Scylla Frigard, 18, District Two Female
The night air is muggy and humid even in a place like this tonight, brought about by the angry purple clouds silhouetted against the darkening horizon that threaten rainfall. They look ominous. Everything is ominous today, bathed and cloaked in a mask of revelry. I always liked the cold better, the remote mountains in the distance, faraway and tantalizing back in Two. They were much more relaxing to paint than the dense packs of forest near the border to Ten. The blackened sky hides them now.
I've never felt any desire to paint what surely lurks behind some walls and curtains, the discord of chatter and noises, blindingly intrusive lights blasting from all corners, but I'm about to have to face it.
"What are you planning on doing once you get out there?" Marvel asks, turning back to me as he smirks. "What's your angle?"
Unwanted flashbacks of the strenuous day mostly behind me crowd back into my head: Decima grilling me time and time again as the voices cloud out every word that she says, Pomponius striking my legs with a wet towel whenever they slip from the perfect position, taping my back to the chair to "fix my posture", hearing Gunnar's screams from the other room only to hear Arlo's in response. It was miserable. I don't even know my angle, and I'm on the precipice of complete humiliation.
"She just needs to be herself," Orchid says to nobody in particular, her imaginary conversation partner. "If she puts trust in her abilities, everything will work out fine."
I want to believe her, I really do, but everything seems to be getting hotter and hotter, and I can't breathe in the charcoal, long-sleeved, and tight-necked dress that they have stuffed me into. I feel like a hypocrite to say that I am nervous, especially as I look back and see Arlo bouncing on the balls of his feet but still putting on a brave face and holding up crossed fingers supportively. The idea has been present in my mind since before I even knew I was the chosen volunteer, a forbidden fantasy of freedom now so close to my grasp, but I don't want to reach it now, not with the judging eyes of the entire nation and the cutthroat, black-and-white, savage mind of Imperia.
Schizophrenia. That's what they called it after the psych evaluation and all of the poking and prodding was over, and they sent me back up to the Floor Two to practice for my interview some more. The doctor was so smug and condescending, laying a simpering hand on my back and regarding me as if I was some porcelain doll that would break if it got its feelings hurt.
"He wasn't a doctor!" Yung yells derisively, his voice trailing off into rasping.
"And if he was, you know not to trust them anyway," Calisto agrees in his monotone, foreboding voice.
"Don't, take the pills, Scylla," Yung continues, words rattling off to a hideous nothingness.
"Don't say my name like that, you bastard. I do what I want." I rush it out in a whisper that only I can hear.
"What was that?" Marvel asks, laughing. "Sorry, I didn't understand."
There's no way that he can truly be can suave and carefree. There's something strongly false in his amicability. He's up to something.
"I really don't know yet," I respond, giggling in a feeble attempt to be self-deprecating.
"Oh, I see how it is," he says. "You're trying to be mysterious, are you? Good luck with that."
His forward smile turns into a smirk, and his attempt at humor loses its smooth coating, exposed as the rough, passive-aggressive taunt that it is.
"He can go fuck himself, and fuck his stupid gold tuxedo, too," Ichabod chimes in.
"He's right, you know," Yung says.
"You're going to fail," Calisto observes.
"What about you?" Arlo questions Marvel over the top of my head from behind me in line. "What's your angle?"
There's been a change in him since yesterday. He seems... brighter, almost in parallel to my demeanor right now. His father's words don't seem to inhibit him as much anymore, more so drive him. It feels pleasing to watch him be edified so quickly by my encouragement, but at the same time it is almost demoralizing to be objective and look at myself from the outside in. They think I'm a basket case, and I am. At least I could give them some justification for the blue face paint.
The doctor said to stop doing it, but I'm afraid. It keeps the voices at bay, I know it does, and I don't want to give them a world where they have free reign over me. I can't face it. In all of the friendships that I have made here, they have been unified by a shared sense of bravery and perseverance through the darkness–Arlo, the boy from Eleven whose name I don't even remember–but now I'm cowering from my fears at the top of the very cliff where I can be freed of them. I need to do it.
"I'll just be my lovely self," Marvel replies, flashing a toothy grin at us.
That's a lie. He's deceiving us, and I know it. I have to defy him and defy everything else standing in my way in the process, to truly open up my heart to the nation and lay down my soul upon the ground for their judgement. I have to beat the voices. I have to beat Father. I have to beat the Beast.
"I just hope I don't get stage fright," Arlo jokes nervously, hands still shaky and feet still bouncing.
Arlo and I can beat this if we face it head on. I'm going to tell them what has been chipping away at everything that I have ever had since I was eight years old, and for the first time since Mother ran away, I'm going to be free. I'm going to tell them that I hear the voices.
"She sounds much better now," Orchid says.
"No, she doesn't!" Ichabod retorts. "They will think that we are weak."
"You are weak," says Calisto.
No, I'm not. I am not weak. I am not weak, not like what the Gamemakers say with their skewed score of eight for me, not like what Yung and Calisto say, and not like those venomous tendrils of fire whisper during the night as the Beast gets ever closer and closer in my dreams.
"You are weak," Yung repeats.
I am not weak.
I am not weak.
I am not weak.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please get to your seats, the Interviews will be starting in precisely one minute," an announcer's voice booms over the intercom. In the cavernous back room it echoes as the tributes sturdy and straighten themselves.
I start to feel nervous, the same way that I felt nervous before as I sat in the lobby awaiting my Private Session. It turned out to be a disappointment.
"This will be a disappointment, too," Yung says pessimistically.
"You will be a disappointment," Calisto adds, voice blending horribly with Yung's as it joins in halfway through. "You will be a disappointment."
"Oh, she must have faith in herself," Orchid stresses. "I really do get concerned for her in times like this one."
Orchid is right. I finished strong in my Private Session, and I'm going to finish strong now, but these nerves that I'm feeling are eclipsing me, seizing control of me, and I can't breathe. I don't want to admit that I am subservient to these voices who I know are not tangible, aren't even real, that live inside of my head. I have to remember what I said to Arlo. We have to beat the Beast. And to do that, maybe we can find strength through our weaknesses.
I glance at Arlo to see how he is holding up as the clock ticks down, and, not to my surprise, he has gotten more anxious. We must support each other right now. I lay my hand gently on his shoulder and stare up into his eyes. He gets the message clearly.
This is the first time that I have ever touched someone so intimately since Einar died–most times since have been in combat–and his skin lights up at the sensation of fingers meeting skin, not romantically, but comfortingly.
"Don't worry," Marvel soothes ineffectively from in front of me to Arlo. "Like you said, just act scary and they'll love you. It'll be a cake walk for you."
I can see the way that this burns in Arlo's head. I don't want him to be scary. That's not who he really is. Is that not what tonight is all about? Finding our courage and facing our fears?
"And now, let us present, the Interviews for the 157th Annual Hunger Games!" The announcer is met with a cacophonous of applause. "First, let us present our newest staff appointment, the phenomenal and charming, Apollo Vanahara!"
On the live feed, trumpets play as the dapper host emerges from between the two curtains behind the stage in a signature tuxedo and hops dramatically to the center of the stage.
