a/n: Howdy, everybody! Sorry that this took a bit to publish, but I hope you enjoy. We will be hearing from Odysseus again, in his third chapter, and quite a bit has changed since the last time we saw him.
Odysseus Pennyworth, 20, Capital Resident and Head of the Pennyworth Betting Center
I cannot believe that I was complaining about my bedroom only a week ago. It was still precious, even in its barren state after being ravaged for any sort of non-sentimental good to pawn off (using a middle man, of-course, for no one could ever know that the Pennyworths were desperate for money), and even when the only remotely lavish things left in sight were the bed, bedecked in covers of wool and fur in all shades of pristine white, mahogany bedframe still keeping its burnish after all of the time that had passed, and my faithful writing desk. Mother may have even thrown it out by now on one of her alcohol-fueled bouts of furniture purging now that Father's eye for splendor has been permanently buried beneath the ground. I miss it all more than I miss him.
But now, they have stuffed me into a holding cell fit for a raving Avox. The bed is more of a metal board with one meager blanket pockmarked with holes varying from miniscule to bigger than my fist. There is no decoration whatsoever, not even a window, which guides me to believing that I am underground. The farthest that I can stretch from the humiliating toilet in the back corner of the cell is five feet. This is disgusting.
It makes me question why the Capital would stuff me here of all places when imprisoning me for mere questioning for a murder that I obviously did not commit. All of these years, I've always thought that the Capital was the epitome of luxury and benevolence and generosity, even taking into account the Hunger Games—the districts do deserve it, after all—but since Father has died, or maybe even since twenty-four children died last year and the bottom opened up on all of our savings, a much darker underbelly has been exposed. It only now occurs to me the suspiciously miraculous dissipation of those accusations, scorns, and mockeries over the Gamemakers' mistake. How could I be so shortsighted as to not ponder the lack of turmoil the Capital was facing?
I can't stand being in here! They know that I had nothing to do with my father's murder—which sounds impossible in retrospect, seeing as I was the one to find him—but they still are keeping me here. Their smugness is maddening, something I have always been able to cope with until this very moment. I can't take it any longer!
Not fully processing what I am doing, I drive my fist into the gritty wall of cinderblock and cry out in pain as I feel skin being ripped away from my knuckles. Off in the distance, echoing off of the grates, ducts, and thinly paneled doorways, I hear a grim, throaty laugh as I pant. This place is fit for Avoxes. I find my way back to my bed and unbutton the pit-stained, dirtied undershirt from my tuxedo, leaving only the t-shirt underneath and my half-exposed chest glistening with perspiration.
I am dying in here. I was not made for this. All of my life has been spent learning how to put on a pretty smile, charm people, humor people, entertain people, read people, and now they have slammed me into an isolated box with occasional screams of agony and vapid walls of bare stone as my company. I am meant for better things than this. There are others who should be here, not me, not a Capitalite! But why they would deserve to be locked up this way, why anyone from anywhere would deserve to be subjected to a torture as bad as this, compounded with being ripped from your home and having your tongue stolen from you? But no. They earn their punishment. They are enemies of the state. But what kind of state puts its innocent, loyal followers in repugnant chambers of dehumanization such as these?
"I can hear you," I say to nobody in particular, to the vague number of voices jeering and emanating waves of pompous pleasure at my expense. My voices cracks on the highest note, giving way to barely concealed hysteria. I get no response.
I cannot, in fact, hear them anymore, but I know that they are there, and I need someone to talk to. I miss Penny, Calypsia, and Andromeda, and even fucking Mother, too, wherever she is, whether it be in a booze-fueled haze or booking it back to District One. I need someone, something, or I will go insane. Maybe I already have, as I am speaking to Avoxes that I cannot even see. All of this is making me realize how pampered my life has been up until this point. It was something that I knew and something that I took pride in, but now I truly, fully comprehend the downside.
Why did Father have to go and get himself murdered? I never cared for him beyond a certain point—he was far too hostile and abrasive to be bearable for long periods of time—but it was nice not having the responsibility of running one of the most important businesses in all of Panem on my shoulders, at least. Andromeda will be running it now far better than I could, anyway. The woman, Vipsania Rhodesia, who interviewed me from the other side of the plexiglass wall seemed quite amused and empowered at having her guest be escorted from a jail cell, excited at being given the newest, biggest catch. I told her everything that happened—watching the Recaps, Penny hearing voices, and finding him shot dead—but she took everything with a mere click of the tongue and shake of the head, as if everything that I said was condemning me further.
"And do you happen to know to whose gun the ballistics report matched?" she asks, pursing her mauve lips and sticking her artificially upturned nose to the glass in a sickly, sweet simper.
"No," I say flatly and honestly.
"It was yours, hun." An Avox scribbles down her words at light speed.
"That's impossible! I don't have a gun! I don't have a gun! I've never touched a goddamn gun in my life!"
It is the truth. I rise up from my iron chair for an instant before being slammed chin first into the desk by the Peacekeeper.
"Not so fast, buster. Madam, please allow us a moment to get our captive reoriented."
"Oh, please don't bother for my sake," Vipsania says, laughing coyly and placing a hand to her breast. "It's a real shame we had to end our chat with on such fraught terms, Mr. Pennyworth. Alas, aurevoir!"
She stands up and skips merrily out of the Detainment Center, heels clicking on the ground as her cherry red pantsuit, pungent perfume of blood and acidic fruit radiating off of it, gets smaller and smaller as she leaves down the hall. She ends the interview with a bang, with something to write about.
This is so convoluted and twisted, and the reality of the statement is only dawning on me now. If there is one thing that I am good at, it is reading people—for instance, the phony, erratic secretary to the Head Gamemaker, or Cordelia, my only true friend in times like these, who seems more jaded and sympathetic than anything else, so much so that she is just a friend by default. I know what they are planning. They want to set me up. But I didn't do it! Dozens of eyewitnesses can prove it! I didn't do it!
I release a scream of a grunt and my nails dig into my bed, scraping against the thinly layered bedsheet and lightweight but inflexible metal, and the question of whether or not my thoughts have been entirely contained in my own head occurs to me. I quickly go quiet and hear the heavy and judgmental breathing of mouths incapable of speaking on all side of me. This is wrong. All my life, Mother, Father, Granddaddy, and Grandmommy sculpted me to be flawlessly cordial, a striking, dapper gentleman who never loses his manners and knows exactly what to say at exactly the right time. I am further away than I have ever been from that man, from that boy, even further away than before I would walk and talk. They taught me how to observe with just the right amount of stoniness, of bravado, of detachment, and now, I feel anything but detached. Now I am the think that they told me to smirk at while the others gawked. This is pure misery.
There is something about this place that makes me feel distinctly… un-Capital. Like a mangy district citizen. Like a circus animal. But they can't tear that inalienable sense from my arms. No. Yes, they can. They already have. And now, there is nothing separating me from all of the servants that none of us ever spare a glance at anymore except the possession of a tongue, nothing separating me from the thousands of children sent to their deaths but a point on a map. Was that all that there ever was?
"No," I mumble to myself in denial, because that cannot be true. "No, no!" I squeak out. I feel a tear drip across my cheek and picture a line of white amongst a newly haggard face caked with dirt and grime.
A voluminous creak, so unlike anything I have ever heard in any building that I have ever set foot in, pierces through the air, like the door of a decrepit, dilapidated house that would never have any place in the Capital, in my Capital, but I am not there anymore. A light shines through the growing crack in the doorway, which reveals a Peacekeeper flanked by another, and, in between them, standing imperiously, Viola Velveteen.
I have only met her once before, but her manically focused eyes, a snake-like green, and thin, calculating face are concrete in my brain from our less-than-pleasant interaction only days ago. Other than that, she looks completely different, dressed in an odd, snug top that clings to her skin and exposes one arm and shoulders with matching pants, all in various shades of red and complete with randomly places frills and beads that make her look like a tree of sorts. All except for her veneer, one of greedy, egotistical pleasure that says, "I know more than you".
