(a/n): Oooh boy, guys, this chapter is a doozy...tread lightly.
Anyways, see you guys at the bottom! *smothers face*
Enjoy, loves!
CHAPTER TEN
fire is the test of gold
Ceres.
There's no way to describe the fear I'm feeling, how my hand is trembling as I stare back into my reflection. My Stylists, oblivious to the hurricane inside of my head, are happily decorating me. I didn't tell them the name of my client. I can't say for sure if they know who Thrax Mellona is, but I don't want to risk them worrying or, worse, face their utter obliviousness. Despite the fact I genuinely love my team and appreciate the care they put into me, I know they're still Capitolians. They still gush and swoon over the Hunger Games, still get excited over Sponsors, and, honestly, regard Seneca Crane with respect and dignity. They know I don't think too highly of him, but for all they care, I've nabbed gold in having Seneca as my exclusive client.
I keep glancing down at the pager on my vanity table, trying to keep my thoughts focused but all I can think about is Finnick sitting on the floor of his bathroom, sobbing and hyperventilating and the smell of blood in the air. That had been Thrax's damage, all because I had been an hour late to meet Seneca Crane. The Head Gamemaker himself didn't oversee the damage. Frankly, when I had showed up to our arrangement, he had been all too forgiving and insisted on treating me when I explained myself and lied that I had been focused on my Tributes and time was an oversight. But Snow saw it as a slight, a blatant act of disrespect. A rebellion. So, he sought to pluck that sour fruit immediately before it infected the rest of the branch.
Now I am to meet with Thrax personally, at his respective and random summoning. My skin crawls as I recall how he had grabbed my arm during the Unity Gala, staring at me as if I were just some animal, no better than cattle or, worse yet, a pet. Those piercing eyes of his had penetrated through my skin and sought to peel back the layers of my flesh, little by little, to see what was exposed underneath.
We're meeting at the Lemon Vine, which can't be a coincidence. The Lemon Vine was where Seneca took me on our first official "date" for dinner (he had taken me to the Borage House for breakfast, but was insistent it wasn't a real date, not yet) when I came back to the Capitol for the 69th Hunger Games. I recall how flustered the newly promoted Head Gamemaker had been when I had arrived for our scheduled dinner. He'd pulled my chair out for me and had stumbled over his order, his cheeks flushed, and had gone on and on about how he had hoped to bring me to this place if I'd won the Games. It's a frequent place he takes me when I return annually, and I know it has to mean something. Surely this is some powerplay made by Thrax to mess with me.
It wouldn't exactly not be public knowledge that the Head Gamemaker would take his mistress to this place, especially with how routine it is. Thrax could very easily find out, even directly through Seneca if he asked, and find a way to use it against me. It's a subtle use of weaponry, and I hate it.
Around me, my Stylists are giggling and completely oblivious to the violent set of emotions going on inside of me.
"This is so exciting!" Vesta says, grinning. "Another important Sponsor?"
"Oh, I know," Dion says as he applies some highlighter to my cheeks. "Marina and Kipper are so lucky to have such incredible Mentors!"
Turquoise pulls out a set of outfits from my closet, beaming. "You're lucky to be so popular, Ceres."
I just smile back through the reflection, though it's forced and doesn't reach my eyes. Luckily, none of my Stylists press the matter further, nor do they ask about it. They know better when I get like this, all stoic and quiet. The outfit they pick out for me is a high-necked (sadly, open backed) coral pink dress that goes a little above the knee, made up of a silky material that sways beautifully with my movements. The fabric shimmers vibrantly, reflecting various colorful hues. They put a dark brown scaly belt (I try not to think about the fact it's most likely crocodile skin) around my waist and give me a pair of scaly patterned leggings underneath, as well as a matching shawl to drape over my shoulders.
With a pair of dark heels and my hair done up into a practical bun, allowing my features (adorned and plastered with makeup in the same color scale), I'm ready to go. Glancing down at the pager resting on top of my vanity, I conclude that I'm doing well on time so far. I had had Ivoree message my Stylists to inform them that there was no time to waste, to be quick and to be as thorough as possible in the time allotted. I refused to be late, not for the likes of Thrax Mellona. It felt too risky.