"Welcome one, welcome all, to the Interviews!" he yells, to the enthusiastic applause of the audience all around him. "We're on a tight clock, and I'm sure all of you want to get to bed pretty soon to be up nice and early for tomorrow morning, but let's all force our eyes open for a few hours more to get to know our special cast, shall we?!"
More applause and calls of "yes" send the foundations all around us into tremors, and I feel myself because to tremble as well.
"I know you'll love every single one of them," continues Apollo.
"They'll hate you," Yung and Calisto say together, their voices intertwining in skin-crawling harmony.
"She is a bit of a shy one," says Orchid.
I'm afraid, afraid of what will happen if I pour my heart out for these people so eager to watch me die. This is pointless, this isn't the way to win, not by exposing your own shortcomings to the very leeches who will suck their teeth into them at the first chance that they get.
"I don't want to waste your time, so, without further ado, let's bring out our very own District One Female, Turquesa Miracelest!"
The girl from One, Turquesa, who has been completely silent since we were corralled into a line, jolts in shock at hearing her name, but stands up straight and strolls confidently out onto the stage, taking all of the time that she pleases. On the television hanging in the corner is her stony-faced display of indifference. Why can't I be like her, not the timid girl who everyone thinks is the yearly liability of the career alliance, not the oddball who nobody understands, not the one who can't escape fate's twisted sense of unfounded cruelty?
Apollo's words of welcome are indistinct from the sheer volume of the crowd, and I can see the walls around me beginning to blur.
"Hey, are you okay, Scylla?" Arlo asks, catching my back with his hand as I stumble backwards on my dress.
I want to say yes, but I look into his eyes and I know that I can't lie to him. I'm not okay. I want to run away. I don't want to face my problems or face my fears.
"I have to use the bathroom," I say.
I feel a sharp, metal-gloved grasp on my arm.
"Three minutes or I'm busting down the door," a Peacekeeper says, carrying me down the hallway and past the line of gawking tributes.
One is missing. The boy from Eleven.
I get a chance to look back at Arlo again and see him looking back confused and helpless. The officer practically carries me down the hallway in a blur of bright colors, panic, and shame, before dumping me at a pristine white door that swivels open for me and shuts with him outside standing guard. I fall back against the door.
All of my boisterously optimistic talk was for nothing, because in the final moment leading up to my big leap, I crashed and burned. Every time I feel my eyelids shut, I see that burning fire of gold and crimson, and him, the Beast, standing in the middle, because it isn't just a dream anymore. Those merciless blue eyes penetrate my whole being, and there's nothing that I can do but fall under his rule.
"Oh, stop embarrassing me!" Ichabod exclaims indignantly.
"You are an embarrassment," Yung chimes.
Calisto assents, "You failed before it even started, and–" Yung finds his way into the chorus, "when you get into the arena, they'll all target you first–"
"the weakest career–"
"the weakest tribute–"
The twins harmonize once more: "You are going to die with us, Scylla."
I'm beginning to get weak in the knees, so I run over to the sink and brace my arms against it, looking down into the empty drain. Doctor Threbold gave me some medicine to take, I don't remember the five-or-six-syllable names he used as their names, but I need them, and I can take them now, in my undisturbed solitude only prorupted by the stalls and urinals surrounding me. Urinals? It must be a co-ed bathroom. In other words, now is the time.
I reach into my pocket and feel my hand grasp the sleek pill bottle, simultaneous with the screams erupting in my head as Yung and Calisto go on a warpath. I can't see anything, only pain. I'm dimly conscious of the world spinning and a feeble thud against my back as I reach for support on the same sink. I feel water pooling in my eyes on the ground, and for a second the acute worry of not having waterproof makeup flashes through my head before evaporating in place of more agony. It feels like my head is splitting apart. I cannot feel anything anymore, cannot hear anything, cannot see anything but the raging fire and the eyes of the Beast flickering in and out. Dimly, I'm aware that I'm being pulled or lifted upward again, and as I scramble to back near solid ground, I feel a hard splitting in the back of my head. The throbbing brings everything into focus for a second at a time, and in those glimpses of reality I can make out a boy standing over me, pale, petite, and dark-haired. It's him.
I can decipher the individually distinct words of all of the voices now, but they are slowly beginning to dissipate.
"Are you okay? Do you need help getting up?" It's the boy–Aleyn–that speaks now, and to me.
And then, all of a sudden, that same shame crashes over me in a boiling wave again, and I bury my head into my face, uncaring of my makeup or my hair or my dress anymore. I don't want to go out there. They can just skip me.
What am I saying? I have to do this! I have to come clean, because that is the first step to attaining whatever is closest to peace that I can find!
"Yes–I mean, no–or, yes and then no." I blush out of humiliation behind the line of blue and eyeshadow spanning my eyes and nose.
"Don't feel embarrassed in front of me," Aleyn says. "I'm doing the same thing, aren't I?"
We sit in silence for what must be fifteen seconds frozen in position, him kneeling upon my slumped form against the wall under the sinks. I can't hear the voices anymore.
"What did your psych evaluation say?" he asks. "I don't mean to prod, it's just that I... I want to know if we have the same thing. I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. What about you?"
"Schizophrenia. I've never heard of what you have."
"Let's not get too much into them, then," Aleyn says, stepping away a half of an inch and landing on his palms awkwardly. He fishes something out of his pocket.
"Did they give you these?" On his hand he extends a transparent encasement of a bunch of ovular pills, orange on one side and white on the other. "This isn't the only one they gave me by a long shot."
I let out a small chuckle out of empathy.
"Did they say if yours would ever get cured?"
The question slides out of my mouth uncontrollably, in an instant, and I feel my eyes tear up again. It feels as if all of this is for nothing, one meaningless lifelong effort to prevent the inevitable. Aleyn shakes his head, and tears begin to well up in his eyes as well. I shake mine in response to his unasked question.
What is the point of all of this, if the Beast is going to catch us both, anyway? We won't win. This is just some symbolic trial of self-worth, and I don't want to complete now, if I know that the pain will never end.
"We can still win, though," he says, out of the darkness. "We can if we just don't let them win. As long as we stay true to ourselves and they don't take over forever. Come on," he says, picking two pills out of the cylindrical casing and standing up over the sink.
He offers a hand down to me: "We can still win, believe me." He must see the mistrust and resignation on my face.
"None of this is futile. We'll win just the same as if we were cured, because we showed them that they couldn't win over us. Scylla, all of my life, people have told me that I was cowardly, and wimpy, and disgusting, and I believed them, but this is how we prove them wrong!"
I take his hand, and he pulls me up. I look like a trainwreck in the mirror, but I don't care anymore. I'm going to take this medicine, even if it is futile, even if it is just to symbolize that I will never give in, that I will do as much as I can. I'm going to beat the Beast, this almost tangible manifestation of all of the devils and mistreatments of society, this black-and-white representation of something incomprehensibly complex as mental illness. Illnesses are meant to be conquered. I read the directions and hastily cram two of the pills down my mouth, cupping water from the sink in my hands to wash it down.
"Come on, kids, your three minutes is up, get back out here now or I'm coming in!"
"Good luck," Aleyn says to me as we rush out to be pulled apart by two guards flanking either side of the door.
"Good luck to you, too," I say to him.
They shove me back into place at the front of the line.
"What was that all about? Scylla, what's wrong, you look like a mess." Arlo turns me around to face him and begins correcting my hair.
