(a/n): I...am beyond words, you guys. Five reviews, eleven favorites, and eighteen follows. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I started crying. The fact my silly sequel gained that much feedback after only one chapter has me speechless. I am so grateful for all of you.
I hope you all enjoy chapter two! ^3^
CHAPTER TWO
see not the face
Ceres. Five years ago.
There's an advantage to being the most recent Mentor...no one expects anything of you. That is to say, I am obligated to be present for my Tributes' training sessions (for the most part), be in attendance to the meetings, and provide counsel when need be, but none of my fellow Victors have gone out of their way to enforce my hand or influence in these regards. Now, on one hand that is a mildly upsetting. After all, am I not one of them? Have I not earned the right to be a Mentor, to help these Tributes survive the way I did? But then again, I am the freshest meat. My nightmares, my coping, is all still a fresh wound. Adding the effort of having to teach two Tributes who are inevitably going to die is just adding salt to the wound. It's unnecessary.
Still, that doesn't stop me from participating.
The two Tributes this year are Adrian and Pearl, both of them Careers of eighteen years old
They seem confident enough. Both come from well-off families and have clearly been training their whole lives for this position. I recall on the stage during the Reaping, both had cast each other a competitive glare; all at once making it abundantly clear one did not care about the other. For a second, I had been angry that a Career like them hadn't Volunteered for Liber that day, thus saving me so much grief and aches, as well as me having an extra arm to speak of. But that's neither here nor there, and what I've learned since my year in the Games, it's to stop dwelling on the past. That is, try not to dwell on it. Make no mistake, my nightmares are still prevalent. Based on my fellow Victors' experiences, that's not going to change.
The Victors from the other Districts haven't really paid that much attention to me, either. My dad and Mags have tried introducing me to a handful of them, who are friendly enough, but they still look at me warily. Once again, I am the fresh blood. These Victors have known each other for years and developed a rapport. I can't just expect to weasel my way into that, even if I ashamedly know each of their Games by heart - having watched old archives repeatedly when I was a kid.
Nevertheless, these introductions to fellow Victors aren't a priority. My dad is determined that I become comfortable with the environment first and foremost, then slowly get me better acquainted with my associates. Personally, I think my associations with my fellow Victors is most critical now, but I don't have a leg to stand on. I'm fresh out of my Hunger Games, I'm still physically recovering from having my arm violently torn off, and...I guess the psychological recovery, too, but to my credit I think I've done pretty well with that. I had thought returning to the Capitol would be hard. It has been, make no mistake, but it hasn't been as bad as one might expect. Aside from my meetings with Seneca Crane in between preparations for the Games, as well as some general interviews to promote my Tributes, not a lot of pressure is placed immediately on me.
That being said, I still have two Tributes who are perpetually on my mind, even if I don't handle them directly.
But this morning has given me the advantage to change that. It's still early, thus allowing me to be temporarily alone in the dining hall with my Tribute, Pearl, as we finish our breakfast. It's one of those rare moments that I have one of the Tributes to myself. Finnick and Rheon have taken Adrian to train with them for a one-on-one session, whilst Pearl sits and waits for Ren and Tilda to both be ready for her. The pair had planned on teaching Pearl together, but Tilda is running late due to a meeting with a client. It's pretty needless to say what kind of meeting this is. And Ren is currently in the washroom preparing for the day itself.
Pearl is eighteen and has some measure of promise, having trained for the Games professionally as a Career. She's of average height with pretty features, though she's not a striking beauty; her hair is a soft brown that hangs to her shoulders and her eyes are crackling hazel. Her tanned face has a couple of thin scars she's gained from training over the years, as well as a partially crooked jaw. But she's proven to be impressive in the sparring ring and has some physical prowess. But I could also say the same for Adrian, and the other Careers this year.
Nevertheless, it's nice to be alone with a Tribute. I mean, despite the fact my fellow Victors have been careful to keep me at arm's length from this whole affair, I do want to feel useful. My experience in this area isn't as deep or heavy as their own, but I survived the Arena. I have some skills and advice to offer.
"Tilda and Ren are going to be going over survival with you today," I tell her, lifting my cup of warm green tea to my lips. It tastes a little too sweet for my liking, but it's doing a good job at keeping me awake and mostly alert during these hectic affairs. "It's important to know how to fight, of course - how to handle your weapons, hand-to-hand, all of it. But without basic survival skills, you'll die from exposure, infection, or any example of the elements working against you. There is a lot to take into account -"
"How'd you survive?" Pearl cuts off, leaning forward with her arms folded over the table.
Her eyes are wide with curiosity, though she isn't looking at me with the same measure of respect or admiration as she does to the other Victors. I can't say I blame her. Due to being pushed to the background, I haven't really had a direct chance to prove myself to my Tributes. I'm still just the fresh blood - the girl who's only a year older than these respective Tributes. I guess if I had gone into the Hunger Games with their mindsets, which I damn near came close to as a stupid child, I think I, too, would have had a hard time being trained by someone close to my age and minimal experience.
Still, Pearl and Adrian have never been outright disrespectful or dismissive towards me. And it's promising now that Pearl is asking questions and genuinely paying attention. Yet I feel my jaw grind a little at being interrupted, but it's a small price to pay. At least she asked a productive question.
I click my tongue thoughtfully against the roof of my mouth. "That's a large question. Let's scale it down," I say. "There's a great deal to break down when it comes to survival in the Arena. It comes down to your advantages, disadvantages, general likability -"
"No, that's not what I mean," Pearl interrupts again, then points very obviously to my torso. "How did you survive without your arm?"
Despite the fact I am supposed to remain calm, cool, and collected as a Mentor, I can't help but to visibly bristle at her tone and her obvious pointing. My eyes glare briefly at her opposing finger, which remains pointed towards me. She doesn't seem to notice how my demeanor has drastically shifted, her gaze completely fixated on my stub, which is currently covered by my shirt. But I can see the lingering morbid curiosity in her gaze. My hand clenches over the table. I bite back something sharp to say. The fury inside of me starts to bud, threatening to rise steadily, but I subdue it.
I force it to stay down. Whatever I am feeling can't be relayed to my Tribute...I repeat that over and over in my head, because it's something my dad has said before, as well as Mags and Finnick and all the others. Whatever baggage you're carrying, whatever raw emotion you're feeling, can't be forced onto your Tributes. Slowly, I withdraw my clenched hand from onto the table and set it on my knee, so I clench and unclench my fingers without being seen by Pearl. I make a small note of her lack of social awareness under this situation. She's oblivious to what I am feeling and doing. It may prove to be a downfall of hers in the Games, being unable to read people; too deep in her own thoughts, her own curiosities.
I really want to scold her right now, I think. But she doesn't respect me. It wouldn't matter.
God, it's tempting.
"Excuse me?" I say, instead, deciding to give her the chance to backtrack.
Unsurprisingly, she doesn't take the bait. Her eyes roll. "You survived the Games with just one arm," she says. "You still managed to fight and kill in the Arena one-armed. If you can do it with that type of hindrance, I can do it with both. I mean, your Arena was pretty deadly, too. So I think the odds are in my favor." She smiles at me, lifting her chin. "It can't be that hard. Tell me how you did it."
I blink.
For a moment, I'm unable to process her words - how she is utterly and completely downgrading and diminishing everything that happened in my Arena, subduing it to a point where if I could survive it one-armed she can survive anything. Memories of the Arena don't go across my vision, nor does the things I had to do - which, mind you, included literally gutting a girl with my rapala as she straddled me and tried to choke me - but I do remember how the glass of the train felt against my cheek as I returned back home to District 4.
I had sat in the far back of the train, in a little sitting area made up of glass. I had curled against the velvety plush seating arrangements pressed against the wall, my cheek against the cold surface of the window, and watching the Capitol disappear behind me. I had wanted to watch it as it became smaller and smaller, as if it would minimize the place as a whole, make it insignificant. It didn't work. Pulling myself out of this memory, I look at Pearl's smiling face and try to do the same to her. I try to make her words smaller - insignificant - but it doesn't work. Every part of me wants to lash out. I want to be angry. Hell, I should be angry, right? But I just have to remind myself that I am responsible for her survival, no matter how small of a position it has been made by my peers. I can't lash out at her, not when she stands against such impending treacherous waters.