All I can do is recall how I had been one hour late to a meeting with Seneca Crane, due to finding Finnick crying in his shower. I had to comfort him. I couldn't leave him like that...but in doing so, Finnick paid for my tardiness. He had gone to Thrax Mellona the next day and I had found him again covered in blood and bruises and so shaken he could barely speak. Punctuality is key when approaching clients, but I mean to be early for this one. I'm taking no chances. I won't find Finnick like that again.
Steadying my breathing, I bring myself to my feet and step outside of my room and into the lively apartments. Ivoree is in the parlor, squawking away about something or other, and Ren is exiting his own room wearing training garbs. His hair is slicked back into a tight knot and his dark eyes are actively avoiding me. I have to wonder if Marina informed him about our encounter the other day, when I had outright told her the idiocy of Ren's teachings. If he's ashamed of himself, he should be. Encouraging our Tributes to run head first into the Cornucopia rather than run is suicide. He may as well tell them to jump off of the podiums while he's at it, let them blow up immediately and save the other Tributes the trouble.
For a split second, all of my fears and woes concerning my meeting with Thrax dissipate. My focus, like a shark smelling blood in the water, hones sharply in on Ren as he adjusts wrist cuffs and ventures off towards the dining room where Marina and Kipper are finishing their meal.
My hand is trembling at my side but I clench it and press it firmly against my side. I peer over my shoulder, quietly telling my Stylists that they can go - I can walk outside to meet Leto when I'm ready. They hesitate, but noting the urgency in my hushed tone and the tightness in my gaze, they do so. But I can tell they're whispering to one another, sparing glances over their shoulders at me. I don't care. I steady myself and stride towards the dining room.
"Do you think we stand a chance?" I hear Kipper ask.
"Of course you do," Ren replies, leaning over to take an apple from a fruit bowl in the center of the table. "Both of you hail from District 4. We brave the hurricanes, the storms. We swim with apex predators, hunt alongside them as equals. We are the survivor types. And I assure both of you, you will be fine."
Marina smiles broadly at that, but her smile instantly falters when she sees me approach. Her eyes fall downcast and she picks at some eggs on her plate. She must still be a little shaken by our training session, which is a good thing. I'm hoping what I had to say stuck with her.
Kipper, however, looks at me directly and furrows his brow. "Mentor Ceres, are you okay?" he asks. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"I'm meeting with a potential Sponsor, Kipper. I have to look professional, don't I?" I say, offering him the best smile I can muster to alleviate his concerns, and turn back to look at Ren. He looks less than impressed, but at least he maintains eye contact. "Are you training with them this morning?"
Ren nods. "I am, yes. I was going to suggest that we train together, but given the fact you've had a relatively prolific set of Sponsors trailing in, I figured I could handle it. After all, I don't want to place too much on your shoulders," he says, and nods towards the two Tributes.
"Ren's taught us a lot of useful stuff," Kipper offers. "Like it's okay to be afraid. It's good. Healthy, right? That's what my mom says, too. I used to sleep in the dark, but she told me no one can see in the dark, and therefore I'm invisible. I'm safer in the dark so why be afraid of it?"
I exhale slowly. "That's a unique way of looking at it."
"So, when we go into the Cornucopia I won't be afraid, and then -"
"No, damn it!" I find myself yelling before I can stop myself, the outburst spilling from me like a broken dam. I find my face flushing with immediate embarrassment, reaching up towards my eyes which widen into saucers. Kipper's own eyes have widened, taking me in with disbelief, while Marina continues to play with her food. My heart flutters with horror. Shit. My jaw clenches, thinking quickly - I need to act fast. I can't let that reaction sit for too long, I can't let it stir in their thoughts without something else to latch onto. "Sorry...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell...but, no. Neither of you will have anything to do with the Cornucopia."
"B-but Ren says I'm small enough that I can sneak in undetected," Kipper protests, looking up to his other Mentor for support.