"Nothing is wrong anymore, Arlo." I can feel the jitters and nerves return, itching up my skin, but they are minute.
"Scylla, I can tell something happened to you. I want to help, you're my only friend and–"
"Thank you, Arlo, but I don't need any help."
He seems wary, still quivering in his dress shoes so incongruously for a man so formidable as him.
"Remember what I said yesterday. We find strength in our weaknesses, and we beat our Beasts."
Arlo nods.
"District Two Female on standby, thirty seconds remaining."
I hurry up the stairs to meet the stage manager, who shoves me onto a neon red circle.
This is it. This is the moment that I've been waiting for and stressing over in the back of my mind for months. This is when I show them how truly strong I am.
The buzzer sounds.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us now giving a very warm welcome to our very own
District Two Female of the year, the lovely Scylla Frigard!"
Elior Gobel, 15, District Five Male
Konani looks dazzling tonight. Her whole outfit compliments her perfectly, in stark contrast to the itchy navy suit damning me with a sweaty evening. It's all so fitting, so distinctly her. Her navy tank top is mostly shielded by her meticulously faded denim jumper, going down to her knees, and the pocket on her right side and egg-shell white sneakers are stenciled with sapphires that gleam and glint in the dim air of the waiting room. Her hair, normally falling in a straight sheet of chestnut down her back, has been crafted into two braids (Dutch braids, as she called them) that swirl around into high pig tails.
I can't help fixating on her and the way that she seems to steal all of the light of the room, even as the Peacekeepers order us to be quiet and contradictorily yell at us to face the correct way subsequently after. This is such a surreal moment for so many reasons.
I'm afraid about going onstage and making a total fool out of myself in front of the millions watching, and yet I really do not have a care in the world anymore, because even if I do, then I'll be doing it with Konani. Mingling with that same resignation to fail is some sort of self-acceptance, and some sort of indescribable swelling feeling goes with it. I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach and the waves of perspiration dripping down me in cascades, but there is some sort of catharsis in my own peril. There is a catharsis in the thought that no matter what happens now, my happy ending is within my own grasp.
I'm not there yet, though.
The girl from Four—Talisa, as she introduced herself to me and Konani a few days ago—takes the spotlight and captivates the crowd with such concentrated, effortless, dynamistic charisma, as if a magnetism is pulling them in. There is something in the way the rubies on her flowy royal blue dress sparkle and the way that she answers Apollo's questions with such confidence. Watching it, I am envious at her prowess in front of an audience along with just about everything else imaginable, and the sheer conviction it enables her to place on her words. She is a swan bathing in the light of her hundreds of adoring onlookers.
It is frustrating to observe someone so easily brilliant. I will never be that brilliant, however hard I study to make good grades that are meaningless to everyone but myself or spend hours toiling away with the spear in the days leading up to my own death. Maybe that is what confidence truly is, or maybe just in this unique scenario where it blends into a murky mixture of self-assurance, bravery, dignity, and sociopathy: Putting yourself out in the open for all to see and giving it everything you have, even when you know that it will probably never be enough. Even when you know that nobody expects you to do it, and that nobody even cares if you fail miserably, that you will just be the next transient thing to laugh at.
I'm never going to be as good as beautiful, charming, witty Talisa, but I still want to try.
"I see you looking."
I'm startled out of my jealous fixation by Konani's observation.
I stutter, worried she may misconstrue my attentiveness to the interview and getting hotter and hotter by the second, but she mercifully cuts me off.
"Don't be silly," she says, smiling modestly. "I'm watching, too, and I know you aren't thinking of joining the careers."
With her words comes an underlying offer, that underlying possibility that I hope to Snow himself, wherever his grave lays, I am not misreading. I feel for Konani what I have never felt before, a passion that can only be what they describe in all of the books that I have read. No, she is not the infallible beacon that is Talisa, but she is mine, and she is the only person who has ever dared to be my friend, and hopefully something more.
"You were supposed to laugh there," she says, now completely turned around and smiling coyly.
"What—no, I wasn't!" I cry out, before my chuckling dies out.
Konani sighs, grins, and shakes her head, looking down at her sneakers, which shine even in our holding room.
"Elior, you need to stop concerning yourself so much over what other people think of you. You're great the way that you are. There's no reason to get as nervous as you are when I know that you're going to be a hit out there."
Talisa's buzzer sounds, and she exits the stage to a tremendous round of applause.
"Break a leg." Aquatico wishes us luck while winking before being summoned away and appearing on the live feed dangling in the corner above us seconds later. He's going to be another smash hit, too.
"We will," Konani mutters as he leaves. I don't know if she means for him to hear her, or if her under-her-breath reassurance is directed towards me. Possibly both.
"What makes you so sure," I ask her.
She takes a minute to articulate her answers, so I glance up at the screen, where Aquatico is already off to a good start.
"I just… well, for one, I know you have it in you. You're so creative, and there going to remember you for that, for another thing. But I think we'll be more memorable if we play each other up."
Just like that, my mind clicks into place, and I realize that this very fantasy that I have been entertaining inside of my head is about to become a reality. Maybe she does feel the same way! But that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? She's just playing it up for the cameras, as Atlas and Ambrosia have instructed her too, and she's only telling me now to capitalize off of my reaction. How could she ever truly be attracted to me? I can't believe I never saw it sooner.
And yet, that happy ending is still so close, and I can't let it go, not when everything was finally going so well in my life for once! I have to believe, because if I don't, I'm just going to… well, die. And I can't die without thrusting myself out into the uncomfortable and the unknown for a change instead of taking all of the pain and being complacent with it. Maybe Konani isn't attracted to me. Why would she be? I don't think many girls would find a short, scrawny, underweight boy with pale skin and elfish ears that alluring. But I still just have to take the chance for once.
Konani looks at me expectantly, waiting for any sort of vocal response, but here eyes are full of hope.
"I like the idea," I say for lack of any better response that I can think of. "Thank you for being so supportive, but even if I try, I think I'll just flounder out there. I'm probably the most awkward person that you know."
"Don't be silly, Elior," Konani says, grasping my forearms with her hands and lightly shaking them, sending a tingling sensation up my spine. Once again, I am conscious of how little muscle mass I have anywhere on my body.
"Was the puking at the Reaping not enough for you?"
"Elior, you're forgetting that you earned a seven. They liked us at the Parade, our costumes were bright and flashy, and we got their attention!"
"They were also too hot, just like everything else that I've ever had to wear."
"Elior, do you ever get tired of always assuming that you would be bad at something and never actually attempting to do it? For once, can you realize that you don't suck at everything?"
"Quiet!" A Peacekeeper roughly grabs Konani by the shoulders and steers her back into place in line. "You're on in thirty."
And just like that, I have fallen back onto the same thinking point that I was on just before this conversation. Konani makes me feel something that I've never felt before, and I am getting closer and closer to finally identifying it. I'm so proud to have even a sliver of her affections be directed towards me. She makes me feel so strangely powerful and uninhibited by the whispers of anyone else around me. I know what she would say if she were to peer into my brain and listen to my thoughts:
"You are."
Aquatico's interview is nearing to a close. Konani turns back to me once again, to the silent dismay of the Peacekeeper overseeing us.