After a few breaths, I try answering. My voice isn't as steady as I'd like it to be, but it's not shaking, either. "Without Nellie, I would never have survived."
"She was your competitor, though," Pearl argues. "I can't just rely on a competitor for help. Tell me what you did for you."
"Allies are important."
Pearl rolls her eyes again. "Yeah, sure. I can't even trust my own District partner to side with me. How can I expect him, a stranger, to keep me alive when your own brother tried to kill you? It's him or me out there, and I choose me. Same with the other Tributes," she says. "Now tell me how you survived? You fought one-handedly, you..."
But I don't hear what else she continues to say. Despite the fact I can see her mouth clearly moving and her hands gesturing to accentuate each word, I just hear this ringing in my ear. Something warm creeps up my neck, a familiar sensation that I had tried to subdue ever since I had become aware of how many eyes lingered on me. My emotions had always been on the raw side of things. Even as a child, I just had the tendency to feel my feelings. I had never been apprehensive in allowing my emotions to be openly displayed on my sleeve. I was too stubborn to hide them, otherwise. But being a Victor now and having Snow's watchful eyes on me, as I delicately try to balance this deal I've made with him, as well as keeping my own life under tight management, I have to be cautious of how I wear myself. My emotions need to be hidden, under layer after layer after layer. But Pearl is peeling all of those layers away, word after word after word.
The anger I'm feeling now is creeping into the surface. It unveils itself in the way my brow tightens together and how my jaw flexes and unflexes. It especially shows, before I can stop it, in the sharpened tone I adopt as I reply to her.
"It was compassion through compassion that saved my life," I snap, recounting Birch and his efforts to keep Daisy and Rust alive for as long as he could, giving them both the chance to survive, because he knew he had no one to go home to and they did. He knew only one could go home, but he had done everything to make sure they lasted. He tried to give District 12 a chance. In the end, Rust had been of the final three. He had put up a good fight, too, as he had fled from his hiding spot to attack Liber - he had died fighting. He had been brave. Birch...Nellie...Rust...Daisy...they had all died bravely, and the all played an intricate role in my survival. "I didn't do any of it alone. If I had, I would've died immediately."
Pearl's eyes widen as my tone rises, then she scoffs. "You know that girl from District 7 was hell-bent on killing you. She probably only kept you alive because of the gifts you were getting from Sponsors," she says. "That's hardly compassion."
"She could have let me die after she'd stabilized me, as gifts trying to keep me alive flooded in. She could have killed me after I woke up. But she didn't. She nursed my arm and kept me alive, and helped me and Rust after I had woken up," I reply back, the edge in my voice sharpening.
My Tribute's mouth opens to say something back, as a soft flush of her own is filling her cheeks, but a prominent array of footsteps silences us both; deliberately loud. Both of our heads turn, catching sight of my fellow Victor as he stands there in the doorway. Ren Ambrose stands there, looking us over with narrowed, critical eyes. Ren is the Victor if the 55th Hunger Games, which had been a catastrophic failure, and one of the Games I had watched when I was a kid, trying to study and deduce why certain Victors or Arenas were more popular or unpopular compared to each other. The Arena Ren was in had been built onto a unstable mountainside, and about a quarter of the Tributes had died by just falling off of the cliff's edge trying to reach the Cornucopia.
Ren had won by sheer luck, by managing to find a waterfall to hide behind, and periodically stepping out to kill Tributes who got too close, and stealing their supplies. Ironically, Ren's Games had been the last for Cicero Crane, who is Seneca's father. It was an embarrassing exit, to say the least, but I expect that Ren has always relished in that. He's certainly one of the less jaded of the Mentors in District 4. While technically handsome, Ren could have become like me and Finnick and countless others, but he had no one to lose, and therefore had the ability to say no. And he lives in a rare state of unleashed...existence? Is that the right word? To say he lives in bliss would be an exaggeration, but compared to others I guess it is. Well...his life is quieter, let's go with that.
He stands relatively tall and has a well-built physique, though his features are narrow and a little off-balance. His dark hair hangs shaggily to his chin and is pulled back from his eyes. He's wearing some stubble which is a shade duller than his natural hair. As far as his attire goes, he's dressed for training in simple greys and blues, nothing too notable. But what is notable is how his eyes are directly landed onto me, narrowed, and definitely displeased.
I meet his eyes back, unblinking. If he thinks I'll be intimidated by him or feel some measure of guilt, he's sorely mistaken. Maybe I had been too defensive with Pearl, who is an ambitious, overconfident, and stupid young girl, just like I had been so long ago, but I won't sit back and hear her talk about my Games this way.
"Hey," Ren says, his eyes drifting to Pearl, who instantly straightens. "I think you should go get ready. Tilda is running late, so let's just get started now. She'll meet us. Go."
Without any pause or delay, Pearl is too her feet and rushing out of the dining room. This leaves just me and Ren in an awkward silence that hangs over us. I bring myself up from the table, hoping to make myself taller - for my full body to be seen, the full remnants of what the Games did to me. My short-sleeved shirt allows some scars from the Games to be visible along my right arm, but, more importantly, the absence of one limb to my left. If he is going to give me a lecture, I at least need him to see that I have lived through this hell, too, that it hasn't just been him and all the rest. I'm not here as a lackey.
Ren doesn't spare it a second glance. "Take a breather," he says, firmly.
"I'm fine. I was just answering questions," I say. "I'm a Victor, too. And a Mentor."
Ren shakes his head. "You've been a Victor for a year, and, sure, that technically makes you a Mentor, but you haven't earned it yet."
"I was -"
"I can talk about my Games because it's been years. I've had time to process what I went through and how I survived."
"You survived because the Arena was shit," I retaliate, going around the table and approaching him in long strides. He doesn't even flinch when I'm all but toe-to-toe with him. "Pretty much half of the Tributes died in the beginning and you hid the rest of the time. Compare that to what I lived through...what I had to do. I've seen firsthand what a truly violent arena can look like. Pearl's right, I survived it, but just barely. If it hadn't been for Nellie or Birch or even...or any of them, I'd be dead. I feel like I have some merit to bring to the table, Ren. Just because it's only been a year, doesn't mean I'm useless."
Ren's arms fold over his torso, his expression taking on a softer look, but his eyes remain firm. "Be that as it may, I still killed and won, even if my Arena was poorly made. It was still an advantage that I utilized. Unlike the Tributes who died falling down the cliff, I kept my balance," he says. "You've only had a year. And the Arena, less shitty than mine and more dangerous, I'll admit, took your arm."
I exhale slowly. "You say that like I don't have a mirror, or eyes," I deadpan. "Or, you know...can just notice in general."
"What I mean by this, is the fact that you're still learning your body. Tilda's done excellent work with you building your strength back up, but you still don't have the same prowess you did a year ago. You'll gain it back, but now is not the time to be re-training yourself and training our Tributes," he elaborates. "If it had been up to me, I would have had you stay in District 4 - not because I don't think you have anything to offer, but just so you can rest and mentally and physically prepare yourself for it properly. But obviously we can't, because of -"
He stops himself. A shadow falls quickly over his face, which lowers as to conceal his eyes, and I can tell there's a flicker of guilt there. Despite myself, I wince. I know what he's referring to. In truth, I had thought the same thing. Maybe it would have been easier if I had stayed in District 4 for this year, just so I could take some extra time to heal. It's not unheard of for some Victors to stay in their respective Districts instead of going back to the Capitol. It depends on circumstances, of course, but certain Victors who reach old age or are sick or have certain disabilities have that luxury. If things were different, I might have been able to seize it. But my circumstances wouldn't allow it, because the Head Gamemaker was waiting in the Capitol, and I couldn't risk disappointing him...or Snow. I had made a promise, after all. I'm still keeping to it.
