he believed.
He wasn't sure at all, but he nodded anyway. "Dontcha worry. If things go bad… I've got all the time in the world to recover, right?"
"We're here for you, if you'll have us." She smiled as her grey locks fluttered in the wind. "Don't be a stranger, will you?"
"You betcha," he said, the way he always did, though he hadn't ever taken any of them up on their offers. He usually didn't feel bad about it either—they were just being polite; he'd be polite too—but he couldn't bear to look her in the eye and lie. Unlike the other Nine Victors, she never held any annoyance or judgment. He bowed his head.
Funny how everyone suddenly seemed to care, genuinely or not, now that his only friend had died. It was better than nothing, of course, but strange nonetheless, almost as if it were all coordinated, between Matza waiting with him and the chat with Van, whose mug still sat on the coffee table of his apartment in the Victor's Tower. He didn't mind it, surprising even himself. After all those years, he'd take half-sincere concern.
If he were honest, forming somewhat normal relations with the other Nines didn't seem like a terrible idea. Hadn't he wished for a "family" of sorts for years? He could almost see it already, being one of them, having actual friendships with his neighbors in Victor's Village.
But he could also hear their rants, their cursing, their vehement opposition to anything from the Capitol, and he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to be associated with it. It would also make it nearly impossible to keep a connection with Darah. The Nine Victors were understandably suspicious of her, but she'd seemed so genuine—what reason did she have to seek him out anyway?
Plus, she didn't care what he thought of the Capitol. He could only say that about one other person, and she was dead.
When he heard the smooth rumble of a car, he looked back up. A car pulled up to the curb.
"Be careful, Rusk."
He opened the door and climbed in. "I will."
In a room on the second floor of the Remake Center, Ven pressed his lips firmly together as his prep team bustled about him, making tiny adjustments here and there to his dazzling gold outfit. Here and there, small comments murmured across the room pricked his ear, about "too much mass" or "such a disappointment" or even something about needing "a guy to thirst for," but he didn't budge. He didn't even flush, neither in anger nor embarrassment. Years of derision from the stuffy elites of District One had trained him in the art of silence. In the end, it didn't matter that he wasn't the type of tribute they wanted; he had earned his spot in training and he wasn't going to give it up because people didn't like the way he looked.
He'd expected better from them, though he wasn't sure why. Hadn't his experience taught him better than to expect anything but disappointment from people? It was almost laughable, how oblivious they were to his ability to hear. And he had thought the District One upper class was self-absorbed.
"Alrighty!" his stylist said, waving her hands as if to present him to an audience. "We're done, and with time to spare!" She beckoned for the prep team, who scuttled in with a long mirror. "Voila!"
He looked himself up and down, from the sapphire-studded crown nestled in his red hair to the silken cape that fluttered with every tiny movement. It was… something, he supposed. His appearance wasn't much of a concern for him. Anyone that subscribed to District One's beauty standard wasted their entire life away trying to reach it.
She nodded in acquiescence and beckoned for him to follow her. "I hope you aren't too disappointed; we had to make do given the size specifications."
"No, it's great," he said as they entered an elevator, although they were only on the second floor. "Not a disappointment at all. I just expected the Capitol to be more welcoming of all body types."
Her face changed color three times during that short elevator ride, from shock to realization and finally lipstick-red embarrassment. But though she deserved it, it still unsettled him to have unsettled someone else. He stared at the crystal light fixtures instead.
The elevator doors opened to a largely empty floor, where only horses and chariots and a few Peacekeepers waited for the tributes and their stylists to arrive. The only natural light in the den filtered in through small squares above the massive iron gates, through which the sounds of an eager crowd rumbled distantly. Once it became apparent where they were headed, Ven strode ahead of his stylist to the District One chariot and leaped up without much issue. He held himself composed, yet every muscle threatened to tense up, between the muffled crowd and his awkward stylist, who hurriedly unfurled his cape and bid him adieu.