"It's not a matter of blowing the audience away. It's a matter of actually having the will and the courage to go out there with a brave face on and do your best," she tells me.
Twisting back on the heels of her feet, Konani meets her summoner and walks off, leaving me with one final mouthed "Good luck" and what she just said still echoing in my head.
That is how I'm going to finally defy everyone watching me with hopes or certainty that I will fail, and that is how I will show Konani that I can listen, and be brave, and be confident in the face of adversity.
The girl from Six behind me nudges me lightly, and I step forward onto the sticker were Konani's feet were moments before.
"And now, for our next guest," Apollo begins, standing up and extending his hands outward to the audience, "let's all say a big hello to the lovely Konani Sowka of District Five!"
Konani's smile doesn't waver or twitch as she steps into the limelight and makes her way gracefully to Apollo, who offers her a seat. In that moment, she is gorgeous, pure fire lighting up the stage in a way that nobody else ever could, and all that I see, all that I can think, is her. I don't deserve her.
"Hello, Apollo," she chirps as she flattened her denim dress of a jumper and takes a seat.
"Ah, you beat me to the punch," he says ruefully. After allowing a brief bought of chortling from the stands below, he prompts, "Well, if you're so quick to speak, why don't you answer a question before I can ask it? Just to help us get to know you a little bit better."
"Well, technically you just did ask me a question, Apollo, but I'll let that one slide." She pauses for laughter from the crowd. "This is my kind of interview." Another short wait. "I might as well talk about my family, since I don't know what I would do without them. Me and my seven siblings all live together, since my mom passed away, and my dad left us shortly after. But we all persevere, and that's what I intend to do now."
I never would have thought that Konani had it in herself to take the stage in her stride like this. Seeing her do it wants to make me do it more than I have ever wanted anything, anything except for her.
"Now tell me, Konani, who was it that ran to hug in that touching moment after you were Reaped?"
"That was my brother Ziv," Konani says. "We're very close. I don't know what I would do without him. I don't know what I would do without any of my siblings."
Her voice acquires a waver as she continues to speak. I always knew that Konani had a loving family back home, but her fluctuating emotions are dragging from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows, and I am compelled by her speech to think of my family back home. None of them care about me. They may not even be watching right now with more interest than the halfhearted indifference of any typical year while Konani's brothers and sisters hang on her every word.
How am I supposed to compete with the other twenty-two tributes, let alone my own district? The crowd already loves her. They don't want some sweaty twig to take her place.
"But, Konani, I understand you aren't just close with your family. Is that right?"
Konani giggles, leaning back girlishly on her couch.
"Yes," she says.
"My intel says that you and a certain district partner have struck up a bond."
My stomach does a flip, and the temperature inside of my impenetrable navy tuxedo doubles. She is talking about me, and I'm practically trembling from the heat and anticipation as to whatever she will say next and if it is in anyway amorous or erely complementary.
"That's true. We just clicked from the start, and we complement each other's skillsets well. The Gamemakers didn't just give him a seven for nothing, he's really talented with a spear. It's nice to have a friend in the Hunger Games, and some added protection."
My stomach churns like a washing machine as an acute whirring noise sounds faintly for a millisecond and a minute green light blinks my way and I realize that I am now being filmed.
I haven't even begun to properly prepare and compose myself for the eyes of the viewers. My face must be the color of a raspberry! I can't face them yet! I'm panicking, because I know that tonight will inevitably end in some humiliating failure just like the Reapings or the Chariots, when by the end I was ready to faint from the heat. I raise an elbow over my face to shield it, and then internally facepalm as I really that I just exposed my armpit stain to the nation.
"He's being modest," Konani says, coming to my defense.
Over the laughter of the audience, Apollo comments, "Is it modesty, or is there something else going on? Two attractive fifteen-year-olds stuck together—something is bound to happen!"
"Well… maybe," Konani says, and no she is genuinely blushing as well. I feel the burning gaze of the camera lift off of me. "We really do have an excellent repartee, and, I won't lie, he's cute, but…"
"But what?"
"But… we'll just have to take it as it comes, I guess," Konani responds, leaving unspoken the absolute reality that only one of us at most is escaping the next few weeks with our life.
Because that is the true actuality of our predicament. We're star-crossed lovers, the same kinds of lovers that I have always read about in books, the same kind that either succeed in the romantic pursuits or die trying. Either way, the story is in enthralling, and, likewise, the Capital already seems to be more or less enthralled. I pray they still will be and that I do not drop the ball like I have with almost everything else in my life, because this just may be my ticket to victory, my ticket to a happy ending, my ticket to Konani. Maybe this is how I will be able to truly woo her.
"What a great motto!" says Apollo.
"I've lived by it for my whole life, and I don't intend to stop now. We are fighters, me and Elior."
She roped us together, labeled us as a collective unit. She's laid all of the groundwork for me, a star-studded path to fame and a rosy, wooded path to undisturbed, everlasting love, and all that I have to do is follow it to the end.
The buzzer sounds.
"Konani Sowka, everyone!"
Konani waves and prances off of the screen. I'm abruptly aware that a woman is grasping my elbow and readjusting my slickly gelled hair.
Shit. I'm about to go on.
For one moment, as our eyes lock and we stand across from each other on either side of the stage behind towering curtains, Konani waves to me again, a private wave, wholly real and just for me.
The nerves exit my body. Almost. Because that's what true confidence is, or bravery, or whatever. Doing something that you're afraid of and doing your best at it, even though you know that you will probably suck.
"And now, the other half of the District Five due, Elior Gobel!"
I step surefootedly into the eyeshot of the world, and force what I desperately desire to be a winning smile onto my face.
Apollo welcomes me with a handshake when I meet him, and we take our seats. He really is quite handsome. I don't know how I'm even supposed to contest him in that regard, let alone charisma, speaking ability or wittiness. But it's not about that.
"Well, Elior, your friend Konani has just left us with a potential pairing. Was she just doing it for the show of things, or do you think you two really have a little something?"
My insides cringe, and for a fleeting moment I look back to the backstage as if to see Konani there giving me uplifting motivation, but of-course she is hidden from my view. I'm on my own, and I must impress her, and impress the country.
I hesitate for a second longer, and Apollo looks at me pressingly, telling me wordlessly to get a move on. There is venom beneath his charming façade.
"You really don't waste any time, do you, Apollo?" I divert intentionally, conscious of my rosy face.
"We only have three minutes," he says, still looking for an answer. His eyes meet mine, and I realize that I what I mistook for venom is actually urgency. He's trying to help me.
"I guess I'll cut to the chase, then. Konani is really just special. Everything she says and does, nobody can replicate. We always tell each other that we're modest, but all that I can think when I'm around her is how amazing she is. And…"
My face is heating up more and more under the stage lights beaming down from above, and I take a second to right myself. I'm losing control, but the audience seems to enjoy it. I'm making an impression. I'm showing them that Konani and I are not ones to forget.
"And?"
"And… I'll do my best to protect her. I did earn a seven, after all, and believe me when I say that I had never touched any sort of weapon before in my life leading up to training."
The audience laughs, and I'm beginning to feel more and more relaxed. I can feel and aura of resounding support resonating off of Konani and onto me, wherever she is. I'm not going to let her down now.