Ren clears his throat. "Let's not antagonize or upset our Tributes, okay?" he says. "Leave the Mentoring to us for now. You'll have your chance, years of chances, to train our Tributes. But right now, I don't think you need this in your mind. Carrying your Tributes is a burden I don't think you can take."
"She doesn't respect me," I blurt, in part because I don't know what else to say, and also because it feels like it's the last thing lingering on my tongue.
Despite the fact that my face is flushed and I have the urge to keep fighting, out of sheer stubbornness, I have to admit that he's right. Taking on the burden of training Tributes, when I am still working on training myself, is too much. And I don't know if I can take on extra ghosts right now...I mean, it's unavoidable no matter what, but what does that also say about me as a Victor, a Mentor? How long is it going to take before I can handle this? How long am I going to be just another load on them?
Ren reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it, and pulls back. "Next year will be easier," he promises, and turns.
When I'm left alone in the dining hall, with only some Avoxes in red to serve as company, the crippling loneliness and overall exhaustion I have been trying to fight against swarms me all at once. I try batting it away, but it lunges, again and again. Knowing full well that my fellow Victors are going to be occupied and that I won't be called on by Seneca Crane until later this night, most likely, I decide to try to make use of my time. Rather than sit alone in these stupid quarters, I seek out my own devices. I need a drink. I go to the Victor's Lounge. It's a place that my dad has taken me to once or twice since we've been back in the Capitol.
It's a huge open space with a bar, several seating areas, some screens broadcasting interviews with Caesar Flickerman, Stylists giving exclusives, a few Gamemakers explaining their processes, occasionally some cheesy Capitolian films comprised of overacting and ludicrous storylines. It's a moderately nice place to get away, according to my dad. It's a neutral space for Victors to gather together, share some drinks or eat, and unwind. Allegedly, this is where my dad spent a great deal of his time during my own Games. And I can picture it, him leaning over that bar with countless glasses and bottles surrounding him, as he languished over the fact his children could die, before deciding which one he wanted to live.
The space is moderately pleasant. Two of the walls are lined ceiling to floor with open windows, allowing for a view overtop the Capitol; making everything appear much smaller than it actually is. The floor is a glossy black marble, and the walls are like silver in color. The bar is enormous, resting in the center of the space and taking on a square shape. The bartender stands in the middle of it, with towers of alcohol around him, and various types of glasses. A canopy hangs over the bar, pouring down artificial light that's the hue of lavender.
Surrounding the bar, there are tables and couches, and various screens placed meticulously around the room. It seems that every which way a person turns, they are looking at it. Constant reminders, even in a safe space.
My eyes skim across the space, noting a couple of Victors residing here, but none of them pay me any mind. They are either lost in their own world, watching one of the many screens, or partaking in conversations with each other. I do, however, notice Haymitch Abernathy, from District 12, laying unconscious at one of the tables. If it weren't for his shoulders shifting from periodically breathing, I'd assume he had died this way; his stillness is almost unnerving. But when I pass by him going towards the bar, I catch the sound of him snoring softly.
When I reach the bar, I lean against it. "Could I get a drink?" I ask.
The bartender glances at me, brow raised. He's at least a decade older than me, with silver dyed hair and several piercings in his ears, nose, and lip. His darker complexion allows the silver accessories to stand out more. When he lifts a hand to clean a glass, I see he's wearing an abundance of rings. "What would you like?" he asks.
I hadn't thought that far ahead. "Um...what do people normally get?"
The bartender looks amused but has the good graces not to call out my clear obliviousness in regards to drinking. "Abernathy gets straight whiskey," he says, nodding towards the unconscious Mentor.
"Right." I clear my throat. "Anything milder?"
"Is this a first drink?"
"Kind of."
The bartender tilts his head. "Hmm."
Turning away from me, he proceeds to grab a fast array of colorful looking bottles and turns his back on me. He moves with a strange grace as he pours and mixes these beverages into what I assume to be a mixer. He moves as if it were a dance, leaning down to grab some strawberries, which he dices easily, and peppers with sea salt.
He wets the rim of a fresh glass with what looks to be a sparkling water and then dips the glass into the diced fruit, causing it to stick. He then adds the ice into the tall, slender glass, then pours in the colorful, almost neon, liquid. He adds a cut thing of lime for, I assume, garnish on its rim. When he is done, the bottom of the drink is a deep shade of red, and fades up into a pastel pink at the top. He sets it gently in front of me, barely stirring the contents within.
"Fruit cocktail it is," the bartender says.
"Thanks," I say.
He turns away and I stare down at the drink in front of me. I could just try to down the whole thing, just try to drown out my woes the way Haymitch has over there. Or I can drink from it slowly, letting whatever the hell flavor it is settle in my mouth slowly. My fingers drum on the counter, staring down at the drink with a mixture of admiration and irritation. Feeling like I have nothing to lose, I just grab the slender glass and raise it quickly to my lips. I decide immediately I don't like it. For one, the alcohol burns my throat and makes the roof of my mouth feel funny. Secondly, the fruity flavor is ghastly. It is opposingly too sweet and too tart all at once. I can't pinpoint the exact type of fruit used for it...even the diced strawberries taste odd. Experimentally, I remove the lime from the rim and take a bit out of it, only to promptly spit it out. It tastes ungodly.
Maybe I should have just gone with the whiskey.
"Gross," I mumble, under my breath, pushing the glass away from me.
"Done already?" a smooth, feminine voice says behind me.
I turn. The woman standing there is stunning, to say the least. Actually, stunning is putting it lightly - this woman is gorgeous, the type that anyone in the room would have to stop and spare a glance. It's the type of striking good lucks and healthy physique that can only be found in the highest of Districts, that being District 1.
The woman standing before me is Cashmere Royce.
She's a couple inches taller than me with a well-toned figure. Her golden blonde hair rolls in curly cascades across her shoulders, framing a perfectly contoured face with bright green eyes. In the few instances I've seen her, usually on the television or in passing at the Parade, she is wearing glamorous dresses. But today she's dressed simply in a pair of black tight leather pants and a loose pale pink blouse with diamond buttons and diamond studded heels. I guess this counts as simple, I rectify in my head. At least in this place.
Cashmere had not been one of the people my fellow Mentors had introduced me to. There could be a multitude of reasons why that is, but I have a sinking suspicion it has to do with Finnick's quieted insecurities. Although Finnick has been honest with me about his clients and the purposes he serves the Capitol, which include sleeping with other Victors for voyeuristic appetites, I doubt he wants me directly facing it. It goes without saying, Cashmere is one of those Victors, and is, by proxy, in the same circumstances as Finnick. I would add in that it's the same as me, too, but I have very different circumstances. And I expect some Victors might be angry and bitter towards me for it, at least that's what I've been mentally bracing for.
"You're Cashmere," I say, dumbly.
I had always aspired to meet her someday, when I had lived in that sweetened fantasy of what being a Victor would be like. I had believed I could be the best there has ever been, that I could meet those heroes who had survived the Arena and have a chance to stand among them. Pretty stupid in hindsight. The 64th Hunger Games, four years before my own, had been eventful. Cashmere Royce had Volunteered for the Games, and the year before her her brother, Gloss Royce, had Volunteered and won. This had given her a huge advantage. Gloss was already a popular Victor, even in just the year after his success, and his sister had a leg up over the rest of the Tributes. All of the Sponsors who had lavished Gloss with gifts and attentions during his Games directed their attentions towards his sister, who proved to be just as good if not better.
During the Arena, Cashmere had been gifted a set of dual daggers by some Sponsors, and with them she had proven to be a silent, yet deadly, killer. She had gutted a Tribute and slit his throat all in mere seconds, blood spraying across her perfectly beautiful face, and the Capitol had no doubt cheered in awe to the magnitude of the bloodshed. I think I was thirteen during her Games. Watching her lethally take out half of her fellow Tributes in under five days had been inspiring to me, had spurred me on in my desire to win the Games. But the following year, the year I planned to Volunteer at the ripe, stupid age of fourteen, Finnick was Reaped. Needless to say, the trajectory of my plans changed.