Here he was. The Capitol. At first glance, it'd seemed like a fairyland, with its unashamed vibrance. But people were people, regardless of origin, both for good and for bad.
Chatter reached his ears; Adora and her stylist rapidly approached, engaged in lively banter about the skin benefits of various fruits. She stepped up beside him, all smiles, typical for one of the District One elites, especially the daughter of a politician. It reminded him of his prep team and the way they always seemed to beam at him yet whispered annoyance from the shadows.
"How was it?" she chirped to him as her stylist made a few last-minute adjustments. Though she always seemed to act like there was a camera watching her, she hadn't ever sounded this happy—or this Capitol level of fake. "Not too bad, I hope?"
Ven shrugged. "Nothing new. How are you?"
"I'm loving it!" She laughed when her stylist planted a kiss on her hand before he left. "They're the best in the world of beauty, though…" Her voice trailed off once her stylist disappeared from sight. The smile remained plastered on, but the twinkle in her eye faded, just a bit.
"It's tiring?"
She studied his face for a moment. "I was going to say that they're unrealistically happy here, but that's one way to put it."
The two stood in silence, but it didn't feel awkward at all, at least not to Ven. It seemed like both of them needed the breather. As they waited, more stylist-tribute pairs arrived, filling the stagnant air with conversation.
He noticed her playing absentmindedly with a ring dangling from a golden necklace. "Is that from…"
"Yeah, Valor. We were supposed to get married," She looked down and admired it. In that moment, it felt like Ven was finally getting a glimpse of the real Adora, but she quickly put a stop to it. "That's irrelevant now."
"He's a good guy."
"He was."
Ven sighed, this time contentedly. People really were still people, for good or for bad. The fakeness still nagged at him, but things could go better than expected if they could be genuine, at least to each other. He almost said something about it too, but their peace was suddenly interrupted by a rowdy greeting.
"Hi!" The girl from Two and her district partner strolled up to the District One chariot, both of them dressed in togas. Her eyes shone with unrestained excitement. "You guys are looking grand! I'm Ilithyia and this is Eros—We're from District Two."
Adora seamlessly shifted back into performance mode. "Oh my gosh—hi! Those togas are so stylish too. I'm Adora, by the way."
He spoke when he felt all eyes on him, though the sudden burst of conversation had caught him off-guard. "I'm Ven; nice to meet you."
"So," Eros said, running a hand through his bleached hair, "How does everyone like the Capitol?"
"The shopping here is to die for," Adora said. "It'll be so good for de-stressing!"
Eros nodded enthusiastically. "Plus a lot of the makeup here is cruelty-free?"
As the others talked, Ven found himself inching away from the other three. Groups… weren't his thing, though his life would be so much easier if they were. Somehow, looking back and forth and trying to keep up with all the noise wore on his nerves.
"I'm thinking about taking a shopping and dining tour on free day? Some of the cafes are so cute," Ilithyia said.
"Odelia was telling me about her favorite spots," Adora said. Odelia was her mentor, a fashionable young victor from five years ago. "I'll give you a list in training."
Ilithyia beamed at everyone, though her smile lingered on Ven a little longer than it did the other two. And it was a real smile, the way that everything this girl did seemed to flow forth from an unquenchable heart. "You know? I think we're all going to get along fine," she said. "We're going to say hi to the Sevens and then the Tens—do you guys want to come?"
Ven looked at Adora. She looked back at him. Though she seemed perfectly excited to be with the Twos, he recognized the tiredness, still drained from the whirlwind of activity. He blinked his agreement.
Adora's smile was so convincing, Ven wouldn't have recognized its superficiality if he hadn't seen her before the Twos arrived. "I think we'll wait here since we're the front of the line and all." She chuckled. "It'd be a disaster if the chariots started and we weren't here."
"Oh, for sure," Ilithyia said. "We'll see you in training!"