"No?" she asks, giggling and making it painfully evident that she overheard my crazed mutterings. "I think you mean yes. Yes, you are being treated out, that is."
Her words linger in the air as she smiles lecherously, bringing steam to my ears. "Treated out" my ass. Who does she think that she is, walking around as if she is queen of the world and exacting her self-ordained supremeness over everyone after mere days of being relevant in any way?!
"Oh, Dissy, I thought that you would enjoy that," she says, pouting. "After all, you have been locked up in there for twenty-four hours. It must have been horrible." She oozes of false pity.
How dare she call me Dissy, the name that only my sisters use? How does she even know about that?
"The president sent for you, so you're getting some time off, and we decided to let you have a last little day of fun and watch the Interviews! Check in with the family a bit, if they turn up." Viola peppers her sentences with passive remarks of pity and sympathy, twisting them into thinly veiled conceitedness.
I stand up without speaking or looking her in the eye, for it would not be of any use anymore, and shuffle my way past her and out of the cell.
"Well, aren't you going to say something?" she prods, feigning being appalled at my uncouthness. I am only now aware of my disheveled, sweaty, repugnant state. "We are giving you an opportunity to plead your case."
She dangles the words over me like the reign master of a carriage holding a carrot over a District Ten donkey, implying somehow that if I don't prove myself now to the president of the fucking country himself, which seems impossible considering the multiple interrogations and interviews they have put me through, I will be sentenced to a life as an Avox. I know what she wants me to say. And to say it, I will be reverting back to those old weeks spent watching emotionlessly as children die and drunken fools make asses out of themselves at the bar. But at the same time, I will be losing it all, losing every ounce of self-worth that I once had.
"Thank you."
Viola does not acknowledge it, only sticking her chin high in the air as she grabs my wrist quite daringly for someone who, as far as she knows, is leading a serial killer.
"It will just be a quick ride over to the Presidential Mansion, and then you and President Nero will have a little chat. It really does have such a gorgeous interior. You'll see once you've been inside. But first, we've arranged for you to be able to watch the interviews." She checks her watch. "It is five fifty-two right now, but we've allotted you the three hours of the Interview to view it with your family. The Head of the Pennyworth Betting Center has to do his job, after all, doesn't he?"
Viola twists around as the hallway widens and Peacekeepers distance themselves from us, giving me a smirk of a smile that she must assume is flattery to accompany her daunting reminder that I am, indeed, head of the betting center now. She must think that she is some sort of smooth temptress beginning a meteoric rise through society. I know who her parents are, hideous fashion designers who always seem to be at the front end of the boldest and gaudiest trends that somehow also seem to be the most short-lived. And I know who she is, too. I can peer right through her façade, and when I do, I see an overconfident novice at business and social interaction with delusional goals who enjoys exploiting her unrightful superiority over others.
"Thank you for telling me." The words come naturally, a gracious supplication that I have said in different forms a thousand times, and yet this time it tastes sour in my mouth.
Viola shows me through the hallways, retracing the steps I took a day ago when my arms were shoved behind my back and my feet were hardly touching the ground for the amount of pushing being down by the ruthless Peacekeepers behind me. I can still hear the quiet moaning coming from rooms all around us, and it is chills me to the bone. The hallway is eerie, a blinding, ghostly white that lacks the pristine look of everything else. This is the true backside of the Capital, the falling apart rear of the one-sided skene hoisted up onstage to show the rest of Panem.
Finally, we arrive at an elevator that smoothly lifts us up to the lobby, where my family waits on the circular sofa amidst a bustling crowd of business officials, all dressed to their everyday nines as they gather food and form groups around the stretch of lounge chairs and tables. Again, I am aware of how I look. In a quick effort to make myself more presentable before they see me, I brush my hair to the right, the sweat slicking it back making it much easier, and feel for my suitcoat before remembering its waiting place back in the cell, smacking myself in the forehead with the palm of my hand, and hastily buttoning up the top of my dress shirt. They should not be seeing me like this, and yet they are, watching me with the concerned yet relieved eyes of a family, because—well, that is what we are. But I don't want to see them, to be laid at their feet in some horribly, mangy, indigent state and pretend like everything in all cherries and roses, or to feel that dreadful sense of obligation to ask how things are going at the betting center, how much money we are pulling in. Because money is still a worrying matter at hand, money could run us out of business, and whether or not it does or does not is out of our hands, in the hands of the tributes' entertainment value and the meaty, red-haired fists of President Nero.
This whole day has been torturous! I just want to go home, to go back so far in time to the blissful period of ignorance in which I could lie in my opulent four-poster in my room full of splendor, or do a day's work of writing while Father handled the money arrangements down below, or even further back to that flash in the pan of when my sisters and I would play, sprint through the halls in emptiness or thoroughfare, or pick berries together in Grandmommy's garden. But I can't. I have to face this all: my family, my new job, and my imminent conviction. And the boy—the man—who accomplishes all of that will never be a spoiled brat like I was, and like I still am.
"Dissy!" Penny squeals as she tiptoes clunkily on her heels to meet me and hug me around my middle. I hug her back, and she does not seem to care at all that I am a disheveled mess, like most of the spectators around us.
"We were worried about you," Mother says, rising without a waver in her voice or posture and giving me a pat on the back. There is not a hint of sherry rising off of her tongue.
"I'm managing," I say dishonestly, Penny shifting me closer to her by tugging on my moist shirt until we are so near each other that if we don't embrace, it will be awkward.
But Mother seems truly concerned about me, worried about me and not herself, but almost… freed at the same time, something that must have fully blossomed after I was taken into custody and she shrugged off the lasting effects of her final, residual hangover after Father died. Maybe him being in the dirt is why I don't smell the pungent, bittery grape flavor of fermented wine from the old world heating off of her tongue, or maybe she decided to be sober for a day in my presence. Either is fine by me. As my sweaty torso and her bony one touch as we sandwich Penny in between and Calypsia and Andromeda crowd in on the sides, the thought arouses of her being the one to polish Father off. She could have feigned her drunkenness, and nobody would have given her a second glance. But I don't care.
If I have to fall on my own sword, however unjustly sharpened it may be, it might just be worth it, I think. The picture floods the backs of my eyelids of Mother and my sisters lounging in the caboose of a glass train bound for District One, of her platinum blonde hair rippling in the wind like the one picture of her golden days I have ever seen, sentimentally stashed on her bedside table and with her looking happier than I have ever seen her in person.
"Oh, Dissy, we missed you so much!" Penny gushes, pressing herself into my torso.
"It's true, we did miss you," Calypsia says, almost solemnly, hair newly bleached white and giving her a pale, ethereal look.
"We did," Andromeda, who is dressed nicely in business attire that fits her browning hair, agrees.
Ironically, the five of us lapse into silence, a quartet of siblings, albeit mostly distant ones, who had their people skills honed from the time that they could walk onwards, and their mother. But this has already met my normal daily quota for dialogue with anyone here but Penelope. And yet, there is some sort of magnetism that is pulling me closer and closer to them, tearing away my countenance of civility even further than it has already been yanked away, and soon there will be nothing else of it left. I try to pull myself together, breaking the group hug to indiscreetly wipe my eyes. They see, I am certain that they do, but none of them mention it.
"Is the money still coming in?" I ask to break the ice.
It is funny that now, in such dire times, the idea of staying afloat money-wise has taken such a backseat. But even if I'm not sentenced to death, we may still go under, and that would be close to the same thing. I picture vividly in my mind the shunning, the construction of a new building or maybe signing the final leasing papers to sell the building, of living in some horrendous, low-rent apartment on the South End. And yet, I am detached from it somehow. It seems more or less irrelevant.