Still, despite everything, there is a lingering sense of awe in meeting Cashmere face-to-face. But the reality and horrors I've since faced regarding a Victor's newfound life has dulled my previously golden-lined admiration.
"And you are Ceresea," Cashmere says, looking unimpressed by me.
Her bright green eyes, akin to emeralds, look me over slowly - and I definitely notice how her eyes dwell on the left side of my shoulder. For a split second, I see her brow arch in a motion I can't quite place. It could be she's mildly impressed I survived it, or it could be she's underwhelmed. Much like my own Tribute, I think, a little sullenly.
"Ceres is fine," I say. Little girl me would have lost her shit to be meeting Cashmere, likely to the same capacity of those damned Capitolians - frenzied and giddy, staring up with blind adoration. Sure, I still have some admiration in my gaze, no doubt, but I also have seen through the cracks that otherwise would have gone unnoticed. "It's nice to meet you."
"Pleasure." Cashmere slowly takes a seat beside me, leaning forward and flagging down the bartender. I watch her as she orders a rose-style wine with a name that's too fancy and wordy for my liking. Resting her chin on the back of her hand, she fixates her gaze to me. "It's a shame we haven't been acquainted sooner, since I notice you've been making your rounds."
"Oh. My dad's been slowly introducing me to everyone. I think he's worried about overwhelming me," I admit. "It's a lot."
"Mentoring. It's exhausting business," she says, with a swoon. "How do you like it so far?"
"It's exhausting business."
Cashmere's magenta colored lips twist into a broad smile, exposing pearly white teeth. "You're cute," she says. "Let me guess, Rheon is sidelining you, right? That's how Gloss was with me after I won. He was adamant about showing me the ropes of Mentoring first. But I knew what I was doing. I trained for it. I didn't need my hand held. You, however...I see it's a necessity."
"I guess you could say that," I say, a little unsure of where this is going.
"Try to breathe," she says, making me blush. "Finnick's told me about you."
That takes me a little off guard. I'm not entirely sure what to make of Finnick telling a fellow Victor about me, given the dynamics he's had to share with Cashmere, specifically. It's unlikely that Finnick has told anyone within the Victor circle about our relationship, since that would be dangerous, even among trusted friends, but the way Cashmere is looking at me definitely conveys some measure of concealed knowledge. I try to meet her gaze evenly, even though I am feeling a little uncomfortable.
"Good things, I hope," I say after a small pause.
Cashmere's brow fully arches when she takes in the soft flush in my cheeks, with a soft scoff parting from her lips. "Don't tell me you're the jealous type," she says, leaning into me. "I would be careful if I were you. Exposed emotions can be just as dangerous as a dagger to the throat."
My teeth grind together. So she knows, I think, but I don't say anything. It could be she's calling my bluff, the way my mom did when confronting me about if I had slept with Finnick, so I decide to just play dumb. Surely he wouldn't tell her. That'd be incriminating. Could be she suspects something. My silence is met by a curious, if not slightly disappointed, expression from her. "Thanks for the advice," I say, picking my glass up and holding it. A small part of me hopes this makes me look...I don't know, more adult. I'm nineteen and I've killed people, and I've done unspeakable things. But I'm still technically just a kid compared to the rest of these people - especially based on how Ren and all the rest are treating me. "Is that why you came over here?"
"Hmm. Prickly. Finnick mentioned that," Cashmere says, laughing as I throw her a glare. "There it is. Come on, dear, you're better than that. You survived the Games on a better performance, don't lose it now."
Performance? I bristle a little at that. What the hell kind of performance is she talking about?
As if reading my expression - no, definitely being able to read my expression - Cashmere continues. "It was a sweet act, siding with that boy from District 7, with the kids from -"
"It wasn't an act," I cut off, feeling my blood heat up. The anger Pearl ignited earlier, that I've managed to subdue, is back in full force again. "And his name was Birch. Birch Indica. He was a good guy, and he protected those kids. Their names were Daisy and Rust, by the way. I think you should remember, Lamia killed Daisy." I narrow my eyes at her. "A knife in the back of the head. Your Tribute killed a twelve year old with her back turned."
"You're debating morality in the Arena. That's a cute game, dear, but I'm not playing," Cashmere replies with an unfazed shrug. "Lamia had potential. She just trusted the wrong Tribute. I will say, your brother's betrayal shocked me, and I wasn't disappointed. It must have shocked you, too."
My heart murmurs a little at the mention of Liber. The memory of Liber piercing the prongs of his trident through the back of Lamia's neck fill my head, followed promptly by him looming over the water I was in as I was twisted around and around in the death roll by that crocodile Muttation. I blink it away, before those images - those memories - consume me. Breathe. Deep breath, I assert to myself, in Mags' voice. "I'm just telling the truth. It wasn't an act...I cared about Birch and those kids," I say. "Now tell me what you want."
"I'm lending a helping hand." Cashmere smiles. "I didn't mean it that way."
I'm not entirely sure I believe her, but I overlook her comment. For now. "You're being exceptionally helpful," I say.
"It's your first year, and the first is always the worst - in more ways than one, I'm sure you've gathered. I wish I'd had a seasoned Victor offer me some help back when I was in your shoes," Cashmere goes on. Despite the fact I am visibly vexed, I decide to let her go on. My heart is hammering angrily and I'm half-compelled to just storm out of the Lounge, but I decide to just hear her out, maybe she has something worth saying. Taking in my silence, Cashmere smiles and leans forward, her perfectly filed finger brushing over the rim of her wine glass; it creates a humming sound. "The moment I walked in, I could tell you were frustrated. Your team are leaving you out. You're the fresh blood, the one with the least amount of experience, but you also have a very obvious hindrance. You can't exactly lead by example with only one arm. You can describe a technique, but it's not the same as showing it. And I'd wager you still haven't figured out your little hiccup."
"If you're suggesting my arm -"
"Makes you weak? Not at all. It could arguably make you deadlier. And you did win like this, even despite all the blood loss and undoubted pain. It's admirable. But that leads to a secondary issue. Your Tributes are bolstering with confidence, and none of that is surprising. Last year's Victor won the Games and survived with just one arm, after all. If you can do that, they can survive whatever the hell the Arena has to throw at them. But I'm sure you can guess, overconfidence can be a killer, especially given their circumstances."
I don't reply.
"Judging by your expression, your Tributes are already getting on your nerves," Cashmere goes on. "They aren't concerned, right? I mean, why should they? You did the impossible. Besides, you also have the advantage, with the Head Gamemaker in your pocket. It must be nice, to have just one person vying for your attentions, and with so much power readily available. All that influence to keep your Tributes safe..."
Ah, so this is why she came over.
It's embarrassing just how common knowledge my circumstances are. I mean, the Capitol - hell, all of fucking Panem, it seems - being aware of the fact that I am the personal object to the guy who literally creates the place twenty-four children are sent to and twenty-three children die in isn't exactly a good look. The accusations of bias, as subtle as Cashmere is conveying or as obvious as others might address, are legitimate. I can't deny that. But they are no less frustrating. My fingers curl over the top of the black marble counter, my fingernails digging into my palms; the biting sensation is able to ground me. It keeps me from flying off and saying something I could potentially regret.
"Right. Selling my body to the man responsible for the loss of my arm, keep the people I love alive..." I glance coldly to her. "It's peachy. And, no, it doesn't come with special privileges. And if you're hoping I can put in a good word for your Tributes, I -"
"I don't like being in anyone's debt. Having you put in a good word for me to your Gamemaker is the last shred of it I need. Even if I did need it, I don't want it," Cashmere says. "And believe it or not, I didn't come all the way over here, wasting my valuable me time, just to goad you about your little courtship. Well, maybe just a little bit, but I'm mostly here because I want to be."
"I have no reason to trust you," I say. "And I think you have no point."
"I'm not asking you to," Cashmere says, amusedly, "but you really should try. We Victors have to stick together, don't we? All of us have been friends for years and you're the fresh meat nobody trusts yet. It's obvious. And you're proving to not be very approachable."