But I cut off my fellow Victor before he feeds these kids anymore false and very dangerous information, as well as carefully putting my body between him and the kids. "Let's say either of you get into the Cornucopia and steal one of the weapons, maybe even a backpack, both are going to drag you down. You can't leave it as quickly as you get in, because you'll have that heavy thing weighing you down and making you more obvious and an easier target. A weapon could catch the light, alerting another Tribute to your position. A backpack can make you slow - and, despite what you may believe, they don't always carry necessary items. I've seen Games where some backpacks were just filled with rocks. These things are not worth the risk. You go in that way, you die. Do you understand?"
Kipper stares up at me wide-eyed and I notice how glassy his eyes are looking now, which immediately tears at my heart in a way I wish wouldn't, and Marina slowly, finally, looks up towards me. Her face is more composed, having already seen a similar outburst earlier, but she does wince when our eyes lock. The truth is, as much as I'd like to speak gently to both of them, it's no use. There isn't anything beneficial about being gentle regarding these circumstances. The Hunger Games aren't easy. They aren't predictable - well, sure, they can be to some aspect, but that can also get you killed. I know, I tried it.
But more so, I need to erase the damage that Ren has done. All the things he's embedded into them is wrong and it's going to take brute force to wipe it away. I need them both to take me, to take everything, seriously. They can't just rely on Ren's pep-talks on how wonderful our District is and how strong they are and how they have the potential to sneak in, undetected, through the Cornucopia. With all of those "logics" combined, he's going to get them killed. They will die, and it will be their blood on his hands - and mine, if I don't try to make a difference.
Behind me, Ren clears his throat, and I step aside to face him. His whole jaw is clenched and his eyes are staring intently at me. He's more than annoyed right now, he's angry. I've arguably overstepped my bounds. As the younger and more fresh Victor, I have less experience and, unfortunately, credit compared to my fellow Mentor. Ren has years upon years of doing this. It's generally frowned upon to directly disrespect your peers, even if they're wrong. We may be equals, but there's still an unspoken hierarchy. But right here and now, I say fuck that hierarchy. I straighten my back and meet his gaze just as unrelentingly.
Eventually, he looks away and tries to soften his gaze towards the Tributes. He sets his apple down and claps his hands together. "Alright. Both of you, get dressed. We're going down to train in five minutes, hear me?"
Once Marina and Kipper have walked away, I reach out to grab Ren's arm before he, too, can leave. "Ren. I need a word."
"It will have to wait, Ceresea," Ren says. Ah. We're using full names, are we? "I'm taking Marina and Kipper to training. I want to see them against each other as competitors and allies in the Arena. And you have a meeting to attend to. It's definitely not Seneca, no way in hell you'd wear something so flashy for the likes of him. Who is it this time? Another Gamemaker? Or some -"
"Fuck you," I say. "We are talking now. And I dare you to walk away from me."
Ren glances down at my hand tightly gripping his arm then back towards me. He jerks a little out of my grip, but everything about his demeanor conveys he won't be moving anywhere, so I pull my hand back. He sighs audibly. "I have a feeling I know what this is about," he says.
"What the hell are you playing at?"
"I'm not a mind-reader. You should elaborate."
"Tell me why the hell both Kipper and Marina are telling me that you want them to run straight to the Cornucopia - a bloodbath, Ren," I growl. "Just because you survived your Cornucopia doesn't mean they will. In case you forgot, your Arena was a disaster. Tributes were dying left and right and everyone was trying to stay balanced. You got lucky. Tell me how that doesn't register in your head. Tell me why you, against all of our judgments, are now telling them that they can just go for it?"
Ren's expression tightens. "Everyone has been a little busy," he says, "truth be told, it's mostly been you and me doing the work with these kids. Tilda's up the ass with clients, as is your Finnick, and Rheon's been more preoccupied fraternizing with District 1 than dealing with his own Tributes."
"So that gives you the right to not even go over training methods? You're just going to convince them to run straight into the slaughter? Are you trying to get them killed?"
Ren doesn't reply.