Aquatico Espovera, 16, District Four Male
This is my moment. The air around me, the crowd, and this whole night just feel electric. I'm in my element, performing and telling jokes in front of a crowd. I can do no wrong!
They are all still in fits after my first joke, and I'm not done yet. Even Apollo has his hands up to his face. In the spur of the moment, I let out an exaggerated smirk of bitter pride in tandem with my anecdote about Turquesa sweeping my leg after I was on top of her. I'm smirking because I'm a performer, and because I am killing it. This whole morbid competition is one of kissing up and making other people like you, something that I am chiefly supreme at.
"All I'm saying is, if Turquesa didn't have any arms, then I would have definitely won that fight!" I huff playfully after allowing the live audience time to get over their hysterics. "Then again, if she didn't have arms, almost everybody could have won." They laugh some more. "Well, then again, she is Turquesa, which is, to say, a machine."
A camera points its feed at her backstage as she lounges on a velvet sofa in her banquet attire, wearing a twin smirk and shrugging, as if to say that I am right, which gets even more laughs from the audience.
The girls just don't get it, Turquesa and Mystic. The way to dazzle the audience and give yourself a heaping leg up over the rest is not to be yourself—well, maybe it would be if they were me. They have to sink themselves to the level of the Capital, and if that is something that they aren't willing to do, then so be it. I love having friends and companions to keep me company and goof off with, but when it comes down to it, I would let them die for Marlon and Mya back home any day. That is the true repulsiveness and morbidity of the Hunger Games, but I did volunteer for this, after all.
To save Marlon, I remind myself. And I would do anything to save Marlon.
Nevertheless, Turquesa at least tried in her interview, even if she was cagey and standoffish in some ways. The crowd could get behind her stubbornness, and there were more than likely some who found her atypical stubbornness and breaking of the mold appealing. It helped that she looked stunning in her dress.
"Mystic isn't bad either," I add, eager to play up both of my allies. "I'll let her be enigmatic for now, but I'm predicting that she is just going to let loose during her interview."
Mystic is the one who I am truly worried about come her three minutes to shine onstage; she possesses such a fierce and carefree personality and untamed demeanor that is undeniably rousing and enthralling, but with that goes a side of her that, even from only knowing her for a few days, I can see is untamable. I still don't know why she volunteered, and neither does Turquesa. I was open with her about my reasons for signing up for this deathmatch, but she didn't reveal her motives. She does not seem to have any sort of care in the world anymore, nor any concern for living any longer, or any semblance of respect for boundaries that she must conform to. I am envious of her, but, simultaneously, there is a reckless abandon, a fiery temerity and nonconformity within her that is sure to lead to her demise or her breaking point.
Apollo clears his throat, poised to ask me a question. "Well, that's all well and good for you, Aquatico, but you scored an eight, yourself. How did you get so good in such a short amount of time, or did you volunteer with some training under your belt?"
This is what I have been waiting for, my very moment to communicate to my friends and family back home. I am going to win for them. But, concurrently, I have to get the crowd in my favor even more, to get them to chant my name as they parade back down the streets to their homes and grovel at my feet like the district fools that they mock during the Tribute Banquet only an hour or two from now.
"Well, I am the strongest tribute here, Apollo. You know that, right? In all seriousness, my father, Luca, taught me to fight from a young age on boats. He used to be a career trainee, but he met my other father, Milo, and left it all for him. They found me in an abandoned fish house one day and took me home with them, and we've been together ever since. I love them both so much. They've taught me so many things. They're my world."
The crowd aws in unison, colorfully dressed men and women clasping their hands together dramatically and pulling their children close to their chests, and I know my heartfelt appeal is landing on them.
"Trust me," I add, "nothing prepares you for the Hunger Games like trying to have a swordfight on top of a boat during torrential rain."
"And is there anything that you would like to say to your parents back home?" Apollo requests. He understands the inner workings of this whole scheme. Maybe he sees himself in me: a flirtatious, charismatic, handsome performing like himself.
"Yes." I turn to face the audience and find the eyes of the cameras that I know are there. "I love you two both more than I could ever say, and you know that I'm coming home with the bread and bacon. Hey Luca, don't try and get Milo to swordfight with you if you're bored, he'll fall off of the ship. And, Milo, don't try and get Luca to sing for you if you miss my gorgeous voice, he's tone-deaf, and you know it."
The deafening laughter of the crowd pounds my brain, and for once it doesn't feel so comforting as I visualize my fathers back at home, crying over me in the town square. If I never see them again, I don't want to leave them with a joke as my final words.
"Again, I love you both more than anything else in the world ever!" I cram in before Apollo has a chance to speak.
I don't want to even consider the idea of me not making it back home, but it is a real possibility now. I cannot bear to think of never singing on the beaches again with Marlon and Mya, of never touching those cherry red lips of his or feeling her hair, white as the sea froth, or of never fighting with Luca or having those precious day-spanning talks with Milo. All of my life, I've been able to rise up from the ashes and pretend like the darkness is some cartoonish figment of the past, but it is back now. I have to fight against the regime, but to fight against it I must play this ridiculous game for my life. It is exhilarating, pleasing a crowd against and coaxing laughs from their mouths, but excruciating at the same time. I know what Turquesa must be thinking, clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes in a surly and disappointed manner, but she understands.
"Aquatico," Apollo starts, calling me back to the real world and out of my most imminent fears, "I understand you're a bit of a flirt back on the shores of your district."
"Oh, don't get me started, Apollo!" I say, reclining suavely into my padded chair. "I can't help myself, especially not here, with all of this sexy eye candy at my disposal!" This earns an "ooh" from the crowd, and I throw a wink out in an arbitrary direction for some fan of mine to catch.
"But I must say," I continue, "I am leaving two gorgeous specimens back home. The boy I volunteered for, Marlon, and his twin sister Mya. I love you both!" I yell out to where a camera catches my glance.
This is it. All of my chips are on the table, all of my hasty goodbyes said, and there is nothing that I can do but entertain the crowd until the buzzer sounds. I've tried as hard as I can to get them to like me, and now the torch is about to be passed on to Konani, and, down the line, Mystic. I have weakened myself to their level, but that sure as hell doesn't mean that I am on it.
"Any final thoughts?" Apollo asks.
"Yes. You better start preparing yourselves for Mystic now, because she's a hot one. And watch out for us in the arena, too."
The buzzer sounds, and, blowing a kiss and doing a backflip, I meander to behind the curtain, lingering to showboat. They love me.
A woman lurking behind the black wall of technological lights and wall snatches me and quickly picks a microphone off of my pants before patting my butt and sending me along. My schtick even worked on her, however unbiased she is supposed to be.
Finding Turquesa is not difficult amongst the backstage area for the tributes, most of who have presumably returned to the backstage area to get remade for the Tribute Banquet, though the Ones have returned. The boy, Marvel, seems thoroughly disinterested, though Turquesa winks and gives me a smile.
"You killed it out there," she says. "How do you do it?"
"Oh, I try not to, I'm just amazing in every way, manner, and facet," I say, retreating backstage as I am pulled by my prep team, who materialize out of thin air and reassure me the same.
She rolls her eyes once again. "I'll be waiting here for you once you get back. Hurry, I think things will start to get a lot more boring until you get back."
"Miss me already?" I ask, waving at her before I am pulled into a rectangular, white-paneled room and my clothes are ripped off of me.