"It's as good as since you—uh—left," Andromeda says, smiling sweetly, encouragingly, as she sits back down and makes a new place for me in between herself and Penny to my left. "The crop of tributes this year are intriguing; they're bringing in a bunch of people, especially because of the weird career situation. It's been… odd, trying to run it all without you or Father to help, but we're managing. Some of friends of mine and Calypsia's are helping."
It goes unspoken that most of them have ditched my sisters when they needed them the most. I question if any school acquaintance who I was still in contact with, like Glorian, or Phaedra, or Leviticus, would make any attempt to extend a helping hand towards me or simply stare on in pity, or disgust, or with a zealous appetite for entertainment. The thought makes me squirm, because I know the answers: No, yes, yes, and yes.
The last update that I saw from the comfort of my own house, or whatever little comfort it actually provides, was the scores, and I only snatched a glimpse at the dizzying numbers of the odds spinning in their slots as the digits appeared on screen. I knew them all before they were announced.
Cornelius had seemed a bit harried as he handed me the scores. He didn't offer me any sort of condolences or sympathy, but that was Cornelius in his purest form. He didn't linger either, an abnormality, and he muttered to himself, skulking and shielding his face in the shadows of night cast upon him by the streetlights on the front door of the Pennyworth Betting Center. There was nothing for us to hide expect for the admittedly manipulated contents of that sheet, but that was none of my business, only done to augment interest in betting and increase viewership and enthusiasm at the placing of bets on a children's deathmatch.
There is a photo circulating around of Cornelius passing the paper off, a finely laminated sheet of Head Gamemaker Obsidian's only mostly legible cursive, that chills me to the bone. There were no cameras or drones out that night. But they were still watching us. They always seem to know what we are doing. I am beginning to suspect there is a simple reason for that.
And then they found Cornelius Avery's muscular body dead in a dusky alley on the outskirts of the Business Sector with a lethal dose of cyanide injected into his neck an hour later with the footage mysteriously nonexistent, just like the footage of me sneaking off from my dwelling to jump Cornelius in some dark crevice, inject him with a poisonous syringe, and scamper back home.
"Great," I say, for lack of anything better.
"Things are looking up," Calypsia adds. "I mean, looking up since getting over Father."
"Are you doing okay?" Penny asks, tugging on my arm. "They are being nice to you, aren't they?"
Everyone but she surveys me up and down and do not need an answer.
"Yes, they've been treating me alright. Good, for a criminal, but I'm not one. You get used to fancy food, but that's all that has changed." That is a bald-faced lie, and Mother, Calypsia, and Andromeda know it. But there is a profound sort of dignity and pride gained from lying about one's wellbeing for the purpose of sparing the one that they are deceiving from worry as opposed to exacerbating one's misfortune.
"I'm getting interviewed after this," I say. "And maybe after all, I'll be let out. You all know not to listen to what they say in the papers and on television."
"After all of the shit they've said about us in the past, of-course we do," Andromeda chuckles.
"Hush, they could hear us," Calypsia whispers.
They already have heard us, but it is of no use to wipe away their blissful ignorance for the time being, and I am reaching the point now where I don't care what others hear me say, or what they say about me. My family is a different matter. But still, all of the cumulative days spent stressing over things like what to wear or the gossip of the day seem pointless now. I want to get away from it all, from the excited murmurs of fabricated truths and twisted lies and cackles at other's expense, not to back in time where everything was a perpetual reprieve, but to some faraway existence, unhampered by anyone and with only my family to keep me company. That would be nice. But that is never going to happen, so I might as well try and get my shit together
"What are you guys talking about?" Penny asks, innocent and unaware.
"Nothing that concerns you, sweetheart," Mother says, patting her golden blonde curls in a clunky but still soothing manner.
All around us, the frantic murmurs and speculations come to a head as the one-minute countdown nears its end as Apollo Vanahara speaks onscreen with the timer in the bottom right corner.
They say Apollo Vanahara asked for the scores before Cornelius gave them to me—at least, that is what the reporter told me in preparation draw out some question destined to have its answer artfully misconstrued. He is smart, and suave, smarter and more suave than me. And he is an anomaly beyond that. He was nice on that day spent in the imposing halls of black stone, but it was amicability with no substance, not like jaded old Cordelia, who is anything but inauthentic. And he ratted me out. And now he prances along the stage making jokes left and right, the Capital's new darling golden boy. I don't know if I despise him because he is a better version of me or because he is their version. Did I used to be both, under Father's grooming eye?
"We're getting along without you or Father, but it's been tough," Andromeda remarks. "I thought I knew more about what I was doing, but it seems like you guys were doing most of the heavy lifting," she jokes.
She was always, from the moment that Father led me behind the register or showed me into the control room, far and away more interested in running the Betting Center than I ever was. There was a hunger in her that the rest of us always lacked, and it manifests now in her aggrieved tone. God, he was such a bastard, parading her around wearing nothing but strategically glued hair extensions and a skin-colored-thong. But he is gone now, and I should be free.
"You've always been better at this kind of thing than the rest of us," Mother whispers to me, hot breath steaming on my ear in a way that seems foreign. "Reading the tributes, getting into their inner psyches, and all of that fun stuff."
She brings up a good point. I can sense that they are pressing me for my analysis, and it is coming, for the desperate purpose of at least making them sound like they have something to talk about, an edge of credibility, after surely being photographed sitting with their murderer brother (or son). And even if I'm starting to care less and less about my image, you can never fully take that Capitalite touch of vanity and saving face out of anyone's personality, and my family's reputation is still at stake. So, I will suck it up for them.
"I might as well do my best to pick their brains, then," I say.
"I brought a notebook," Andromeda says, ever prepared. She retrieves a black, leather-bound ledger from her purse and places it on her leg to write.
The first tribute to be introduced is the girl from District One, Turquesa. Her countenance is only minimally less guarded than it was at the Reapings, but she, nonetheless, pulls off looking formidable in her raven black dress and her inexorably present matching combat boots.
"Turquesa," Apollo begins, extending a warm and flashy invisible hand to her, "you look stunning! Quite the unconventional career, already!"
"Apollo, I think you know that I am anything but conventional."
The crowd coos in intrigue. Even in her begrudging manner, Turquesa manages to hold the audience's attention. Perhaps it is just her luck of being the first interview of the night.
"And, don't call me a career, because I'm not. Aquatico, Mystic, and I are perfectly happy as the three of us, and I will spare you all the small talk. The careers won't know what hit them."
Apollo questions her on her alliance, and Turquesa talks in length about Aquatico:
"He's like that annoying little brother that you can't get away from, always up to something, but still funny. He's a good dancer, too, so be prepared. I'll let him talk me up in his own interview."
Turquesa's demeanor begins to open up by the tail end of her interview, but it proceeds in largely the same way.
"She's one to watch," I mention, stating the obvious. "There a deep-rooted defiance within her, an intense resistance…spite? She will probably be the center of some drama in the arena, so I would suggest raising her stock."
There is something in Turquesa Miracelest that pulls me in. A sort of prideful resistance. The name Miracelest conjures up an image of a lavish family manor inherited for generations, of rooms full of ornate glass mirrors and pricey, painstakingly crafted paintings, jewels, and upholstery. But she gives off the sense of being frugal, rebellious, bold, and somehow… relatable?
Her partner, Marvel Silver, lacks that sort of star quality, but he is nevertheless charming in his silvery, bejeweled tuxedo. Much of his entire is spent talking about the Capital: the delectable foods, handy bathroom amenities, sumptuous interior design, and the likes. There is just something missing. There is no substance to it, not like the genuine display of disgruntled formidability that came on right before him.
"He's putting on his charm, for the cameras," I observe. "He will probably be the most forgettable career this year."