I want to see him wince or to see him lower his eyes in shame, or even look appalled by my claims. I want him to justify his decision to actively convince our Tributes that running headfirst into the Cornucopia is to their benefit. But all he does is stand there, staring back at me with eerie calmness. There is anger lurking underneath, of course, but it's not the central emotion. I search his face and body language for something to give away what's going on inside of his head. There's nothing. I just stand there, staring at him stupidly, until I realize he isn't going to say a damn word and he isn't going to do a damn thing.
The realization settles in my stomach and then spills over, proceeding to flood me until I can't breathe. "You...Ren," I say, with a disbelieving exhale. Ren has always been a strange and complicated Victor, but he's never done anything like this before...he's never sabotaged our Tributes. I blink, trying once again to see through him. There's nothing. "You are. You are. I...they're kids, they're just kids, Ren. They are our kids. We are responsible for keeping them alive, and you're just trying to get them killed as soon as you possibly can? What is wrong with you?!"
"Lower your voice. I don't need them overhearing this," Ren says, quietly, glancing towards the hallway where their rooms reside; their doors still shut. "It's a very delicate matter, Ceres. You wouldn't possibly understand."
"Killing kids is a delicate matter now?"
"For our circumstances, yes," Ren says, leaning a little closer. "Neither of them have the spark."
It doesn't register at first, as I stare up at him furiously, but once it does it briefly flashes across my face; a stunned silence where my jaw hangs and my eyes go wide again. I'm speechless. Ren notices this as well and looks away, deep in thought. The spark. Plutarch Heavensbee's easy smile flashes across my vision as we sat at the edge of that fountain in Cardinal Park, our voices drowned out by birds singing and the loud running water.
After a lapse of silence, done so by my own hand, Ren clears his throat and glances back towards the doors, and speaks a little faster to me. "They have to die. They're going to die, anyway, at the rate they're both going. He's too soft and she's too brash. But now it's a necessity."
"So you're just speeding up the process?" I manage, unsure of what is happening right now, but very thoroughly convinced this has something to do with Plutarch. Ren must be involved...it would make sense, right? But I can't ask outright. "What gave you the right?"
"No one. My conscience isn't clear, if that makes you feel any better."
"It doesn't," I say. "You're not better than the Capitol."
Ren has the dignity to wince. "Say what you want about it, Ceres. I'm not doing it because I want to, I'm doing it because I need to."
"If they don't have the spark, who does? Whose life is more important?"
Ren shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "But someone seems to have some theories."
"Did a little bee buzz that in your ear?"
Ren's face darkens and he pulls away, subtly shaking his head. His eyes silence me. "We're all just dust in the wind. Don't delude yourself into thinking we can turn that dust into gold with our Tributes. We can't. Even if we could, they'd just become like the unlucky ones," he says. Down the hallway, the doors open. "I'm going to take care of my Tributes now. You should go meet with your client. Punctuality is of cardinal importance to these people."
I spend the entirety of the time in the backseat of Leto's slick black car trying to decipher the interaction I just shared with Ren. The thing that I can ultimately conclude to, though, is that he is definitely involved in whatever Plutarch is arranging. There were too many clues, too many specific words. Spark, dust, cardinal. Plutarch spoke of a spark, something to ignite what he is forging - maybe a symbol, maybe an action to light the fuse, maybe a person to lead it all. He also told me to use the word dust when I contacted Ames, who would, in turn, relay the message to Plutarch that I had agreed to his offer. And then there is the use of the word cardinal, as Plutarch and I had met in Cardinal Park.
All of these things can't be a coincidence. They're too brazenly obvious for anyone who would be actively searching for those details, or just already aware of them. Ren is involved. He is involved. On one hand that offers a small measure of levity, since it means there's more than one person in my District who's affiliated with Plutarch and his crazy plans. But then that also worries me, making me question who else is involved, and how deep it goes. Ren has to be aware that I have some measure of affiliation with the matter now, even if I'm not directly intertwined in it. Why else would he use those words? Carry himself with such determination? Talk about a spark?