I am completely dressed up in my Banquet attire (navy slacks extending to sleek charcoal dress shoes, the new bane of my existence, a slimming blue and white striped shirt that I take care to unbutton on step further down than my stylist did, and a matching navy suitcoat artfully draped over my shoulder) by the time that the boy from Seven is being interviewed, and I see that Turquesa has been true to her word and is still waiting on the same couch as before.
"Anything notable from while I was gone?" I ask, hopping over the backboard of the couch and kicking off my shoes in an instant.
"They have screens back there, don't they?" she prods.
"Yes, but I knew you were paying rapt attention for me, so I didn't."
Turquesa performs her classic eyeroll, before giving me my answer.
"Really, nobody has been as good as you yet, but some have gotten close. The Fives are doing some sort of star-crossed lovers thing, and the boy from Six was really funny. The Seven girl was cute, but the Six girl was almost trying to use her sex appeal. It was… disturbing."
"How old is she, thirteen?" I ask, jarred by the thought of a girl her age putting her body on the line in such a way.
"She looks sixteen, but I think so."
Turques has lost the bitterness so prevalent in her demeanor during the first days of our friendship, in favor now of a resigned worry. I know that even she is afraid what Mystic will say.
"I think they'll like her," I say, to calm my own nerves. "She's electric. I think some people will be drawn to her… um, bluntness, even if she is a bit rebellious. Aren't we all?"
"Don't talk like that in here. You know microphones are all over this place, and the other tributes and staff could hear us, too."
"Well, you just made it a bit more obvious that we were trying to be surreptitious when you whisper-yelled and extended your hands in the air," I counter. It is a crude, bitter attempt at humor brought about by excess nerves.
A silence eclipses us as we watch the Seven boy. He's doing alright himself, a comedian like me, but he is mostly likely destined to fall quickly despite his good score. Mystic occupies most of our thoughts, and, in the back of my mind, what they must be saying or praying back in District Four. This also seems so morbid, guessing which child will die first and hoping that all of them do except for you. In my core, I know that those days singing unhampered and blithe on the shores are gone. There is no going back, no pretending that our troubles of the day are the worst we will ever experience, because they aren't.
It feels wrong to be more concerned for Mystic than I am for him, and yet I am. In all of our interactions, Mystic has been the epitome of authentic, yet she is still somewhat of an enigma to both me and Turquesa at the same time, but one thing has come across: She does not care anymore. Then again, I question even that as I watch her struggle at the archery station and curse herself at every mistake, as she bends over or bows her head and I see three unexplained white tendrils etched into her skin.
A sudden strike of fear hits me with the realization that I hardly know Mystic, and yet I am putting my faith in her in the arena, and that if she turns on us, we will not see it coming. Turquesa is most likely morally above the idea of betrayal, and I hope that she knows that I am on the same page—to a point, at least—but Mystic is an anomaly. Turquesa has already established her defiance to the most observant and intuitive of the Capital, but for all that I know, Mystic might be about to saunter onto the stage and scream, "Fuck the Capital".
The buzzer goes off, and the boy from Seven passes us as he crosses behind the curtain and is pulled back into the wings for his makeover.
"Now, let's welcome onto stage Mystic Archeron, our District Eight Female!"
Mystic looks stunning. I am suddenly reminded of the night of the Chariot Parade, when she stole the show with her magical violet dress. Her stylist seems to have picked a theme. Now, she struts pridefully into view in an ethereal black dress complete with silver lining, purple eye shadow casting a—well, mystical look about her.
"Nice to meet you, Apollo," she says richly and confidently, like the stage is hers and Apollo is hers to behold. The crowd enjoys it.
"Nice to meet you as well, Mystic. Sit."
She does, albeit reluctantly.
"Now, Mystic, I must first compliment you on your wonderful dresses," Apollo says.
Mystic gives a quick "thank you" to her stylist, and they quick move on.
"Ask away," she says to her interviewing at his request.
"What motivated you to volunteer?"
"That's a difficult question, Apollo. You see, when I first threw myself in, I didn't really care about anything else. All of my family was dead, including my father—he's who gave me these scars."
The crowd simpers and gasps as she twists around and reveals her mysterious scars. I never knew that all of her family is dead. She told me that she lost a love once. IS that how? It explains a lot, and yet, if I were her, I doubt I would be so unquenchably eager to throw my life away for the sake of saving another, repaying a grudge, and holding up a big middle finger to the world. Then again, that is basically what I did.
"So, I guess I volunteered just to say fuck it all," Mystic explains, "except I really haven't fucked it all yet, and I've kind of gotten myself into a pickle. I have some revenge to serve up."
A wave of excitement passes of the crowd, simultaneous with one of dread over the heads of me and Turquesa.
"Maybe she knows what she's doing," I voice over the muttering of the crowd and Apollo asking to whom. "She's making us even more relevant than you did when you quite obviously hinted at Imperia. How could you root for a jackass like Imperia over us?"
"You kiss other peoples' asses for a living," Turquesa answers, nodding to Marvel chatting up the pair from Two.
"Imperia Crimson is going to feel the tips of my arrows if it's the last thing that I ever do," Mystic says, turning graver every second until a bitter grin settles on her anguished face. "I don't care if I die trying."
"I'm already bouncing in my seat to see what happens between you two in the arena," Apollo gushes with a hint of falseness. He turns to the crowd. "We'll be hearing from Imperia in just minutes, but first, let's get more from the enthralling Mystic Archeron!"
"Apollo, I don't care how long it takes or how long it is, because I've been through much harder. I've watched my brother, my sister, and my girlfriend all die before my eyes because of my father, and I came out on top eventually over him. Imperia fucking Crimson is just a flash in the pan of my life that I will overcome, because if sixteen years has taught me anything about myself, it's that I never give up."
Mystic's eyes lock in focus with the camera, and her purple eye-shadow lights them up like embers, like diamonds. The energy is palpable, and in the heat and the energy of the moment, I for once feel motivate to dedicate it all to screwing over Imperia and screwing over the oppressive dictatorship that we're stuck in. Seeing Mystic lay her heart out onto the line is eye-opening. My life has been wonderful up to this point, but maybe there are some things that are bigger than singing on the beach or having fun with Luca and Milo or Marlon and Mya. I knew that when I put my life on the life to save Marlon's. It's time to do it again to take a stand.
I know that this must be a spur of the moment revelation that I will look back on later with remorse, but right now I feel better than I ever have before, because I know that all of these sixteen years that I've been alive are coming back to actually mean something more than days of having fun that blend together at the end with nothing accomplished. I know that Luca will be proud of me if I die for a cause, to make a stand, and never make it back home like I've promised. I know that the rest of them will understand in the end. I know that I would do anything but let Imperia Crimson be the Victor.
Maybe Turquesa and Mystic are rubbing off on me.
Tabitha Declan, 13, District Twelve Female
Sierra has left the backstage area by now, and things feeling eerily quiet compared to the daunting liveliness outside. Being stuck in the middle of Aleyn and Rooker is not exactly the perfect setup for a fabulous conversation. She seemed to suck all of the life out of the room with her as she left but watching her is a pleasure. She is doing amazing, and there hasn't been a dull moment yet, but it is easy to get distracted from her interview in the nerves that are seizing me.