"I wonder why," I say.
"You're going to have to be. People are going to be saying worse things, and you're going to have to be way less reactive, dear," Cashmere snaps, causing my eyes to narrow. "And you certainly won't win any credit just because you're Rheon's daughter. He earned the respect and rank he has among the Victors. You have not."
My brow knits. It's strange she's addressed Rheon over Finnick. It feels as though, by measure of popularity, it would be Finnick who would have the stronger outreach. My dad isn't exactly popular on his own, his Games were underwhelming and he never bothered to make a real name for himself...he never had the stressors of President Snow's influences. As far as I know, he's kept to the shadows, but Cashmere referencing him directly has piqued my curiosity.
"I personally don't care if you sink or swim, not to use an ocean based euphemism," Cashmere says. "But I suppose I was you once. A warning, at least, is warranted. And some people will lack my moral backbone." She leans closer, her breath smelling of roses and some variety of fruit. "It doesn't hurt to be friendly with the Head Gamemaker's personal companion. So I'd keep a careful tally of your friends and their real loyalties."
"I don't have friends, anyway," I say.
"Well, speaking with some measure of experience -"
"I know. You were exclusive once, I recall," I counter. "Finnick told me about it."
"Nice to know Finnick is airing my secrets. I was actually going to share my experience as a Mentor, but an exclusive escort works, too," Cashmere huffs, with a cold expression. "I was exclusive once, and I thought it was brilliant at the time. At the time. Funny how quickly things plummet when jealousy takes a person whole, doesn't it? Not that you're unfamiliar with that." She lifts her hand, silencing me before I can heatedly reply. "Do yourself a favor now, don't hold back. Learn your advantages and disadvantages, treat the Capitol like it's an Arena all its own. Those Capitolians are just fancier Muttations. And we the Victors are your collective Allies. And be aware of the fact that someone is going to come at you harder than I did today. Trust me, they will be less forgiving than I am."
"So this is your way of trying to help me?" I demand.
"Yes," Cashmere says. "Your act - real or not real - was very, very good. I suggest you keep it up. And for your sake, I hope you know the next time you see a good thing. Biting a hand offering you help is a pretty poor starting point. As a Mentor, you should know that."
Before I can reply, the pager at her hip goes off. For a fraction of a second, so quick that I would have missed it in a blink, a look of dread spreads across her face. Just as quickly, her expression returns neutral. All at once, I feel the weight of my own pager at my hip; suddenly too blocky, poking at me, and making itself abundantly known.
"I used my free time on you," Cashmere says, looking at me. "I didn't have to. I suggest you remember that. Believe you me...I'm not someone you want to cross. Got it?"
"Got it."
Cashmere looks a little satisfied by that, in a way I can't fully grasp. "Your nerves are showing," she says. "Fake confidence. It looks good on you." She then proceeds to down her glass in one solitary gulp (my jaw almost drops), without so much as flinching. "Think about what I said. Oh, and before I forget, be careful not to say the wrong thing or you may just get someone killed."
She takes her leave from me, then, pushing herself away from the bar and striding towards the exit. Despite the ache and anger inside of my chest, I turn to watch her as she goes. The quietly furious emotions inside of me want to break free and be spurred forward. I want to be angry with her. But at the same time, just like Ren's logic, I can't dispute it. My emotions are still unbridled, despite my best efforts to tame them. Although I have the title of Victor and Mentor, I haven't earned any of it. I am still...I don't know. I don't know a great deal of things, I'm just still trying to survive. But I suppose this is what will come with experience. Gradually, through years upon years of experience - watching my Tributes die, refining my role under the Capitol's critical eye, and perpetually appeasing President Snow - I can figure out the game and my place in it.
At the exit, I see Cashmere greeted by a tall, older woman. Gemma Lux, from District 1. She won the 35th Hunger Games and was quite impressive, yet another example of a powerful woman I had aspired to be when I was a girl. Much like Cashmere, Gemma is beautiful, despite being in her late forties at this point. Her long blonde hair is more like silver than Cashmere's gold, hanging straightly around her shoulders; framing a face composed of sharpened features. Her nose is long and straight, with a cutting jawline and sharp catlike blue yes that have a subtle hue of hazel around the pupil. She is very tall, probably 5'10" with no shoes, but her heels give her almost a head of height over me.
Despite the distance between the bar and the exit to the Lounge, I can make out their words by straining my ears. Gemma's voice is surprisingly quiet, sounding almost nurturing. Her gaze finds me and lingers for only a moment, barely even giving me a second look, and her eyes then return to Cashmere. "Don't harass the poor girl," I hear her say. "Gloss is waiting for us. And I won't tell him that you were late because you were sharing a drink with Rheon's daughter." She develops a strange, disarmingly charming (and maybe even a little mischievous) grin. "He'd consider her and her Tributes competition."
"Well, they are," Cashmere says, grinning back, with an expression that conveys some type of shared humor between them, as if some very clever inside joke. "Let's get going. I'd like to have this over with so I can start with their training again..."
"Tell me what you think of her," Gemma presses, and I hold my breath in anticipation.
"She's not much," I hear Cashmere say to Gemma as they depart. "I'm disappointed."
"Well, I think she has promise," Gemma says, before they both disappear through the doors.
I touch my glass, thoughtfully. At least somebody thinks so.
Present.
Annie is sitting at my kitchen island organizing some rocks and seashells by their colors and shape when I come back home. Her tongue is pressed between her teeth, her brow furrowed together into a neat line, as her slender, nimble fingers move carefully. It's easy to tell when Annie is out of reality. Something happens to her eyes, they seem to glaze off. Sometimes she disappears into a fantasy I can only assume is good, because her eyes are softer, and there's a hint of a smile on her face. Other times her eyes seem almost to tremble and she'll laugh at inappropriate moments, or slam her hands against her ears and rock her body back and forth. But from time to time she is neither. When she is focused, she is well and truly there. She is the young, thoughtful girl I had met at the Reaping, who had smiled politely at me and had asked well-thought out questions - with that exact same expression on her face she wears now. It's nice to see this side of Annie, as rare as it might be.
Obviously I had never had the chance to fully befriend Annie before the Games. I had only met her when she had been Reaped, after all, but I had gotten the chance to be friendly with her. Being attached to your Tributes is a dumb idea. You support them, sure, but you don't go out of your way to become too wholly committed, at least I don't. It hurts too much that way. But Annie had softened some measure of my heart. Unlike Tributes who had been Careers, or those who were too ambitious or too nervous, Annie had been shy. Her sweet smile had won her favor during the Parade and her Interview. Her demeanor was meek and she herself was charming. While her partner, Gilbert, exuded confidence and seemed the likelier to win in general, the overall opinion I found of Annie, based on Capitolian input and media, was that she seemed genuine. Classic. But no one had favored her to win, because she was shy, meek, and polite.
Yet she won, anyway, by a damn stroke of luck. Luck, indeed. I don't really see it as a coincidence that shortly after the death of one of District 4's Tributes, a flooding promptly occurred in the Arena - effectively wiping out the remainder of the Tributes, and allowing Annie a fighting chance when she would have been otherwise easily killed in her panic. I'd confronted Seneca about it sometime later, during Annie's Victory Tour, specifically, and he had denied it. Deny it as he had, I figured that was due to legality related reasons. I doubt he, a Head Gamemaker known to have an escort exclusive to his person from District 4, wanted any directly related bias towards her respective District.
He certainly leaned well into the opposite direction by having the water source in last year's Games essentially be a death trap. Within an Arena designed around the ruins of an ancient city, Seneca had built a water system that wove through the structure, which contained so much salt that anyone who tried to swim it in could only float. My two Tributes had tried to escape by water only to be trapped on the surface. Despite being Careers, they had died quickly.