But if that were the case, why would he trust me? He must be positive that I'm going to accept the offer. That measure of faith in me does ignite some measure of relief, but it also frightens me. More so, I am wondering what else Plutarch knows, what Ren knows, if the latter is so willing to forfeit his Tributes all for someone else worthy of that spark. But the question is, who?
Unfortunately, I don't have time to dwell on those thoughts, because soon enough I am brought to the Lemon Vine. I have to calm myself down and put on my mask, wear that sweet, charming smile, and pretend (one again) that everything is fine. Leto escorts me through the lavish restaurant, composed of marble and tall, strong pillars, and adorned with velvety red curtains and large seating arrangements and painted vines along the wall depicting ripe lemons. The waiting staff are all wearing perfectly yellow-themed attires, with some variety of lemon upon their persons.
My bodyguard doesn't seem the least bit surprised that I've been summoned back out again. Today he doesn't even greet me. Frankly, I don't think we've said a word to each other since my meeting with Plutarch. When the Gamemaker had sent away my bodyguard without protest, suspicions had arisen with me. I'd wondered and speculated if Leto was a part of whatever it was Plutarch was building, but I also tried to reason that it stemmed from Plutarch's position as second hand to the Head Gamemaker. Either way I haven't asked. It seems too dangerous to do so. That being said, I've watched him closely more so now than before.
Even when he gets out of the car to drop me off at the Lemon Vine, as I'm smiling pleasantly at him, I'm gauging his face, eyes, demeanor, everything for something that could give me the slightest hint. I decidedly arrive ten minutes early. Typically, the acceptable amount of time to be early to meet with Clients (unless otherwise specified) is within five minutes, but I'm taking no chances with this man.
I had hoped that we would be seated somewhere out in the open, but no such luck. Leto leads me to a private seating arrangement on the upper floor, in a room separated from the rest and divided by large glistening curtains. The space is relatively small, all things considered, though brightly lit. The floor has a strange assortment of textile patterns of lime greens and yellows and golds and whites, with the walls being pure white and adorned with multiple strange art pieces. An oval shaped table sits in the center, with two lime green chairs, both occupied.
Thrax Mellona is sitting in the room, his back facing me, but I can recognize his slicked back silvery hair and strange overly straightened posture. Across from him...oh, fuck. Sitting right across from him is a man with dark, albeit greying, hair with a strangely contoured beard and dark eyes, wrinkles upon his angular features, and dressed quite well in rich crimsons and violets. This is Cicero Crane, Seneca's father, who I've been fortunate enough to have never met. I'd like to keep it that way. I fight back the urge to turn around and get the hell out of the there. Sure, I'm early, but so early that this would be a problem? But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? I am early. I can just slip out or hide by the bar and wait it out, like five minutes or so, for Cicero Crane to courteously get up from the table and depart, then I can slip in and handle whatever it is Thrax has planned.
But this hope of mine has no chance to be set into motion, because Leto approaches their table and whispers something to Thrax. I can't stop him. All I can do is stand there, frozen, as she say something to the men at the table, and then their eyes are on me. Thrax waves me forward and I have no choice. I swallow the huge lump lodged in my throat and approach the table the way one would approach a wild animal, mindful and slow. I maintain a pleasant expression to the beast of my ability and strategically try to ignore how Cicero's smiling face instantly falls when he sees me.
"Ah, my dear, you are early. I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of ordering salmon and a lemonade for you," Thrax says, lifting a bell from off of the table and ringing it. A waitress clad in a bright yellow dress with a wig shaped like a lemon appears. He gestures for her to bring a third chair to the table. Meanwhile, my bodyguard has moved himself behind the curtain, out of sight, but there. At least he's there. "Ms. Rhythe, I believe you are acquainted with the esteemed Cicero Crane. You are, after all, carnally familiar with his son."