"Got it." Andromeda scribbles into the notebook, and I look down to see a growing line of bullets points. She is trying, and, in the dire nature of our situation when compounded with monetary duress, it is something, at least.
"Now, Marvel, I understand that you have a strong motivation to win. Can you tell us what that is?"
The tribute loses his composure for just a moment, but for that moments, he darkens, scoffs, blanches. And then his toothy grin submerges once more.
"Well, my brother was killed five years ago. Some of you must remember him. Lux Silver? Yes. And ever since them, I've put my heart and soul into training, because I want to compete so badly. I want to avenge him."
The crowd cheers, and this moment feels closer to Marvel Silver's inner core.
"He isn't pretending about that. I would say he may be understating his vengefulness. Otherwise, why would he ever be chosen?"
Scylla, the girl from Two, is out next, and does not cut an imposing frame, shaking in the black, long-sleeved, and high-collared dress (on which there are multiple scuff marks near the knees) she has been given. She directs her gaze not at the audience, but at Apollo Vanahara, and her eyes stare unmovably at him.
"Welcome, Scylla, welcome!" Apollo jests. "Let's all give a round of applause for Scylla!"
If the tsunami of applause that crashes over Scylla was meant to be comforting, then he failed. She looks even more rattled, but steels herself.
"I can see why she made an eight. She doesn't seem to be the most confident," I comment to the sound of a pen raking across paper.
Apollo begins to form a question, but Scylla cuts him off.
"I'm sorry, Apollo, but I have to say something," she stutters. She continues when he nods, taking long pauses in between every few words. "I don't really have any family back home, not anymore, and so I've just kind of locked myself into a shell, a shell of my former self. I think you all may have noticed I can be a little timid at times. And so, I didn't volunteer for my family… I volunteered for myself. The doctor told me today that I have schizophrenia. For any of you who don't know, it's a mental condition that causes you to have mood swings and hear voices, at least in my case. I know that this may make me seem weak to some of you. But I promise that I will fight my hardest to overcome my—my demons, and… and…"
The crowd is silent, in shock and sympathy. A camera does a quick panorama around the colossal audience. Some expressions of pity look insincere, but the camera zeroes in on one woman in particular, cloaked and dressed in white fur around coffee brown skin, whose glittering tears catch the white of the spotlight.
"… and I hope that, maybe, I could inspire some of you."
"Some people will write her off as weak and emotional, but don't count her out for her mental illness. Make it seem like she has less of a chance than she does. That way we can use her as one of the narratives."
There is a courage and drive in this girl than I cannot write off, despite her tremulousness. She'll likely be the first career to go, but Cornelius did suggest lowering her score by a point or two. She might just surprise some people.
The interview is closed out with Scylla talking about her district partner; more specifically, how nice he is, which seems quite incongruous with both his angle and the whole idea of careers in the first place, but he takes the stage soon enough.
Arlo Maddox's interview isn't a surprise.
"I don't know how good he'll actually do in the arena, but there seems to be a lot of hype around him," I comment. "Spread the word around that he may crumble. Trying and give him some nuance, that will set him apart more than just being a scary son of a Victor."
"Oh, he does have some nuance," Calypsia opines fancifully.
"What is nuance?" Penny interjects.
"Emotional layers," Andromeda answers. "Can't you see it behind those pained, emerald green eyes."
At least my sisters can find something to take their minds off of our shared stress.
The aforementioned eyes do smolder quite oppressively, and his golden blonde curls seem to blow in a wind conjured up just for his benefit, but there is something in his square jaw and the pronounced, arcing peaks of his shoulder muscles through his tuxedo that make Arlo Maddox menacing.
"My father tried me from a young age to do one thing: kill," Arlo says, almost to prove my point. "Hours in the gym every day, hours after that in the basement training with different weapons."
His statements are open-ended, without the volume or confirmation that comes with praise, or with boastfulness, just statements. His physique makes up for it in spades, though.
Next up is the girl from Three, Nerissa Doppler, one that captured my curiosity, if for only a moment, before my focus shifted from the television screen to the opaque, gray wall of a jail cell. There is something in her eyes that is enticing, a vivid excitement and look of joyous immersion in her surrounding, almost manic.
"She scored an eight and volunteered. We're bound to get something good here," I say.
We do.
Nerissa struts onto stage in a black-and-white checkered dress that shimmers like a roll of the old film in historical fiction movies as she walks. She takes the initiative, introducing herself and then constructing a pleasant rapport with Apollo.
"Now, Nerissa, I understand that you have some old roots close to home. Can you elaborate?"
"Well, you see, my father was a director here before he moved to Three." The few in the crowd who haven't heard gasp in excitement.
"Nothing too fancy," she continues, "just a solitary sitcom, but I have bigger ambitions."
"An actress, eh?"
"No, I want to be the creative eye behind the camera. I've already sent in a short picture. It's called Death of a Rose, and it was critically acclaimed. But that's only the first."
The focus of the interview shifts to Nerissa's alliance, and she insists that she adores all of her friends (the word comes out with excessive emphasis), and devotes a brief twenty seconds to her partner, Bolt, in particular. Lastly, Apollo crams in a question about her score, but she leaves it a mystery, eyes somehow perfectly finding the lens of the camera and merely winking. She leaves to a tumultuous round of applause.
"She'll be the outlier favorite," I mention.
"I wish I had her confidence," Calypsia jokes, a feeble attempt at some humorous distraction that only brings me further back down to earth. We have a show to watch, and our staying afloat may depend on how good of attention I pay to it.
Bolt Dattery seems excitable, if anything, a trait only accentuated by the blaring yellow tuxedo he is stuffed in. Especially when matched up against Apollo's tall, manly frame, he looks like a boy, yet there is a fixed concentration of energy in him that is apparent.
He spends most of the interview talking about everyone but himself: his younger sister, his brother, his niece, his parents, his friends and his allies (the latter two of which he fuses together). It is apparent that he is very frugal, the epitome of abnegation. He throws in that he is a genius, that he likes to dote on his infantile niece, to take care of his autistic little sister, twelve-years-old, and all at once, I feel an overwhelming revulsion. What am I doing? Banking on the entertaining personalities of a bunch of children my age, one of whom I could easily have been in another world, for my own pecuniary profit?! I picture myself in his shoes, playing tag or dress up or some silly game like that with Penelope, and I feel myself shaking in my boots. Why did it take this long for me to realize? Why did I have to be thrown into a prison cell and watch my father die and my family suffer?
"Dissy, are you doing okay?" Penny asks.
"Yes," I answer hurriedly, startled. "Fine. Just nervous."
"Me too, but I'm seems to be coming along fairly well, much better than last year already," Andromeda uplifts.
Talisa Rowland is much the same as Nerissa in her dazzling persona. She conducts the stage in a similar war, and launches right into storytelling, talking of how she was trained from a very young age and making a few genuinely funny jokes about her friends and Father trying to teach her survival skills by going camping. There is something about her that is truly radiant, in the way he smiles lights the stage on fire or her stormy blue dress shimmers with linings of red and rubies.
"No Mother at home?" Apollo inquires.
"No. My mother, she passed away when I was a girl. She died in childbirth, and my little brother never made it out of the womb. And that's one of the reasons that I want to win. For people like my brother who never got the chance at life. I want to be a beacon; I want to help."
"What are some ways that you would philanthropize your district if you did become Victor?"
"Well, my father is the boss of an important fishing company, so we're pretty well-off, but we like to donate food to the needy. I've worked at a good many soup kitchens and homeless shelters in my time, so don't think I'm some prissy princess who will squeal at the first sight of dirt or blood."
Blood. That is what this girl volunteered to spill. Blood of innocents, just like the people she claims that she is fighting to support. She may not realize her own hypocrisy. I can see in her eyes that she believes that she is righteous, and maybe she is deep down, under the rhetoric etched into her brain in permanent ink. Cordelia is.