Ven waved politely after them as they ran down the line to the Sevens. Given the personalities of the Twos, it seemed all eight of the trained tributes might band together this year, a thought that left him uneasy. Conversation in a group of four was already stressful enough for him; what would he do once they threw in the Sevens and Tens?
He glanced at Adora, who stood poised and still with a camera-ready smile. He wasn't like her. He couldn't summon a personality at will or carry on a conversation on the fly; he needed time to recharge, and even then the prospects of a large group were overwhelming. The past twenty-hours made it obvious that the tributes wouldn't get a break; the next few days already started to feel exhausting.
But this was who he was, and he wasn't going to try to fake something that wasn't his. If the Capitol didn't like the way he functioned, so be it.
The visitation room at Ravenstill State Prison was spotlessly white, about as welcoming as a hospital. As far as Rusk could tell, the interior of this building was entirely in greyscale—the only hint of color had been the screen in the waiting room, which showed the thousands of people in the Capitol streets, waiting for the Tribute Parade to happen.
A transparent barrier ran down the middle of the room. As he settled into his chair, his eyes darted around, unsettled by the white that felt distant yet simultaneously pressed up against him. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt blood pooling in his hands, folded in his lap. They felt hot. It was finally setting in that he was about to meet the very man that had stolen Faridah away.
Calm down, Rusk.
All he had to do was confirm for himself that the man had indeed committed the crime. One job, and one job only. If he felt brave, it'd be nice to know if the man had acted out of his own volition, but even just knowing who the killer was would be enough to lay part of his heart to rest.
The clanging of metal reverberated throughout the room, rippling through him until he himself felt like water. A panel slid out from the opposite wall. Behind it, a young man stood between a pair of Peacekeepers, with long green hair that fell lifelessly against his red jumpsuit. His head hung low, as did his cuffed hands. He shuffled in and sat down unsteadily opposite Rusk.
Somehow, it didn't feel real. For days, he'd operated under the assumption that the killer was unknown, that the Capitol was doing nothing, that no one would avenge Faridah if he didn't. Now that the man was right there, he wasn't sure what to think anymore, though he found himself gritting his teeth behind closed lips.
"Acacio?"
"What's it to you?" The man tried to rest his hands in his lap, but the cuffs pressed awkwardly into his thighs and he squirmed in his seat. In the process, some of his hair fell over his face, but he made no effort to brush them away.
The air felt thick. Rusk found himself staring at the cuffed hands, already seeing them press a rope to Faridah's neck in his mind's eye. He wanted nothing more than to rise and flee—or bash the man's head in—but he refused to budge. He already made it this far. It was too late to turn back.
"I don't think I know you." Acacio sighed and allowed the cuffs to hang awkwardly. "What are you disturbing my rest for."
"I'm sorry," Rusk said without thinking. "I—"
The man lifted his gaze with a snicker, revealing deep, tear-stained bags under his bloodshot eyes. "I'm kidding. It's impossible to sleep in this cursed place, between these clunkers—" He lifted his hands. "—and this utter monstrosity of an outfit. I know it's horrendous; no need to stare."
Rusk gulped down the angry bile rising in his throat. Fashion choices were the least of his concerns at the moment.
"Did you come to stare?"
He forced himself to take deep breaths. Stay cordial. "Did you do it?"
"Did I do…"
"Did you kill her."
The man wrung his hands and shuddered as if suddenly overwhelmed by shock. "Oh! May the gods forgive me! When she died, the very light of my life died with it."
"But you killed her."
"Yes… I did. And oh, the hole in my heart!" He gripped his head. "I think of her every moment."
Rusk bit his lip until it bled. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this overdramatic lunatic. This was the reason Faridah was gone? This madman had no right to exist in her world. He finally had an answer, but there was nothing satisfying about it. To think that her last moments were with him!
He'd had enough. He rose to his feet, maintaining a steady glare on the withered man. "I'm… I'm glad it hurts," he said, his low voice quivering. "You've taken so much from the world."
He turned to leave, but before he could exit the room, Acacio called after him. "Wait… who are you?"