"I definitely think that having three older brothers prepared me for the Hunger Games. They taught me how to fight, and I did score an eight after all. Well, specifically, my older brother Syrco taught me how, my oldest brother Thorn just likes to dote on me even though I'm as tall as he is. And my twin brother Cane and I are super close. It's weird, though, because now I'm like the oldest sibling in my alliance, and I have a lot of respect for them for taking care of me now, younger siblings are the worst. Just kidding, you guys!" she calls to the back curtain where the rest of our allies sit in wait.
The crowd is enjoying it. I'm jealous that I can't hold the room on my finger the way that she does, jealous of the way that they all seem to love her while I can't muster up any strength to do anything more than poke a hand out from behind her and wave. But I'm happy for Sierra, and it means good things for our alliance, to have multiple hits, like Sierra, Nerissa, and Bolt. Hopefully they'll just forget about me. They'll reach that lull that means their attention has lapsed after Sierra passes anyway.
"I've been wanting to ask you about your allies, Sierra. We've heard throughout the night how close you are, but what is your take on things? How do you think you all will match up against Imperia's bold claims?"
Of-course Sierra will only taunt Imperia further, because that is her nature, but I'm worried she will lead us all into a pit with her. But this is my only chance to actually become brave or anything close to it instead of hiding behind other people for my whole entire life. Maybe egging her on is the best thing, to actually amount to some sort of face to face confrontation where we could have a chance at besting her. That's what Sierra told me I needed to let out that was inside of me. I don't think that there is anything fierce inside of me like she believes, but I'm going to make some fierce. Or, at least, I'll try to. But everyone here is just so scary.
"I think that girl is too big for her boots. She isn't a hero, like she thinks that she is, whatever she says. She's the villain."
The crowd murmurs, and I shake on the spot and see that Aleyn is doing the same in front of me, alert to the disgruntled crowd. Sierra is super smart, though—I have seen her flawless scores on the tests of every kind, been given her wise advice—so she must know what she is doing. Whatever she is planning, it is bold.
I am anything but bold, unlike Sierra, or Bolt, or Nerissa, or maybe even Raihan, because I stand behind them and cry and act scared. I am scared. I don't want to die. But they must not want to either. And yet, they still make their own voices heard and stand up to the bullies, like Imperia or the Two boy that picked on Rooker, or the lecherous boy from One who laughs as he pretends to kill the dummies.
Dulcie and Tristan knew that back in the orphanage when they would stand up for me against mean children or Ms. Vellin, but even then they still continued to intentionally grate against her oppressive rule over all of us, even knew they knew that they would get caught and punished every single time. And every time came with the same punches and slaps, the same beating with her trusty wooden paddle, the absence of bread stew at both meals. They were not afraid to speak their minds and face the consequences, to actually do something about anything. What Sierra told me what seems like years ago in the bathroom stall is true. I need to do it for the ones that I love if I do it for anyone, and Tristan and Dulcie are the only people that I have left. They would hate to see me just lay down and die like I have been contemplating.
So, yes, Sierra is planning something, planting a seed, and I am going to help her with it, just to give my interview a morsel of substance and actually contribute for once in my life.
"She has no right to pick on tributes for no reason other than self-amusement. But my alliance isn't going to let her get to us. Just as long as we don't give her the opportunity to succeed inside of our heads, we can overcome he five on one easily, which would be karma, seeing as she only attacks people when she has her four-man entourage."
While some in the audience shake their heads, many are applauding Sierra now for her bold statement.
"That was certainly something to say, wasn't it, Sierra?" Apollo asks.
"I don't care who I offend or rub the wrong way, I'm going to say what I'm going to say. My allies can all handle Imperia, and in moral fiber, they all have her beaten ten times over. And, to answer your question, yes."
Sierra's ending buzzer rings, and Aleyn hesitantly steps into the limelight. She goes off to tremendous applause.
The Peacekeeper shoos me forward one final step, and I hear Rooker whimper behind me as he follows me. He has stopped bothering me, and everyone else on our floor as well. Now, he's like a ghost, just like I am. His transformation still makes me feel pity for him, yet every time I extend something barely resembling a helping hand, he reverts into his past wrathfulness.
I just wish that we could all be friends. It seems like a foregone conclusion, a simplicity of living on paper, and yet there are so many mean people in this world, so many that they outnumber the good two to one. Like the careers, or Ms. Vellin, or most of the other kids at the orphanage. I hate having to raise my voice over the noise of bickering or worse to be heard, and somewhere along the road, I must have just decided that I was not going to. But what is the opposite? Letting myself be trampled over, forgotten in the sea of flashier personalities of which the list is endless this year, and then be the first to die in my alliance.
I don't want to let my alliance down. I don't want to let my family down. And yet I feel the effort slipping in my hands like sand, and I am trying my hardest to pull it back.
They're watching Aleyn right now, pale-faced and socially awkward, waiting desperately to hear from me. At least, I hope they are, and that the other children are not being too distracting.
"Umm…" Aleyn laughs nervously, and it devolves into more of a tremble. "My favorite thing about the Capital would probably have to be the corn. I know it isn't the coolest thing, but it tastes good."
I don't want to make a fool and a failure out of myself like Aleyn is in the process of doing, but it seems like that is the track that I am on.
Maybe there is a better path that I could forge for myself. Sierra makes it obvious to me that there is no way that I am going to make it out of here alive if I don't fight, if I don't put some form of effort into making it out instead of just given up, and I am thankful and eternally indebted to her and the rest of the alliance for actually giving me some form of motivation instead of letting me fall down. But I despise how black and white everything must be to everyone left in the world, all blending into a murky, grotesque shade of gray, the gray that coated Daddy and everything else in sight back in District Twelve, the gray that they used for our hair ribbons, always to the shoulders, and for the hideous, monotone dresses that they stuffed me in forcefully until I quickly gave up trying. Why can't everything be pretty, and shine, and be bright and multicolored like the Capital?
Everything here is condensed into one splendorous, gorgeous, overwhelming rainbow of colors and fashion and luxury, and I love it. It is like something out of a fantasy, and being alone with Agrippa, my stylist, seems to bring out the best side of me, my favorite side. There aren't good people and bad people. There are just people, all with some bit of good inside of them. But there are also some people worth losing so that you can win, or someone who actually deserves it.
"Apollo?" Aleyn asks, cutting his host off as he begins to form another question to pose. "I have to make a confession, and if I don't confess it then I'm going to die either way, whether I win or not, or even if I make it to the Hunger Games or not, and I just have to say it before my time runs out, and I'm getting a bit worried and I feel like I'm not going to do it, so I'm just going to force it out…" he rambles, as the spreading murmurs of the crowd fall silent for a second, and the restart with added fervor in speculation of what he has to say when he doesn't come clean immediately.
I wonder what he is doing. He was the ally that I saw the most of myself in for that brief time before he withdrew, just another quiet, tiny, insecure kid who liked to hide behind the others—namely, Sierra. But I never really saw too much of him to begin with.
"I just—since Scylla said it, and we made a deal to—I have something wrong with me, the doctor said, and it makes me, well, kind of flip flop between two different sides of myself."
"I see, I see. Tell us more."
Apollo puts a profoundly abnormal hand on Aleyn, and I'm filled with intrigue as to what he is talking about.