What am I saying? Blood? Innocents? Rhetoric? Am I a victim of the rebel propaganda now? What would Mother or Grandfather or Grandmother say if they knew? No. I am right, because there is no way any just government could imprison a boy for a string of murders he obviously didn't commit without trial or send twenty-three children off to the slaughterhouse.
The boy from Four, Aquatico Espovera, is a nice break from thinking mutinously. His personality is contagious, constantly laughing, and dancing, and wisecracking, and flirting with anything that he lays his eyes on.
He leads off with a memory of Turquesa besting him in a fight after minutes of him taunting her and throwing insults at her—which he reenacts in a way funny enough to bring a smile even to my face—before she swept his leg and placed her own proudly on top of his chest. Aquatico is a natural born storyteller, and he easily wraps the audience around his finger, but there is something bitter in his laugh and in the way that he plays up his allies, Turquesa and Mystic, two girls much more outspoken in their rebellious sentiment than he is. He weaponizes his grudge when he speaks of Imperia Crimson, the scariest tribute of the year. Aquatico Espovera knows what he is doing: telling one big narrative. He is one to watch out for, in the arena and out. I like him.
"Both of the Fours are big hits. Prepare for big amounts of bets on both of them, so you should probably raise their stock, and don't call Aquatico's group that connotates rebellion, more so mischief," I suggest.
I feel sympathy for the girl from Five, who carries a much more modest, reserved energy, but she exceeds my expectations, sashaying into view in a denim jumper and tank top that can only be described as cute and chic. Her interview starts of unusually, with an open-ended prompt from Apollo, and she carries it into speaking about her family.
"Now tell me, Konani, who was it that ran to hug you in that touching moment after you were Reaped?" Apollo lays into the word touching, stressing it, which seems unfitting for someone who is supposed to not comprehend the utter finality and tragedy of her goodbye.
Konani goes on about her brother, and about other members of her family. She has surprised me with her ease onstage, but I get the sense there is more to come, even without the "anonymous" hints father would sneak out of his pocket to peruse when nobody was watching. It soon arrives:
"But, Konani, I understand you aren't just close with your family. Is that right?"
Konani reclines in her lounge chair coyly, giggling, and shakes her head. She likes the boy from Five, Elior, and he seems to return her feelings. She blushes and covers her tanned cheeks, but I get the sense from the magenta blush of her partner, poised for his turn, is a sign that the relationship is, at minimum, one-sided. Konani seems like a smart girl, but know, almost for certain, that her reticently coquettish laughter is true to her heart or not. Nobody looks at another the way that she does as she leaves to impressive applause if they have not fallen for them. I hope, for both of their sakes, that it does not implode to painfully.
"Oh, it's so romantic, isn't it?" Penny gushes.
"Penny, you're a sucker," Calypsia says, snickering and patting her golden curls.
"Are you denying that it is romantic?" I ask her, quelling the laughter. I feel guilty but continue. "Let's see if the boy can carry the torch. If he can or not, market them as one and try and appeal to the old ladies."
"Hey," Mother blurts out, a soft attempt at humor, and I chuckle. She's coming out of her shell more than I can ever remember her doing already. Maybe she can find some true romance herself, now.
Elior Gobel looks like a leaf in autumn, flushing a vivid red and quivering as if he is hanging on by a stem to a tree branch amidst a beating wind, most definitely the jumpiest of any tribute so far, but he quickly stabilizes himself. He deflects any question of his romance with Konani at first, and I facepalm, because it is painfully apparent that Apollo is trying to help him by constructing a narrative—which assists us in the process.
"I guess I'll just cut to the chase, then," Elior begins after much prompting, sweat catching the rays of the revealing lights above. "Konani is just really 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 that she's amazing. And…"
But, alas, Elior drops the ball and flees to the safety of talking about his score. It's a stable topic, for sure, and he utilizes it decently by promising to protect Konani—he even gives a touching finale to his speech on him having no family and all but professing his love to her—but if he is not one thing, it is charismatic. He tried, at least, and the crowd is bound to take note of that. His affection towards his partner also seem quite genuine, almost boyishly innocent.
"Just try and make the best out of that that you can," I order my family (I shouldn't be ordering them around. That feels so wrong.) "Konani will be carrying most of the weight in the relationship, but Elior is more memorable, though not entirely for desirable reasons."
Keeley Axel is a different story: calm, cool, and collected, strutting to her seat in a way eighteen-year-olds couldn't pull off, proud and slinking, like a lynx, mysterious in a disturbingly sexual way in her off-the-shoulder tank top and midnight black hair done in a artfully messy bun. She shouldn't be acting this way. This is wrong, the same type of thing that Father would do to my sisters, forcing them into revealing togas, or sometimes nothing at all but scantily glued hair to the most private of places. It is nauseating. Andromeda and Calyspia grimace to my right and swallow their tongues and their words of dissent. Penny watches on, wide-eyed and envious.
And yet, Keeley seems to be using it to her advantage.
"So, Keeley, can you clue us in on some of your strengths?" Apollo asks stiffly, clearly hesitant about leaning in too unacceptably to the point of being taboo.
"You'll just have to wait, but I will say that they are a bit… unconventional."
"Do you think she'll succeed with what she's trying at?" Calyspia asks resentfully.
"I hope not," Andromeda answers, admonishing and indignant.
"What are you saying? That you hope that she dies?" I ask incredulously.
Mother shifts uncomfortably in her seat and scans the room for cameras and press as Penny lets out a squeak of fear.
"It's her or somebody who wins by noble means," Andromeda spits out.
"You mean like murder?"
Nobody says anything, so the applause that Keeley gets as she walks off mystically is ever so much louder. None of them argue with me. They are all beginning to understand.
Carroll Heinback is a stark contrast to his partner, but in a pleasing way. At first, when he comes out, he does a clown routine, juggling, dancing, squeaking a red nose given to him as a prop, and conjuring up hysterics from the crowd.
"I was a jester in hospitals, back in District Six," Carroll says, an instant depressant to the mood. "It was an incredible experience, being able to make so many new friends and cheer people up every day, but, it's… it isn't easy watching them suffer and pass away, you know? I have to mention my favorite patient, Daisy. She's eight and an absolute joy. Now that I've been Reaped, all that I can think of is bringing back the money for all of them."
Handkerchiefs are blown and used to dab at eyes and cheeks, and there is a general feint and/or true display of sadness.
"Speaking of being Reaped—"
"Oh, I know what you're going to ask!" Carroll snaps, playfully irked. "Yes, Keeley did toughen me up some. I won't be blubbering when the times comes to enter the Hunger Games. We make a nice pair. She whips me into shape, and I keep her from getting into too much trouble."
Carroll's exodus is followed by a mountain of clapping, one of the best send-offs yet.
"Those two will get more bets than they deserve with those scores. Try and play up their contrasts as an alliance. He is one of the ones to beat," I observe.
"There are a lot of those this year," says Andromeda.
There is not much to be surprised about with the next female, Tessa Oakhart. She prances into the limelight in a poufy, faint white dress, matched by the precariously placed white bow contrasting with her black curls. She looks like she is floating on a cloud. She looks like anything but a killer. She looks like a little girl.
"My, Tessa, don't you look splendid this evening!" marvels Apollo. "Can we see a twirl?"
The little girl giggles and spin, the bottom of her dress given a poof in the motion and flying up to complete the cloud aesthetic. What do they want the takeaway to be? A little girl with a cute dress who spends much of her interview languishing in her materialistic fancies, who doesn't stand a chance and only exists for the purpose of making doting yet unfeeling Capitolites go "aww"?
"Nobody will be putting money on her?" I declare.
"Why not?" Penelope asks innocently, a hand to her chest in offense.
"Penny, would you bet on her to win against the boy from Two," Andromeda asks gently.
"Do you think I could win?" she asks.