He looked back. "I'm Rusk, a friend of Faridah's."
"Rusk? From—"
"Yes. From District Nine." His nostrils flared. "I don't know what you think you knew about her, but you have no idea what real pain feels like."
"It's you…" Suddenly, Acacio's face darkened, overtaken by a snarl. "Oh… you deserve so much more than this."
If the words had come from any other person, Rusk would've nodded along and retreated. But this wasn't any other person. This man had no right to be talking to him like that. He marched right up to the barrier that separated them.
"You sick bastard." He pointed a finger at the man. "I hope it haunts you till the Peacekeepers put a bullet through your sorry brain."
He left before the man could respond, sick to his stomach.
As Thomas waited for the Tribute Parade to begin, he shivered atop the District Six chariot, even though the thick fabric of his costume kept him more than warm. He pressed against the left edge so hard he nearly fell over it, trying to stay as far as possible from the black hole of a district partner to his right. When they'd first met on the trains, she'd looked his drunk self up and down and given him a dismissive "hmph."
"You're a mess. You know that?" she had said as she jabbed a finger into his chest, snickering when he almost toppled over.
They hadn't interacted since. Well, unless you considered disparaging glares as "interactions," or the way she seemed to see right through him whenever she turned his way as if he wasn't really there. He glanced at her again—no one could be hostile forever, right?—but he only found the same lethal sneer.
Thomas had always been one to focus on the rays of sunshine amidst the dreary grey, the smiles amidst the seas of long faces. But the universe, Lazforza included, wasn't making it easy for him.
So instead of picking at the uncomfortable fabric or staring at the terrifying beasts that would pull the chariots, he craned his head to admire the architecture all around him. As he ran his eyes over the colonnades, he felt a creative urge stir inside—for heaven's sake, it was Golden Hour too—yet simultaneously nothing seemed to line up just right in his head, bottling up that need to point and click and capture the glorious essence that innately refused to be caught.
Whenever he found himself creatively stuck at home, he'd take a drink. It always seemed to unknot the self-defeating twists of his mind and uncork his muse somehow. But both his escort and his mentor had been insistent on keeping any and all alcohol away from him. He didn't have his camera Silver with him anyway; he couldn't snap a shot if he wanted to.
And boy, did he want to. Something about the way the chariots were lined up, so precisely aligned yet alive with the movements of the horses, each one carrying a district pair dressed up in Capitol fashion. All of it, from the clothing to the animals, was so alien to him, yet he couldn't deny that the Capitol certainly had a unique sense of style, one simultaneously disturbing yet awesome.
As he stared at all the horses, his eyes happened to meet the Seven male on the neighboring, who winked back and flashed him a charming smile while the female stood with eyes closed and arms open to the wind. Both of them were dressed as lumberjacks, with smudged makeup on their faces that accented their rugged, nature-weathered frames, muscular and strong. They'd obviously either trained for the Games or worked hard in the forests—or both—and the tributes from Six often found themselves dead, split open by one an axe from a Seven. Thomas looked away.
Beyond them were the Eights, noticeably less intimidating in their quilted suits. The girl stood straight and unmoving with her arms crossed. She didn't look to be any stronger than he was, but that stony expression meant business. When their horse rustled impatiently, shaking the chariot, she nearly fell, but her district partner caught her arm. Thomas sighed. If he were about to fall, he knew Lazforza would push him over the edge.
However, when he moved on to the Nines, he saw the girl climbed on with her headdress askew, slapping away the frustrated stylist's hand to keep him from fixing it. The man waved his hands in exasperation, yet the girl seemed to pay him no mind. When he reached again, she grabbed the headdress, tore it in two, and threw it at her stylist, who gaped at her before erupting in a cacophony of curses.
But Thomas wasn't one to enjoy conflict. It nibbled away at his psyche, no matter how hard he tried to numb the pain away, even after a long night in bed with his partners and the alcohol had long since taken the edge off of life. So he looked away.
He didn't get far.