That being said, to Seneca's credit, Annie is the only other Tribute from District 4 to make it to Victor since my victory. While I doubt she would consider it lucky, she had survived. And luckier still for her favor, though, again, likely not from her point of view, she had gone mad. Annie is a pleasant looking girl, with a slight olive complexion with a dabble of freckles across her nose, accompanied by a pair of dark green eyes and wavy, somewhat bedraggled black hair often pulled up out of her face. It's often quite oily, as well, since Annie is still uncomfortable with water poured over her head; the sensation too akin to drowning or flooding, I suppose. But Mags has gotten her to a point where she can comfortably take a bath and clean her body, from what I am told. But the point being, had Annie won the Games with her mind perfectly intact, I have no doubt that she would be placed under the same predicament as myself and Finnick and all the rest of the unlucky Victors. Her insanity saved her, and I guess, to some capacity, I'm enviable of that.
Mind you, I'm definitely not sane after all I've been through. But the parts of me that are broken fit together just enough to survive the Capitol.
"Hey, Annie," I say.
Annie mumbles something incoherent, but she acknowledges my presence. Knowing that I'm not going to startle her, I go to stand beside her, glancing down at the pretty shells and rocks she has accumulated. They vary in a broad array of impressive colors, vibrant and lovely to behold, and their shapes range from circular to crescent to ragged. Some of their edges seem to be sharp, as well. Annie seems to take careful care with those, as she carefully turns them between her fingers, and lays them aside with almost tenderness. Before going into the Games, Annie had mentioned to me that she used to collect seashells when she was a child.
In the rare instances her parents would let her go to the beach unsupervised, she said she would gather as many seashells as she could. She would seek out the ones of vibrant colors and unique shapes, then display them in her bedroom upon her windowsill. She had shared this story with me with a smile on her face, and then showed me her Token; a bronze colored cockle shell, the very last thing she had collected from District 4.
She had smashed that shell against a wall shortly after coming back from her victory, along with all the rest she had accumulated.
But gradually, through the years, she's started collecting them again. If I were to guess, these are some seashells that she and Mags have gathered sometime today or yesterday, because they are unfamiliar to me, and Annie keeps her collection here. She likes to display them all across my house, which I don't mind. It helps her cope, so who am I to intervene?
"Those are pretty," I say.
She hums. "Pretty..." she murmurs, brushing her fingers along a soft pink shell. "Mags...we found these..."
"I thought so. Speaking of Mags, where is she?"
Annie raises her eyes to me, looking briefly puzzled by my query. She stares up at me as if she's just now noticed my presence, like I manifested out of nowhere. She blinks a few times, the gears in her head twisting rapidly, before she nods seemingly to herself and points out the kitchen door leading to the porch. "Outside," she says, slowly. "Mags is outside."
"Thanks."
Sure enough, Mags is indeed outside. She's sitting on my porch swing, which creaks a little from age. She's wearing a long deep blue dress stained with sea spray and sand, with a multi-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her grey, frizzy hair hangs loosely, catching the wind, and framing a wrinkled, pleasant face. Despite her age, I think Mags has maintained her grace and beauty; her eyes still have the ability to warm even the coldest of moods. It's quite, jarring, actually, how she manages to keep such a gentle and warm spirit, despite everything she's lived through.
A couple of years ago, Mags suffered a debilitating stroke. It had been in the Capitol, during the Tribute Parade for, I think the 71st Hunger Games. Yeah, the 71st, because that was the year Johanna Mason won, and I had been sitting in the stands watching her glare fiercely at the crowd when Mags started to act strangely. She had excused herself for water, led away by our District's assigned escort, Ivoree Greenscape. It hadn't been until after the Parade that we had been told what was happening, and how Mags had been wheeled frantically to receive medical attention. And while my heart hammered in a rising panic, my eyes watering with tears, I just had to pretend to be okay. I had to play to the cameras, support my Tributes. Everything was fine. Nothing was wrong.
Despite the severity of her seizure costing her her voice, Mags has remained optimistic. Her smile remains infectious and she is perpetually continuing to look after me, Finnick, Ren, Tilda, my Dad, and Annie Cresta as if we were still just her humble Tributes. I've come close to exhausting myself with this lifestyle of being a Victor and it's only been six years. I can't imagine the decades upon decades that Mags has experienced, particularly having to watch so many Tributes die in her lifespan.
And the ones who don't die...we're whole other stories.
I must stand there in silence for too long, because Mags eventually turns to look at me with a curiously raised brow, and gestures for me to come sit beside her on the swing. I comply.
"Hey," I say. "Annie looks like she's doing okay."
'Mostly. She's having an off day, but she's managing,' Mags says, moving her hands fluidly.
After Mags had lost her voice, she had developed a language by use of hands between herself and the Victors. She had initially tried communicating through pen and paper, but that proved to be impractical and slow. Besides, we live by the ocean and Mags can be commonly found in water, so her papers would usually get wet and become unusable. So, rather than remain voiceless, she had learned to communicate through her hands, in fluid, specific motions with her fingers; through various gestures, which meant various things, and we had learned, as well.
She has also utilized this use of signing when we are in the Capitol, as a way to silently gauge how we all are. Obviously the Capitolians wouldn't be aware of her gestures, nor our responding ones, so it had become a comfortable way to keep tabs on each other. Our own secret code. Probably not entirely secret, though, I muse to myself. Snow probably understands it...because the man knows everything.
"I thought she seemed okay," I say. "Like...she's with it."
'She's trying,' Mags says, her hands moving in front of her. 'She enjoyed seashell hunting. It helped bring her back. And I'm proud of her for it.'
"As you should be," I say. "So, my dad said you and Finnick are taking her out on the water. That'll be nice for her."
Mags looks up at me, a small frown tugging at her wrinkled mouth. 'Yes, we are. It was my idea,' she says.
"It's a sneaky way to get everyone out."
In truth, I'm not entirely sure how aware Annie is of my circumstances. When she had been my Tribute, I had explained my ties to Seneca Crane - our relationship, I guess is the right word - and she seemed to have understood it. She had certainly looked at me with sympathy afterwards and asked me how I was whenever I would come back from meeting with him, which, while sweet, did start to get on my nerves after a while. But after her Games, reality had just slipped away, and she had existed between different types of worlds. We're careful to avoid certain trigger words, anything that has to do with the Games, honestly, but in the rare instances where Seneca is brought up her expression conveys no familiarity.
She will just simply shrug and carry on. But that being said, we don't go out of our way to overexplain him, or try to elaborate to her that someone from the Capitol is coming to our District. It's just easier to get her out of the house during this routine visit, take her someplace she doesn't have to see it. Mags is really good about that, and so is Finnick. Although it's mostly for his sake, too. According to Mags, he acts different when she has to take him away...and I've just never asked her to explain it to me.
'Are you sure you'll be okay alone?' Mags asks. 'I could stay behind -'
"Yeah, I -" I cut off, finding that my words are failing me. Despite the fact that Annie is in the kitchen and there's some distance and walls dividing us from her, I decide that I don't want to risk her overhearing this. More so, I just don't want to say it. I raise my hand. 'I'll be fine. It's just Seneca, not some Capitolian monster like what Finnick deals with, Mags.'
Mags shakes her head. 'I beg to differ,' she says, firmly.
'It could be worse,' I assert. It really could be worse, too. I could be in a position where I have dozens upon dozens, or even hundreds, of clients vying for my attentions, but I don't. It's just one person who, truthfully, doesn't treat me badly. Although he is still a Capitolian, and a Head Gamemaker obsessed with his legacy, he isn't the worst type of person. There are a great deal of bad things he could do and say towards me, but he's always been respectful...at least, as much as he can.
It's a complicated matter that I struggle to put into words, but the gist of it is, I'm not the same as Finnick. Mags seems to have it in her head we're both trapped in some version of hell, but Finnick's is deeper and worse. He is the Capitol darling, with lover after lover who readily rush to use and abuse him, while I just have one, who has never hurt me, in the most literal of terms.
"Why are you both out here?" a voice chimes in.
Annie has stepped out through the doorway dividing the porch from the kitchen, a seashell still in her hand. She looks between us curiously.
"We're just enjoying the sunshine," I say.