A wave of disgusting, horrific realization passes over all of us, the thought of Penny in this girl's place, thrust onto a pedestal for the whole nation to see and then dumped into a fighting ring to kill or be killed—murder or be murdered.
"I like to be sneaky," the girl says, throwing out a wink. "I'm fast, and I'm good at hiding. And I just tried ice cream yesterday, and I cannot bear the thought of never having it again!"
Nobody answers Penny's questions as a ripple of delighted laughter passes over the room but skips over us, the desecrated Pennyworths, lurking in the back and trying to hide.
"My whole family was gone by the time that I was seven years old—my older brother died in the Hunger Games five years ago, and my parents…" her eyes well up with tears, and I desperately hope that she doesn't start to cry. She can't lose what she had now!
Tessa mumbles out a few unintelligible words and continues on as if nothing happened:
"And then I was out on the streets, and I had to provide for myself! But I forged myself some connections, and I've got Rowan to help me now, and he is like a second T.J., so that's wonderful!"
She exits with a twirl, and Penny scoots further onto the edge of our couch as she watches her go, pink leather crinkling audibly as she grips the precipice. How could I have watched so many little girls die with such lack of care when my own little sister, even more precious, is invulnerable beside me.
"Now, let's welcome the man we were just talking about, Rowan Hunter!"
The amount of charismatic tributes this year should be astounding. This boy has a certain charm, a certain flair, about the rigid yet relaxed way that he moves, exemplified by his unnecessary finger guns and flexing. His muscle bulges visibly through his gaudy blue and red suit.
"Rowan!" Apollo greets.
"Hunter, you mean!" the boy mimics. "That privilege only belongs to Tessa and Lindsay."
"Oh, I see, I see," Apollo says, showing a feint of anguish.
Hunter cuts him out smoothly:
"Don't mention the suit. I wanted my personality come out, and, as you can tell, I am a quite kind of guy who likes to spend his spare time in a cozy bed reading."
He is a hit, and he makes joke after joke after joke, even when he talks about his partner.
"Tessa is like the little sister I never had. We can bust up on each other, but if anybody messes with her, it's hasta la vista for you." He draws a line across his throat and points out warningly at the audience, who laugh and applaud his bravery. "She's going to make it home," he announces. "The rest of you guys better watch out." He jabs a thumb backstage to where the tributes exit, and his interview finishes not long after.
I look down at penny to my left, virtuous, pure, and petite, and imagine us together in the Hunger Games. Would I protect her? There was a pair of twins from District One four years ago. They got cornered by mutts at the final eight, and the boy shoved the girl off of their island and to the crocodiles circling them. I only cared for the ratings.
My past self nauseates me.
Mystic looks, in a word, beguiling, dominating the world for a flash as she makes an entrance, confident and nonplussed in her violet dress, complete with a spider-web pattern. There is a fire emanating off of her, a purple fire that is both metaphorical and all too real. She almost matches her Parade outfit.
"You gave her a boosted score, didn't you?" Calyspia or Andromeda asks.
"Yes," I respond.
"I can see why."
This girl is bold, reckless, and she acknowledges it quickly.
"…when I first threw myself in, I didn't care about anything else," she says, answering Apollo's first question. "All of my family was dead, including my father—he's who gave me these scars."
She pulls back her dress like it is a shroud over her back, revealing three pale, pink, jagged lines spanning her upper back. The crowd gasps.
"So, I guess I volunteered to say, 'fuck it all'. Except, I really haven't fucked it all yet, and I've kind of gotten myself into a pickle."
As Mother beats me to covering Penny's ears, Mystic goes on.
"I have some revenge to serve up. I'm not done fighting just yet."
Mystic doesn't care about how she sounds. That much is simple to grasp, seeing as she just cursed in front of millions of children, but there is a more passionate deep fire within her that is driven by more than a lack of care. She curses out Imperia Silver before she leaves, gives an impromptu speech on her perseverance and grit, and swears friendship to her allies. And then she is gone, in a brilliant, flaming flash, and the next boy walks out.
The boy, who is rather quite short and chubby, almost cherub-like with his strawberry blonde hair, is named Cassius Heart, which he is quick to point out, himself. His cherub-ness is only accentuated by the daring pink rouge and eye shadow he wears, complete with a metallic white suit that shimmers different colors in the light, all strategically verticalized to play down his chubby features.
"Cassius, I love your attire! I have heard down the grape vine that you designed some of it yourself, is that right?" Apollo questions, subtly flattering him in the way that a grandparent would flatter a young grandchild.
"Well, it's all true!" Cassius says, laughing proudly as his cheeks redden between the rouge, one shade too light. "My family is full of prominent aristocrats. I'm sure some of you have heard of Mara Darkbottom-Heart, my mother, the owner of the Your Heart's Desires chain of clothing stores."
The crowd is quiet and unreceptive, and this visibly shakes Cassius, but he continues on, Apollo treading lightly. Some of the audience titters faintly at every line indiscriminately. Others jeer in the hopes of seeing the district boy squirm. I hate to admit it, but Apollo saves the interview from being a disaster by complimenting the boy excessively, and they spend most of the session talking about the frills of the rich life. The Hunger Games and his score are never brought up.
"He is a rotten boy," Mother says.
"Don't be so harsh," Penny scolds gently.
It is true. He is rotten, but there is no point in saying that now, not when he can't hear us and is almost certainly dead. He is repulsive, a reminder of the most pretentious and hubristic children in the class, almost a satire of them. But I still feel sympathy that mingles with the revulsion.
What comes next is much worse.
Imperia Crimson sneers through her interview, dressed in a red and white bodysuit with a crimson cape in imitation of the president, himself—I had almost forgotten about our arranged convene; the thought makes me shake in my seat—and the occasional frill and prop weapon. Her muscles and tendons bulge out up the suit in an ungraceful, unpleasant way, gaudy if something white and red could be.
"There is blasphemy in our midst," she says immediately after bowing her head to Apollo.
The masses look on, intrigued.
"One girl, Eight girl, Four boy, Eleven girl, Three boy…" she pauses for a smirk, "Ten boy… they will all get what is coming to them."
Much of the interview is spent this way, with her threatening individual tributes and insisting her allegiance to the Capitol stands the test of time and the tides. Mine has not. I hate to wonder what I would have thought of Imperia Crimson a year ago today. Possibly as a mere entertainment factor, a dud because of her sheer intimidation factor, since most know she will most likely win, an extremist of the right side. There is something deranged in the hard, focused her cocoa brown eyes bore into the camera lens, not quite looking at the red dot, and the occasional twitch of an arm or an eye.
Her last line hangs ominous:
"We all shall pay. It is just a matter of bowing down and serving our dues in this life to fight for freedom and chance. Some of us shall pay more than others."
Penny quivers in her seat, and I feel a sigh of relief pass through my lips that I did not know I was keeping held in.
"Minimize her strength to make it seem like a competition," I order. Andromeda jots it down.
I hope she dies. It is a barbaric though, but a necessary one.
Coleus Yarrow is the quietest tribute so far, which is a true miracle, considering how bombastic the cast has been up to this point. His interview is the first that truly has nothing to offer, a jolt back down to earth, to past years in which at least half of the children are like this: a shifty-eyed, sometimes sweaty, sometimes trembling, detached shell of his or herself that engages in no talk that is too important.
"I have a girlfriend," he says, as if to calm himself, and it strikes me that this boy is, surprisingly, only the second tribute of the year to openly have a love interest.
"Ooh…" Apollo says, sliding his palms back and forth in ecstasy. "What is her name? What is she like? How long have you two been together?"
He hesitates, curling a strand of his caramel hair in agitation. "Her name is Laurel, and she's very nice. And modest, but also really romantic." He blushes a little. "We've been dating for about eight months."