The girl's district partner stood in a ray of late-afternoon light. The beam fell across his soft features—he seemed to glow. No amount of Capitol makeup could hide the boy's gaunt cheeks or change his wide-eyed fear. But the glow! It made no sense, yet Thomas wished he had Silver with him. He'd snap a picture and save it.
The boy looked back and smiled. A sad one, undoubtedly, yet filled with such undeserved warmth that Thomas nearly averted his eyes. And Thomas dared to smile back.
Their eyes didn't remain locked forever. Before long, pairs of Peacekeepers went down the line to inspect the chariots, the final preparation before the parade began, and the boy broke eye contact to watch a pair inspect the chariot for District Nine. His district partner refused to look at them, glaring stonily forward. As the Peacekeepers rose to move on, the boy gave them a polite nod and said something, unintelligible from where Thomas watched.
Thomas didn't need to hear, though, to see the immediate impact. The girl whirled to gape at him and the two exchanged a few heated words before she turned her back towards him with a ferocity that made Laforza look like a grumpy housecat, leaving the boy crestfallen as one of their mentors tried to talk the two out of their mess. Thomas hoped the boy was okay.
The Capitol anthem suddenly blared from speakers that sounded distant yet close all at once, so real that he looked around and was surprised that there weren't any live instruments nearby. Bright lights shone in his eyes, the gates creaked open, and the chariots rolled; it was the best he could do to cling on to the edge for dear life and hope Laforza wasn't sneering at how pathetic he was. Roaring crowds filled his ears with abrupt chaos that goaded on his pounding heart. He was suddenly awash with the glory of the sunset, flooding his view with gold. Yet he couldn't take his mind off the warm, glowing boy from Nine and his smile that made it feel like his world wasn't on the verge of falling apart in the bloodiest way possible.
It lingered in his mind and heart even under the lights of the Capitol. All of them paled in comparison to that smile.
Hours after the prison visit, Rusk still laid awake on the couch in his Capitol apartment, staring at the ceiling. A screen on the wall showed the tribute parade, but he wasn't watching. He wasn't a mentor this year. He had no reason to be invested in the tributes this year. But if not the tributes… then what?
In years past, his time in the Capitol was spent fretting over his tributes—even his kids, he sometimes dared to call them. He'd give them all of his attention and do his best to help, though they inevitably always died, often in the Bloodbath.
What was he supposed to do now?
He now had his answer. Acacio killed Faridah. He'd had his suspicions that the man might've been framed, yet the man didn't have any issues admitting to it, if his unsettling behavior wasn't enough of a dead ringer. Besides, if the Capitol were trying to frame the man, they would've announced it, so that the public would have an answer and stop worrying. Case closed.
Yet everything felt empty.
What did he want? For them to execute Acacio? That was already a given—how could the Capitol not execute the murderer of a Victor? By all his expectations, he should feel somewhat satisfied, knowing that the man would pay for it.
Maybe he never needed answers in the first place. Answers wouldn't make up for everything he never told her. Answers wouldn't atone for the way he never reciprocated the care she'd shown him. It didn't matter what he did. Faridah was still dead, and his window of opportunity was long closed. Anything more he did now only stirred the pot of pain for everyone else she'd left behind.
Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…
The second hand circled the clock face, again and again. But the passage of time was meaningless with nothing to look forward to. There was no point in attending any of the Victor socials if she wouldn't be there.
Who else did he have in the Capitol? He'd tried to make it up to Avisa, but she only had more accusations. Darah had reached out to him, but he'd completely shut that door in her face. Here in the Capitol, he had nothing to do, no one to see.
Time to retreat to Nine.
He looked around his little apartment; there wasn't anything to pack. He'd give the other Nines a courtesy notice and go back to his empty house. To shrink into his shell. To sit in the corner and stare out the window since there would be nothing for him to do. To wreck his head over the next poetry book before giving up on producing anything of worth and submitting a collection of gibberish in hopes that the Capitol would forget about him and leave him alone for the rest of his life.