I swallow back my rage, reminding myself of the threats Thrax made before (regardless of how Finnick thinks there'd be no follow through) and the precarious situation I am in. Turning to regard the former Gamemaker, I see that he is staring up at me coldly. For that, I can't blame him. No doubt my face is flushed from embarrassment and anger, but I try to pass it off as just being flustered with a forced, softer smile. "I haven't had the pleasure. Mr. Crane, it's a pleasure to meet you," I say, turning back to look at Thrax, who's smiling like a cat who's caught a nice plump mouse. "I can come back -"
"Bah, please, sit down. We were just wrapping up," Thrax says, just as the waitress returns with a third chair.
This is completely and utterly embarrassing, but I have no choice but to sit between my Capitolian lover's father and my real love's abuser. It's not any type of predicament I've longed to be in. Frankly, I feel trapped, like fish in a net; blindly thrashing around, and then suffocating. The difference is, mine is all on the inside. Outside, I am forced into calm. When I am seated, I rest my hand over my knee, looking discreetly between the two men as my hand clenches under the table. The waitress looks down at me and politely asks me if I'd like anything to eat or drink. I don't want anything, not with the way my stomach is rolling, but I know it'll look bad if I don't. So I order a simple green tea and croissant.
Once the waitress has walked away, Thrax leans forward and sizes me up with his eyes, very slowly and very obviously. "I prefer Victors who are early. It's always such a disappointment when they're late. Don't you agree, Cicero? Well, I believe you haven't partaken since you married your lovely wife," he says, then adds to me, "My dear friend Cicero highly values the sanctity of marriage. It's a lost sentiment nowadays."
Cicero lifts a satin napkin from off of his lap and dabs it over his bearded mouth. "That would be right," he says. "I, as most young self-respecting Capitolian men, have partaken. But those days are gone now, as they should be for all men who eventually settle."
I notice how he stares directly at me as he says this. I try to keep my eyes diverted, but I can still feel his own gaze on me. Newsflash, I think, coldly, if I had it my way your son would be castrated and the remnants of his manhood would be fed to the same Mutt who took my arm. It's not as though it's my fault that Seneca decided to keep me as his exclusive Victor even after he married his beloved Ithaca and then had children with her. He's a grown man. He made his own choice.
I don't say this, of course, but I say it with such power and vigor inside of my own head, it may as well be a ballad. Outwardly, though, I try to smile and nod, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that Cicero's words are obviously pointed towards me.
Cicero clears his throat. "Since Ms. Rhythe has arrived early and we've essentially wrapped things up, perhaps we can finalize the deal?"
Thrax's smile widens. "Of course," he says. "But would you forgive me for just one moment? I'm afraid I must use the washroom. When I return, I'll sign the deal."
Without waiting for the other to reply, Thrax has stood up from the chair and wordlessly swept out of sight, disappearing into one of the long stretches from the catwalk presumably towards one of the elevators. Thrax has left me alone with Cicero Crane...I am now very alone, sitting in awkward, tense silence beside a man who obviously hates me and views me as the problem in this messed up relationship Seneca has "built" for us. This is all on purpose, it has to be. Neither of us are happy about these circumstances, save for Thrax Mellona, who's no doubt going to be taking all the time in the world to take care of his business.
It's just a powerplay. Thrax is trying to assert a level of dominance by putting me into a position where I am trapped socializing with Seneca's father, maybe even vice versa. Perhaps Cicero has done something to wrong Thrax, resulting in a double win between the two of us. Truth be told, I'm so enveloped within my own riled nerves and my apprehensions on being here in the first place, it doesn't really occur to me to question what deal they're making together, or why Cicero doesn't just leave.
Come what may, I hope we can sit in uncomfortable silence until Thrax returns. Even when the waitress comes back with my tea and croissant, as well as refilling Cicero's black coffee, no words are passed between us. This is exactly what we need until Thrax returns, just pure silence...nothing else is necessary.
But, unfortunately, Cicero has other plans. Shifting fully in his seat and turning to face me, he folds his hands over the top of the table and leans a little closer, like a father about to scold his child. "My son wanted me to meet you, formally," he says.
My jaw tenses, wishing that if Cicero did want to speak that he would have chosen something less...less...I don't even know, what am I supposed to do with this? To the extent of my knowledge, Seneca's parents are indifferent to our relationship, which is significantly better than them wanting to be over involved. Typically, when I a with Seneca, all other important matters flutter away. He seems to forget about his parents, wife, and children, disappearing into the world he's created around us.