Apollo, ever the dedicated host, begs for more in an attempt to get something entertaining out of the interview, but he cannot manage to coax some personality out of Coleus before his time is up. My opinion has morphed into something different on Apollo from the start of the night. He was cordial to me, friendly but nothing more, but he is trying to help now. I do not resent him, because I know now that I would detest being in his place.
"Next, let's give a warm welcome to Rhiannon Castor."
The girl floats serenely out from behind the wings, dress fluorescent and shades of pale yellow and pea green. It falls down over her feet, making it look like she is, indeed, gliding to her couch in a spectral kind of way, taking her time. She doesn't make eye contact with the camera or even her host, eyes instead floating around the ceiling in a pointedly airheaded way.
Her interview is, similarly to Coleus's stale, but at least she brings something different to the table. My disappointment at Coleus seems odious in retrospect.
"Tell us some things that you like about the Capitol, Rhiannon," Apollo prompts.
"Nothing." The words looms, short, eerie as if it was waiting for another word to come behind it that never did. I feel a sharp pang of hurt that quickly dissipates from the distaste in her voice.
"Well, um… what about District Ten?"
"The woods. And my friends."
"Who are they? Any particular best friend?"
"Dew. He is a piglet. Cute. But I like all of my friends."
"Something is off here," I vocalize to no one in particular. They all agree. There is something missing in Rhiannon's face, not a lack of care like Mystic or awareness like Cassius, something… indescribably human.
She leaves soon enough.
"There probably won't be much money on her, but keep her near the front for diversity's sake," I suggest. "There are always people that bet on the peculiars just for funsies."
The boy from Ten—Raihan Everstow, I should call him by his name—enters slowly in a brown corduroy suit, complete with a foot-long flannel and plaid bowtie and bowler cap, obviously designed to make him look adorable to the older audiences. Apollo even pinches his cheek jokingly before taking a more relaxed approach when he sees Raihan's uneasiness. The interview proceeds nicely, with Apollo being able to slowly but surely lure more energy out of the kid.
"I've always wanted to be brave," Raihan pipes cheerily. "You know, like the heroes in the storybooks that you read about and watch on the movies. I love Capitol movies! And maybe this is my chance. Maybe I can rescue one of my allies. My friend Noello, he's in a wheelchair, but he still saved my little sister from a rabid dog once. If he did that, then I can do anything!"
He is too optimistic. He is destined to get his heart smashed into pieces or pierced by a blade. I just hope he goes before the carnage truly starts, in a nice, fast death. A cloud of sadness droops down over me. This boy is a good person, the kind that I would want Penny to be friends with.
Raihan closes out his interview talking about how much he loves his father, sister, friends, and dear, departed mother, and is off, a fitting end for such an innocent interview.
Sierra Hay-Fields ambles her way up to her seat next, and her interview is a rollercoaster of emotions after the serenity of Raihan. She leads off with explaining her fighting prowess, and by proxy talking about her family, and then goes on a two-minute long tirade defending her allies against Imperia Crimson.
"That Nine girl sure is racking up a lot of enemies," I comment.
"Yes, but she also has a lot of menacing friends," Andromeda counters.
"I wouldn't call them friends for very long," I conclude, as we watch Sierra denounce Imperia as the villain of the narrative, which is shaping up to be an accurate assessment.
"My allies can all handle Imperia, and, in moral fiber, they all have her beaten ten times over."
That is an audacious claim, and one that she seems to be in denial about the partial falsehood of. The applause she receives only bolsters her, and as she struts off stage, her chest swells, jaw protrudes, and body stiffens.
"She's an open book, but at the same time, kind of hard to read," I say. "She seems intelligent, but I think her mule-headedness and blatant overconfidence will get her. Market her more as an ally and have Nerissa as a more separate entity so people won't tie her to a group that is likely to die quickly and they're more likely to put money on her."
It comes out of my mouth so casually: child murder and betting on said child murder. This is morbid.
Aleyn Garsow quivers as he makes his way out, looking like an invisible ghost is pushing him on his way, with his feet dragging and back arched away from the horde in front of him. Apollo stands up politely and walks over to escort him by the shoulder in a manly way to save time.
"Poor kid," Calypsia sympathizes. "How could he have gotten a seven?"
The first portion of the interview is disastrous. The only complete sentence that Aleyn can issue is one of his favorite thing in the Capitol being corn. Corn, of all things?! Even if he was being honest, he should have lied and chosen something much more entertaining, a gateway into a new conversation topic. But, as Apollo's question trails off into deadness, Aleyn clears his throat with a confession.
"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."
Things begin to make sense.
"We have two tributes this year who openly have mental disorders," I observe. "Try and issue a statement of being in support of people with them, it will improve our popularity, and market them together to make Aleyn stand out."
Aleyn rushes as fast as he can out of sight without outright jogging. I wonder what his other persona is, if I understood his explanation correctly? I make a note of getting the betters' speculations up to Andromeda.
Things are finally coming to the inevitable lull that they do every year, as we reach the children who will do no more than try to make it through the night with their body and reputation intact. Tabitha Declan has a pleasant conversation, mostly filled with her talking about fashion and her stylist, who she seems to be good friends with. Her dress is a flattering one: a collage of blended pastels of the color wheel, yellow at the bottom and pink at the top, and her hair is noticeably a foot longer than it was the day prior, which she accentuates by curling the newly added extensions, first anxiously, and then proudly. Apollo uses a pretentious voice when speaking to her, almost like a grown man sitting at a little girl's tea party. Tabitha seems overjoyed that she didn't merely curl into a ball under the spotlight. I am happy for her. I hope her mentor cares enough to try and give her some sponsors.
The last interview belongs to Rooker Hilt, and, as I expected it would be, it is a doozy, but not in the way that I foresaw. The boy, only barely a teenager and acting ten years younger, shuffles out gloomily, spiteful in the time it takes his to reach Apollo, who doesn't come to aid him, probably fearful his hand will get bitten off. Rooker only glares at him, craning his neck to look away from the crowd, and giving one-word answers to every question. Something in him has broken, or been broken, since the last time that we as an audience saw him. He looks weak, a deer with a mangled, bloody leg, still hobbling along so as not to give up and spite the wolf, but nothing more.
"Do you remember him in the Parade?" Andromeda asks. "Almost throwing a tantrum?"
"I do." I shake my head.
They told me that he was the witness who bore leakage of the conversation between Apollo Vanahara and Cornelius the night that he died. More specifically, Titus Sentinum did in between threats in the form of a baton swishing down to pound the concrete on either side of me, bound up in a chair. The little rat tried to throw me under the bus for no reason. But maybe he did me a favor in enlightening me, edifying me. Maybe the same has been done to him.
"Time is up, Mr. Pennyworth," says a familiarly chirpy voice that gives me goosebumps when the final interviewee has vanished.
Apollo is mid-spiel on how amazing the night has been. It has been quite wonderful, and we were blessed this year, us Pennyworths and not the nation as a whole, with twenty-four mold-breaking tributes. But now, I must turn my eyes to the most pressing matter.
"I had almost forgotten," I tell Viola.
"I knew you wouldn't." She smiles, haughty and supercilious with a sour tinge of feigned companionship, the acrid touch of tea or a candy sweetened too much for my liking.
How long has she been standing because this couch? Where was she lurking during the past two hours? She heard everything. I know that she did, because she seems to be taking an awful amount of pleasure in my misfortune and carries that ever-present 'I know more than you' smirk. I don't trust this place anymore. There are things that cannot be seen, or heard, or touched, flying all of the place: cameras and speakers too soundless and miniscule to be detectable, mistrust, deception, and dirty rumors.
"Say goodbye to your family," Viola commands.