It wouldn't happen, of course. The Capitol needed a Victor to represent District Nine, and he was the only one that wouldn't try to oppose them. So he'd play along, dressing up for the camera whenever they asked for it and hide the rest of the time, without anything or anyone that would give him a reason to leave. Rather meaningless, for someone in such a hurry to return.
As he rose to his feet, his hand brushed past the "World's Best Uncle" mug sitting on the coffee table. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Though he couldn't be fully sure of what Van thought about him, at least the man had made an attempt. He remembered the man's uncharacteristic unease; had Rusk not been so awkward himself, it would've been entertaining to watch gruff Van stumble his way through an emotionally sensitive conversation. Not that he enjoyed the man's discomfort; he'd just never seen this side of him.
He hoped the other Nines didn't just see him as a one-dimensional coward, though he'd consider cowardice one of his traits. He could do more than hide… right? Even if hiding were his preferred method—one that had served him well in the Hunger Games—the past few days had at the very least proved to himself that he was capable of some action.
If only he acted earlier. Maybe things would've turned out differently. Yet even now… maybe he didn't have to go home to the same emptiness.
He picked up the mug and left for the District Nine common room.
On his way up, even from the hall, he could hear hints of Van's gruff voice, riled up about something again. There it was, an excuse to not initiate contact. Rusk stared at the door, looked down at the mug, and then turned back to the door, deciding that he wouldn't take the excuse, not this time. Worst case, he'd just say he was returning the mug and hightail it out of there. He cracked the door open and slid in without a sound.
"—now it's all a mess," Van was saying, barely visible down a short hallway. The mentor took a swig from a bottle on the table. "She won't even look at him anymore."
"She's passionate; I'll give her that." He couldn't see the source, but he could recognize Matza's voice anywhere.
Van snorted. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do with him at this point."
The "him" had to be Mati. Then was Clarke the "she"? Whatever mess he'd missed out on, it only made Rusk glad he wasn't mentoring this year.
"Let's think on the bright side," Matza said. "Maybe his… sympathies will earn him some sponsors."
"Sure, like them Capitol bastards ever really care, loyalist or not." Another swig, and then Van rose to his feet, pacing the room. "I'm really trying to give the boy the benefit of the doubt, but he's not making his life any easier."
A sigh from Matza. "It will all be over in a week or so."
Rusk frowned as the conversation went on. Poor boy. From what he could gather, Mati seemed to be a bit more Capitol-leaning than he was himself, yet both of them found themselves in the awkward place of being surrounded by… well, the other Nines.
Funny how the one other person he'd ever met from Nine that wasn't fanatical about rebellion was about to enter the Hunger Games. Maybe the boy wouldn't die. Rusk had survived, after all, against all the odds. But if Mati was to die, he would spend his last days despised by every last person around him. And Rusk wasn't okay with that.
"…let's just hope that the kids aren't at each other's throats tonight," Van said. He got to his feet and happened to look down the hallway, right where Rusk stood, mug in hand. "Oh! A pleasant surprise!"
"Did things go well?" Matza chimed in.
Rusk cleared his throat. "Y'know, about the entire Mati situation…"
"We'll take care of it," Van said.
"Actually… I've been thinking about it some."
He felt their curious eyes on him. It wasn't every day that he talked to them, let alone initiated a conversation. When he came up, he'd expected to say something polite about "hoping that things can change," but all he could think about was the poor kid, hated by his district partner, deemed a problem by his mentor. It was a weighty decision, yet Rusk almost felt as if Mati needed him. He couldn't let the boy down.
"I'll mentor Mati."
A/N Hi! Gosh, writing this chapter was the most frustrating thing at first, but then the pieces fit together and writing was fun again. I know this one was a bit more Rusk-centric, but for the rest of the Pre-Games, the focus is going to be on the tributes, with a few Rusk POVs sprinkled here and there.
I'd love to know y'all's thoughts!