"The doctors call it Dissociative Identity Disorder. It means that there another personality inside of me, and he takes over sometimes. I'm not making this up, I swear! And I just wanted to own up to it, because people probably think that I'm nuts if they know me back home. Also, I just wanted to apologize to Sierra, I just think I'd be too dangerous to keep around."
The crowd is stunned after the follow-up to whatever the girl from Two said. I was not the most attentive until it was Nerissa's turn.
A harsh red light is waved in my face and I feel a sharp pang in the small of my back as the butt of a rifle slams into it and my elbow is locked in a pinch with an attendant who materializes out of nowhere and drags me limply to the curtain obscuring me from the light of the stage.
In the vapid deadness following Aleyn's speech, the buzzer blares noisily and he scampers out of the sight of the cameras. I let out an audible gasp of air, filled with what Agrippa called stage fright, right as an unseen hand slips a miniscule microphone onto the waist of my dress. I hear my gasp replay much louder over the speakers and cringe in mortification, but there is nothing that I can do as I am being shoved out into the limelight and introduced by Apollo, and I must make the decision in that moment of whether or not to actually do something with myself and put myself out there, like Sierra and Aleyn, or collapse in on myself and just try to make it through the pain.
It dawns on me how truly ravishing and handsome Apollo is as he kisses my hand and butterflies flutter in my stomach and all across my skin amidst the polite applause of the audience. Suddenly, I'm conscious again of the beautiful hair extensions that Agrippa put in today and my swirly brown locks that feel so good to have back again, and of the shimmering dress of pink and yellow that she put me in that makes me feel like a princess, like one of them. I'm beautiful, and Tristan and Dulcie back home must be in awe.
"Wow, my lady, that is quite an ensemble you're wearing tonight!" Apollo says in a chipper, satirically posh and gentlemanly voice, and I am aware that he is trying to give me a niche and pull me away from cute Tessa and Raihan, or sneaky Keeley, or mystical Rhiannon, or timid Coleus or Aleyn. "Care to give us the backstory?" he asks, leaning over and raising an eyebrow.
I laugh, an authentic, genuine laugh that almost feels tangible in the crisp night air, and I can feel the warmth of Sierra and the rest of my allies, wherever they are. This is my night to shine, and I will do my best to make the most of it, despite my reflexes to shy away from all of the light or the adults that poke me and prod me.
"My amazing stylist Agrippa dressed me in it," I say, looking out to find her distinctly hot pink skin out in the crowd, blushing and waving and cheering for me.
In improvisation, I stand up and do a weak-kneed twirl to show it off to the world. I can watch it glisten in and sparkle with the rosy diamonds and silvery lace it is draped in it the night, see the colors transform from the cotton candy that I devoured last night to the lemony yellow of the cake I was served this morning. They applaud again.
"I love it!" I say, louder than I have said anything in possibly weeks, my energy coming out in temperamental bursts.
Apollo makes another prompting comment: "Tabitha, I get the sense that you have a certain love for a specific thing in the Capital. Must I say more?" He is kind, and the perfectly soothing blend of not entirely serious but also gentle.
"No, Apollo. I do love the fashion. Everything about it is just…" I try to think of a word, and for a split second get bowled over by the amount of eyes shining in the darkness pointed at me, before taking my eyes off of the crowd and looking into Apollo's, sea green and shimmering with flecks of gold brought out by his tuxedo, all natural. "spectacular," I finish. "But I love everything about the Capital. The food, the movies, the music, everything."
"Oh, then may I inquire which of our foods best suit your tastes? Which movie is your favorite? Did any particular song stand out to you as especially marvelous?"
Instead of taking a second to ponder, I don't waver, rattling off the first three items that come to my head.
"I love the macarons. Every flavor is just delicious. Mr. Mulberry and the Blueberry Fever is my favorite movie, and Volcano is the best song that I've listened to."
"I personally agree one every one of those selections but the movie. How could you possibly dislike Last Stop Until District Zero, my first starring role?!"
He's lulling me into a rhythmic back-and-forth, and the time is flying by quickly. As I stare into Apollo's eyes, I don't see anything but him, don't hear anything but his voice and my voice. And just like that, my buzzer sounds, and I leave the stage to applause, more than when I started.
"Tabitha, you were incredible!"
Bolt leaps up from an armchair in the corner of the crowded room and rushes to give me a hug. Nerissa trails behind him and follows up with another one.
"I'm jealous," she says. "You've got to go get ready for the Tribute Banquet. The workers take you back that way. Sierra and Raihan aren't out yet."
They take me along the path, and I'm shaking with quiet joy, because even if I didn't stun the crowd with my brilliance and most will probably forget me by tomorrow, some won't. Dulcie and Tristan will not back home, and maybe Mommy too if she is still around to see it. I know Daddy is, up in the stars.
I didn't crumble under the lights and turn into a wall. I actually put in work. Maybe I can change after all.
The doors to the room of stalls open up, and my Prep Team squeals as they embrace me and show me my dress for the Banquet. It's magical, yellow light continuing from the top of my interview dress trailing into a shining gold with silver accents. I'm ready for the Banquet, and I'm going to try and socialize, not shy away from the adults, because that is what matters truly, trying to succeed and trying to make peace even when it is hopeless. I just might win.
So, I promised you all a chapter by the end of my Christmas Break, and I am squeezing this in with only a few hours left, so technically, I've still come through. I'm proud of myself for getting this out in two weeks, since I have not got something with this word count like that since, well, ever, even though I did have roughly three weeks out of school to finish four POVs. With this update, I'm putting up three polls on my profile in tandem, since we are only four chapters out from the bloodbath (I can't believe that!). They are for who you WANT to die in the Bloodbath, who you DON'T WANT to die in the Bloodbath, and who you THINK will die in the Bloodbath. Please answer, because I would love to hear your feedback, and also make your way to the Hunger Games Discord and get pinged for my updates. It really is a lovely community! I'm also soon going to be launching a separate story that will be taking a backseat to this one that I have not come up with a title for yet that will be a death POV from all but one tribute in an unspecified Hunger Games. I'd love it if you check it out when I post it. I think I'll save the first chapter, which I already have written, for in between this update in the next, since I think it won't come out as fast as this one.
If there is anything wrong with Scylla's POV, please notify me, because I forgot my computer when I went to visit my family and had to use another computer to write it out and then email it to myself, and finally copy and paste it into a Word document. Forgive any possible errors.
What did you think about the chapter itself? Scylla prepared herself to make a freeing confession, Elior garnered some confidence, Aquatico wowed the crowd, and Tabitha put some effort into things and hit her stride. What did you think of all of the interviews that we saw this chapter, and what are your predictions for the rest, which we will see next chapter in our long-lost friend, Odysseus's perspective. I love the reviews, and I also my throw out a thank you to Very New to This for giving me twenty-six rapid fire reviews, it means so much! Thank you also to everyone else who reviewed as well. Also, I will soon be updating the reviews, please be patient, I promise it is the first thing I will do before writing the next chapter or reviewing any other stories. Here are the questions:
What interview did you enjoy the most? What POV?
What two colors were Talisa's dress?
I'll see you next time, which is hopefully pretty soon! Remember, review and answer the polls!
-Mills