Pools of tears swell into existence under Penny's eyes, and under Mother's, too. The former rushes to my side, face pressed into my abdomen and arms wrapped in a clutch around my waist protectively. Mother retrieves a dainty black handkerchief from her leather purse and softly dabs at a cheek before coming in on my left gently to conceal the wetness on my shoulder. She is shaky, shakier than Penny, almost tremulous.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, hushed but still audible to everyone around us.
She never tells me what for, whether it be for being a bad mother, or an alcoholic, or merely her lack of composure. Calypsia and Andromeda do the same. My older sisters promise to uphold the Betting Center, but I am not too anxious. It might be better if we moved away from it all.
"I love you all," I say.
"No!" Penny caterwauls. "You can't leave! I'm coming with you!"
"Penny, it's time to go," beckons Mother. "There is no disobeying."
"No!" she squeals and squirms.
"Penny…"
She huffs indignantly.
"Penny Pennyworth? Oh, what a name!" Viola laughs.
Penny steps away from me and waves a finger in our oppressor's face.
"It's Penelope Pennyworth to you, hussy!"
Then ensues a strangled gasp from both Mother and Viola.
"Who taught you that word?!" Mother shrieks, grabbing Penny by the shoulder poof of her dress and twisting her around to face her. "I am so apologetic, Miss… uh…"
"Velveteen," Viola sneers.
At least Mother is actually stepping up in her role and is seemingly sober… for right now.
"It's nothing, madam, just be sure to teach your daughter some manners or she won't find her way in this world." Viola chuckles coyly, falsely. I fear that she will be a dangerous enemy to make. "Let's go to our special meeting, Odysseus."
"I love you, Dissy!" Penelope screams after us.
"Come on, Dissy," Viola teases. "The president is waiting on us." That must give her such joy.
I am afraid of what he will tell me, but hopeful simultaneously. I have decided. I want to get out of this place. I cannot believe I never saw it before. This is a dumpster fire of a city masked in blush, velvet, and icing. I want to run away from it all, not just for the pressure, but for salvaging what morality I have left and keeping Penny's intact. But I have to face this whole catastrophe and see it through, to my release or my execution.
Viola does not ask what I talked about with my family, only vindicating my theory that she was somehow listening in manually or technologically. Instead, she somehow manages to look down at me even in a spacious limo in which we are confined in juxtaposition by the Peacekeeper guards on either side of us and I clear her head by a solid three inches. She cannot mask her giddiness. I know who she is, merely an avaricious gossip who is too eager to let any power that she has go to her head. Her body language tells me that she would like me to ask her what this meeting is for. I will not give her the delight, so we sit in a silence that is comfortable for one of us.
I had always thought that the Presidential Mansion looked glamorous, glorious from a distance, decadent with patriotic adornments representing the Capitol and each of the districts for Hunger Games season and red, white, and gold holly wreathes spaced generously around its countenance. But now, when I am up close, it only looks imposing. The sun sets on its left corner and behind, casting a shadow over the building that washes it to gray. The pillars, names of presidents etched into them, seem to be telling me to leave. Overall, it looks anything but inviting.
A Peacekeeper prods me forward with the butt of his rifle on the bony small of my back, only shielded by a thin t-shirt and flimsy suit jacket. It hurts. I should be used to this kind of pain by now, but I have lived a privileged life swimming in luxury.
"Go on," Viola urges, nudging me with a pointy elbow.
I take a step forward, and then another. And then another. And soon, I am on my way.
I have never liked confrontation. It is better to shy away from things and let others do the talking. Angering people brings me anything but rapture. But, soon enough, we are at the door, and I knock. Why should I have to knock? He knows I am waiting. President Nero knows everything. An Avox opens it for our procession.
A few years ago, I would have been nervous to meet President Imperius Nero in person, but for a highly opposite reason. Now, I dread it. If his mansion was frightening, then he is a completely different matter. His muscles bulge out of his red, robe-like tuxedo, complete with a flowing crimson cape of fur that, in tandem with his scarlet hair, gives him the impression of looking like a lion.
"Odysseus," he greets, not getting up from his seat or doing me the service of using my last name. The message that he sends is clear. "Good evening."
"I brought him right to you, President," Viola says proudly, as if she somehow captured and detained me.
"You may leave, Viola," he orders graciously. She does so, albeit reluctantly.
"Good evening to you," I say. "It is an honor, President Nero."
"Have a seat."
I take the only one in the room, across from his polished and pristine mahogany desk and a considerable few inches shorter than his own.
He looks back at me, gruff and surly, and begins:
"I'll cut to the chase, Odysseus. I know that you had nothing to do with killing either your father, Catonius Flickerman, or Cornelius Avery." He drums his fingers, freckled knuckles thudding ominously.
"If I may ask, sir, then… why did you put me in jail?"
I know the answer. He wanted to intimidate me, scare me straight. I don't want to show all of my hand yet, however. He has no need to grasp how perceptive I am. I am just a scared, malleable little boy eager to find protection for himself and his family.
"I think you know."
Shit. Maybe I have met my match. Maybe I have met my superior.
"And, so, I will not deliberate on that," he continues, clasping his bearish hands together. Even they have muscles. "Odysseus, you seem like a smart kid, and, as I think you know, we at the forefront of the country have a lot of power. We have a lot of reach, and we will do with that reach what we please."
"Yes, sir." I gulp. I have a feeling of foreboding as to what I suspect is coming next.
"And so, if you do not… um, do as we please. Well, we may have to put an end to that."
I am not certain as to what put an end means, but, whether it is death, Avoxation, or a life in that miserable cell, I know I do not desire to experience it.
"You know, Odysseus, that there are bad things that could happen to you if things get out of hand. And we in the Capitol could really use someone like you to boost morale, especially in a time of such excitement and panic as this one."
"You're threatening me to either do your bidding or face the consequences," I blurt out, fighting the urge to cover my mouth.
"Yes. And will you take it?" He leans over the desk as he asks, prominent canines snarling as icy, minty breath makes its way into my face, and then reclines, arms folded and forearms flexing.
This is the time when I should be courageous and rebellious. When I should stand up for what I believe in, and face my fears, and face the consequences. But I think of my family, of Penny, and the desperation with which she clung to me. I think of how delirious I was in the jail cell, and how wretched I must look and smell. I don't want to face the punishments. I would do anything not to. I would sell my soul.
"Yes, sir. I will."
For anyone who took the time to read all the way through this, thank you, because this was a beast to write. I do have to confess that I seized my sick break to write about seventy percent of this, pretty much the Interviews and onward, and I really have had a busy schedule the past few weeks, filled with studying for school, tennis matches, rehearsals for a play at my local theatre, and, of-course, this. But, for those of you who don't know, I am recovering from COVID, so let's hope the next chapter will be out a bit sooner. I am serious about my goal of getting this story done by 2023, and I'm hoping to cram a bunch of chapters in during the summer months, so be prepared. Oh, and thanks to my friends on discord for wishing me well, I'm feeling like a nine out of ten right now!
All of that being said and done with, what did you think of the chapter? Odysseus had an epiphany in jail, analyzed the Interviews with his family, and received a threat of a proposition by the president, himself. What do you think about Odysseus's character development? Any specific interview that surprised you? What about the final scene; was it intriguing? And what are your thoughts on Viola? I'd love to hear all about it in the reviews, since I really am working hard to develop this subplot. I think you would be able to tell, but I only had the foggiest idea of this in my head when I first started this story a year and a half ago, and I only recently fully formulated everything. I am quite proud of it.
Questions:
What color is the notebook Andromeda uses?
What was your favorite Interview to read and why? Thoughts on any other standouts?
Again, please review, and also check out my other side project, Stars in the Sky. It is another work I am quite proud of, and will be slowly unloading a stockpile of updates for whenever I am taking a while on this story to still be producing content regularly. You won't regret it!
I will see you guys next time, when we will see the mysterious Tribute Banquet for the first time from the eyes of Nerissa, Tessa, Turquesa, and Keeley. I love you all!
-Mills