"Sunshine. Water," Annie muses, looking at Mags who nods. "We're going onto the water."
"It'll be fun," I say.
"Will you come too?"
"No, no. I'm, uh...I have fish to scale, remember?" I say. "I'm making dinner for you and Mags tonight."
The disappointment that falls upon Annie's face is heavy, but it's not for the reason I initially suspect. "Oh...so...it won't be good."
Oof. Despite the fact that Annie exists on the plains of reality only occasionally, she can be quite brutal in her honesty. Still, I'm endeared to it, so I just smile back. "I'll make it edible, I promise," I say, ignoring as Mags signs something cheeky to Annie, who giggles in return.
"Finnick will be there," Annie says.
I ignore the way something pinches inside of my chest, forcing myself to remember that I don't have any reason to be, well, jealous. It's ridiculous. But I think it has more to do with bitterness. I mean, my loved ones are going out on the water, united and together, to stay out of my way as I entertain a Capitolian in my house. It's not that I blame them. Whenever Finnick has a visitor from the Capitol, I tend to avoid Victor's Village, too, or just hide in my room. It's not unusual, but it certainly feels different...feels awful...knowing that it stems from me to some capacity.
Raising my eyes to Annie's dazed expression, I find myself torn between feeling envious to her lost mind or feeling relieved that she doesn't fully understand or live in the hell-scape forged for us.
"Finnick and Mags will be there," I say.
Annie nods, her face relaxing. "Good...good," she says, and makes a strange long humming sound deep from her throat. She rocks her body once or twice in place, rolling onto her heels, then nods to herself. "He helps."
"He does. He does, doesn't he?" I manage out.
Mags reaches out and squeezes my arm, but I pull back.
"You guys should go get a head start," I say.
Annie looks between us, only departing when Mags gives her an encouraging nod. My former Mentor sits quietly beside me for a short time, until I hear her sigh gently. She reaches out to touch my arm again. This time, I don't pull away, and I turn to face her. Her expression is melancholic.
'You'll be safe, won't you?' Mags asks.
"The Capitolian implant, remember?" I counter, touching my stomach darkly. "Can't get pregnant."
Mags' expression shadows. 'That's not what I meant.'
"I know," I say. "It'll be fine, Mags. It's not like...the others, you know? Just focus on Annie."
'Just because I am helping Annie, does not mean I can just forget about you,' Ceresea, Mags says, sternly.
I exaggerate my eye roll, though her words do warm me a little. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mags. I know. Just go. I need to shower. I smell like fish."
Mags is reluctant, but I eventually manage to convince her to go inside and get ready, along with Annie. As they do so, I sit on my porch swing, idly going back and forth as I look over my view of the ocean. Victor's Village sits high on top of a hill, able to look out over the water and the better part of the District itself; high enough so that if there is any water damage down below, we'd be safe. Snow thought of everything, I add to myself, coldly. When I was just a kid, I used to sit on my parents' porch swing with my dad beside me as he played his guitar, looking out over the water, and trying to prod him into telling me stories about his time in the Arena. I wanted to know everything, how he survived, if he could teach me his methods.
At the time, even being so young, I had fully convinced myself that I was going to be a Victor someday, too. I had even had the added narrative of wanting to be the youngest Victor in known history, but that position was later taken up, ironically, by Finnick...the same year I had planned on Volunteering. It's funny how things work out in the end. Finnick, my childhood rival, took the title I had originally wanted. And I had become a Victor, but with so much to pay in return...my arm, my brother's life, my personal freedoms, and my bod. Sometimes I've wondered if I could have caught a glimpse of this life as a child if my view would have changed. But I doubt it would have. I had known that my dad lost his eye during his Games, yet the reality of it had never really hit. It had just seemed so minor, so irrelevant to the grander scheme of things. It felt like I had no reason to fear anything related to such a loss in my own version of the Games at the time.
I think I had just believed myself to be untouchable.
Such is the way in a child's mind.
Eventually, Mags and Annie leave, both now wearing pants and shirts. Mags had braided Annie's hair out of her eyes, but Mags' still hangs freely; blowing gently in the wind like streaks of silver from the moon. I watch them as they disappear along the trail leading towards the beach, until they reappear again somewhere in the distance. They walk side by side towards the docks, where they meet Finnick. Neleus Odair's ship waits for them, as well, the same ship Finnick had used to sail away for a while when we'd first returned from the Games. Despite the dull ache in my chest, I spend a few minutes more torturing myself as I watch the trio linger on the docks, no doubt taking the time to mentally prepare Annie.
Once they've taken to sea, I get up.
I have some time to myself before Seneca arrives, which I can spend in a number of different ways. I could get a head start on my own mental preparation, as well as general cleanliness, and picking out something to wear or deciding on how much makeup to apply to my face. Seneca likes my natural look, but I doubt he's especially fond of the sand-coated, stiff hair from dried salt water, version of me. It's not necessarily a broad appeal, after all. I could also spend some of my time less productively by just staring at the wall and trying to grapple onto that character I've made for myself in the Capitol.
Well, before anything else, I decide I need to shower. I do smell like fish and my body is coated in dry sand and my hair is sticky and stiff. It's not a particularly long shower, I just make sure to clean myself properly, applying some pleasant smelling lotion to my skin and untangling the knots in my hair. I don't take much care to decide what to wear, in the end. I just find a nice white dress that has some pleasant lacy material to it and brush out my hair, choosing to let it hang freely over my shoulders, and apply a practical amount of makeup. My Stylist back in the Capitol, Galeria Lovecraft, might have been disapproved of how minimal it was, but it suffices. Seneca likes my simplicity - my natural beauty, he calls it.
With some time to spare, I resign myself to my bedroom, and take out Liber's journal I keep hidden in a floorboard underneath my bed. I had found his journal shortly after coming home from my Games, with it hidden under the floor of his own room. It had been overlooked by my parents, who had gone through Liber's room and swiped books like this. I knew this based on the mysteriously book-shaped spots across his room where dust hadn't yet accumulated. I can't say for certain of those books had contained the same content as this one, but I guess I'll never know. My guess is, my parents burned them - or have hidden them so well that they may as well have disappeared entirely.
Within my brother's journal, there are countless designs and strange blueprints of what look to be different types of boats. Some of them are simple enough, some basic fishing boats with a few unique details. Others are stranger, more detailed and bizarre. The night before we were to go into the Games, I had asked my brother what he would have wanted for his life had he not been Reaped. He had replied that he wanted to build things. I suppose he had been serious about it, given these impeccable details, and how thorough the designs - the structures - seemed to be. A few pages in particular detail a boat that can be submerged underwater, though the blueprints there are a little cruder; clearly drawn sloppily, erased, then redrawn again.
But on almost every single page, there are notes from an N.D. Nodon Doyle. I don't know who this Nodon is, but I know he had been associated with my brother before he had died. The evidence is all throughout those pages, in those initials, and Mags had confirmed the name to me. But she had instructed me to never seek him out, to let the name, the memory, rest. And I did try, at her behest. She had made it clear that I could endanger this person by association with me, dragging him back into the Rhythe family after Liber's death. I had listened to her, for a time.
Still, it hadn't stopped me from eventually bringing the name into town, over the course of the last six years. Despite the fact I had made that promise to Mags, a few times I'd been too tempted to resist - so damn desperate for some semblance of closure or understanding to my brother's personal life. It's not logical, I know. It's downright idiot, and Mags conveyed to me as such. I've tried to let it guide my judgment, yet, periodically, I still try to learn more about this person.
Every time I've brought the name up, typically the local and popular merchants or net weavers or anyone with a fairly obvious direct line to most of District 4, I've been met with the same response. Different wording, same answers. Oh, Nodon died. Nodon Doyle is dead. That's a name I haven't heard in a while...shame he's dead. Sometimes the answers were casual, other times they were hesitant, and, in one instance, the person had stuttered over himself so badly I couldn't make out anything he said. The man had fled from me before I could pry for answers and he has since made an active effort to avoid me at every instance possible.
In a couple of tries, I've gotten some measure of specifics. Just some merchant. Problematic merchant. Difficult businessman. His sales were low. No one could deal with him. He was old and died.
With these broad answers I have accumulated, the best guess I can come to is that Nodon Doyle had been a merchant with a familial connection to my mother. Doyle is my mother's maiden name, after all. And more so than that, my mother's family history is complicated. According to the very little information I've been given about my mother's side of the family, she had allegedly gone against her parents wishes by eloping with my dad. Rheon had been fresh out of the Arena, a new Victor who had less than a reputable status in District 4. Even before the Arena, my dad had come from the poorest sectors of District 4 and, comparable to my mom, had been out of her league.
Demetra had been disowned, disvalued, and despised by her family, at least to the knowledge I was given.
But as my parents have proven since Liber died, they aren't exactly truthful or credible. My father has been lying to me for six years by concealing the fact he chose me over Liber in the Arena, when forced to choose between us. My parents have gone through and pillaged all of Liber's personal things in his own room, when it should have been left untouched as a tomb. This N.D., Nodon Doyle, has some type of connection to my mother and has definitely connected with Liber, so where does he stand? Why was he never mentioned before? It's unlikely my parents knew about him, and even if they had, they likely would have stopped Liber.
Would Liber have told me, though? I press to myself. Exactly how long had Liber known Nodon?
I set Liber's journal down onto my desk, sighing in quieted defeat. There's no use in dwelling on whether or not Liber would have shared this information with me. Clearly, he never did. I was his big sister, but that had never meant anything. As Liber proved in that Arena, when he held a trident against me, he was willing to kill me. Of course he would never have shared a secret such as this with me, knowing how close I was to Rheon...how, even when we were kids, our father kept choosing me over him -
I need to stop. This isn't the distraction I need right now. I need to bring my focus back to the impending afternoon sun and what it brings, not this damned mystery revolving around my family. Still, my mind is left in unrest because of it. I still have time before we go back to the Capitol...maybe I can try again. It's been six years. If any eyes were put onto Nodon Doyle after Liber died, they may have pulled away at this point. After all, he can't be dead. His initials were written into the book and dated, so he was clearly alive when Liber went into the Arena. Now, there's the possibility he was killed after, just like Finnick's father after he won his Hunger Games.
But a person doesn't just disappear. We're not dust in the wind.
Before my mind can tread dangerously away with me again, I leave my room. I slam the door deliberately behind me, letting that loud, thundering sound wake me up from my thoughts. I find a pair of nice slippers downstairs, which are beige in color and match my dress well enough. I don't do much to clean around the place, because it's not as though we're going to be spending a great deal of time downstairs. Most of the entertainment transpires upstairs, in my other bedroom - the room with a purpose. I wind up filling the remainder of my time sitting on the velvet divan in my living room, staring at a portrait of a ship out to sea over my fireplace.
My personal pager, set on the coffee table in front of me, buzzes and glows to life; alerting me. I know I still have time, as the alert simply means that Seneca Crane is in District 4. I just sit in that remaining time it takes for him to get from the train station to Victor's Village, the buzzing filling the silence as I don't reach down to quiet it. It's only after I hear a knock at my door - a formality, as Seneca has proven to me before he can just walk inside my home without so much as a blink. I allow small pause to settle between the final knock and when I push myself to my feet. I silence my pager.
I count down from time, and go to the door.
Seneca Crane stands on my porch, smiling sweetly. Behind him, some Peacekeepers who have served as his escort stand at the base of the stairs, while Seneca's personal bodyguard and secretary - who I recognize to be Ames, I think - stand on either side of him. Whenever anyone important from the Capitol arrives, they are always accompanied by at least two of their personal staff and a small band of Peacekeepers to serve as protection - and to also ensure the Capitolians stay in line. After all, it's a luxury and a gift for them to be out of their perfect Capitol. It's an honor. But even with such favor from President Snow, it can be easily stripped from them with one foot out of line. Somebody has to see the line remains untouched.
I only take a moment to swipe my gazes across the people, long since over my embarrassment in having these other people more or less present in my home while Seneca and I are together. It's almost barely an afterthought by this point. When my gaze levels back to Seneca, he is still beaming.
"I've missed you," Seneca says
"Come inside," I say. "We have a lot to catch up on."
(a/n): Here we are! This chapter was so, so much fun to write. It wound up being heckin wordy, so I took a huge chunk of it and set it aside for chapter three. So chapter 3 has a head start of 3,000 words, haha! XD I had a lot of fun exploring the other Victors this chapter and introducing Ceres' dynamics with them, as well as giving you guys some flashbacks of Ceres' initial exposure to her first Hunger Games as a Victor/Mentor and her relationships with her fellow Victors. And, of course, introducing Annie Cresta, Mags post-stroke, and a couple of details that will become more relevant later. ;) Hehe. I also admit that this chapter was mostly establishing and slow. XD I tried to make it as entertaining as possible, but I promise the next chapter is going to have quite a few things going on.
A lot of setup this chapter...but next chapter is gonna be a doozy. A couple things gonna transpire. .3. *evil cackle*
I love you all so much! Thank you for all of the love, you all motivate me to keep writing!
Read, review, favorite, follow, etc.! Thank you! *heart*
~REVIEW RESPONSES~
the. apple .seed: Haha! Yup! You called it when you said that Plutarch would be a POV character in the second part. ;) Indeed, Crane married! There'll be more on Crane and his marriage later on, as well as his kids...in maybe a flashback or two. .3. Ah-hah, I see you are already thinking far ahead. *evil grin* I won't give anything away, but a lot of things are going to transpire in the future...and some new twists and turns, as well. ;)
rikiarin: So fun fact, I actually thought about writing those six years into Reap What We Sow or as the first chapters of Converted Into Dust, but I hated the flow. Overall, not a lot happens in those six years, so I decided that I'd just put the specifically important moments in flashback sequences. I took inspiration from The Witcher and Dunkirk, by playing with time, and showing what's necessary. Hopefully it pays off, haha! ^_^ Thank you so much, btw! It's also so crazy to me I've been writing her for years and have watched her grow up...she's changed so much. :')
miaoca304: Gosh, your reviews always make me so happy! They're always so insightful and truly make me feel excited as a writer that you're paying attention to such little details. Truth be told, I used to ship Odesta, but in recent years I've been iffy on it. It does bother me how the hyper-focus is on Finnick protecting Annie and her wellbeing and completely neglecting his own. Finnick has gone through so much hell, and I really wanted to see that explored and have him be comforted, so it was really important to me (especially as a victim of sexual abuse myself) that Finnick's trauma is explored and seen, rather than hidden behind his love for Annie. As far as what will happen after the Quarter Quell, when Victors are kidnapped...I can say your thoughts are in the right place, but also some creative liberties will transpire throughout the story, which will effect the Quell and its events. ;)
scars from the sun: Don't feel guilty at all! Just the fact that you've stuck with my silly story and characters means the world to me! It truly does warm my heart to know that people have stuck with me for so long. :') If you're excited for my evil plans, I'm extra excited for you to see what's going down. I have a lot of evil stuff planned down the road of this story. Choo-choo, dark angst ahead! Woot! You're gonna be seeing all types of different Finnick and Ceres moments, and you're also gonna see some jealousy, ngl. ;)
DreamonAlina: To say I cried reading your review would be an understatement. I was getting teary eyed and smiling like an idiot the whole time! Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews on Reap What We Sow and, of course, here! It truly warms my heart that my story caught your attention the way it did and that you're as excited as you are for my sequel. :') As someone who aspires to be a published author someday, it makes me so happy to know that someone loves my writing and has read my (honestly) lengthy beast of a fanfic. XD You're wonderful! I hope you enjoyed chapter two. ;)
~CASTING~
Annie Cresta: Kaya Scodelario
Mags Flanagan: Lynn Cohen (RIP)
Cashmere Royce: Stephanie Leigh Schlund
Ren Ambrose: Milo Ventimiglia
Gemma Lux: Charlize Theron