I highly doubt that's very secretive, either. I can only imagine all of the unseemly things that Seneca's father has observed over the years, or overheard through his son. "I'm...aware," I say, wincing. Shit. Seneca hadn't mentioned anything to me about it, it was Plutarch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I bite my tongue, hoping that Cicero doesn't relay any such message back to Seneca, that this can all just slip uncomfortably into our memories and disappear. I want this whole damn encounter to be dust in the wind. Please.
Cicero raises his coffee to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. "You are a very pretty young girl. Any ill feelings I have towards you aren't anything personal, I do hope you know that," he says, in such a tone that has me believing he thinks he's saying something gentle. "But that being said, you are still my son's paramour. My son who is married and who has three children by a wonderful young woman of noble birth and prestige, who, for reasons I cannot fathom, is overlooked in favor of you." His head shakes. "A girl from the Districts with one arm."
Typical Capitolian perspective. How very standard of him to only see what's on the surface, to start off with, but most importantly being oblivious to my circumstances. Is he as deluded as his son to believe that this is the life I want? Does he think that I relish in being Seneca Crane's plaything? To be ravished on top of his desk whenever he so pleases to call upon me, my skirt hiked to my waist or my pants around my ankles? To wear a mask and pretend that everything is fine, when in reality I am perpetually mapping out a way for Finnick and I to set sail and never come back?
None of it is my choice, despite whatever Cicero Crane has tricked himself into believing. It's not mine. If I had it my way, Seneca wouldn't have a right to my body or time, nor would any Capitolian - the same applies to my fellow Victors. If I could break their shackles, I would in a heartbeat. The assumption that I am willingly giving myself over to a married man time and time again - mind you, the man who builds the Arenas my Tributes die in yearly, who built the Mutts that ripped my arm off my body - makes me want to break something.
"Despite Seneca's insistence for us to be better acquainted, which involves hosting you in our home for dinner, I won't bend. I refuse to accept your presence as normal," Cicero says.
I lift my green tea to my lips, trying to ignore how it's too sweet and how the texture is too thick. "Is it because I'm one of the mud-people or your son's blatant infidelity bothers you?" I ask, despite the fact I know it's a stupid idea. But Cicero entirely ignoring his son's involvement in this matter - seemingly accusing me of being the whole-hearted temptress - is rubbing me the wrong way.
Thankfully, Cicero doesn't seem vexed by it. He simply shrugs. "I dislike that term. I have no disdain towards the Districts or its patrons, Ms. Rhythe. I highly value them, actually, I always have," he says, sighing. "In another life, perhaps I wouldn't have minded my son courting you. But this is not the way of the world."
"Courting?"
Cicero exhales through his nose. "It's a word for my son's infatuations with you," he says. "Frankly, after six long years, I'm not sure what to call it. Call you."
"That makes the two of us," I say, swallowing. "Mr. Crane, did you know your son made my father choose between me and my brother?"
"Not in full details," Cicero says. "But he has mentioned it." Noticing the cold glint in my eyes, he sighs loudly and opens his hands, as if trying to bear his sins. "I do not speak for my son or his morally ambiguous choices, including whatever he has done to involve himself in your life. As a father, I stand on the precipice of bias, and there is no escape. I have no other children save for Seneca. But I know I would choose his life in a heartbeat, even if it meant sacrificing my own. Had I succeeded in my career and apprenticed Seneca myself, I would have gladly stepped aside to give him the spotlight, unlike my brother. What father wouldn't want that for their own son? I imagine your own father assumed the same position when placed between yourself and your brother. It's hardly a fair thing to place that burden on my son's shoulders."
"But it's fair for my father to carry the guilt?"
"If we are going to discuss fairness, we're going to be here for quite a while," Cicero says. "There is no fairness in this world. I'm rueful in admitting you've shared the brunt of it, in losing your arm, having to kill your brother, and other rather dismal matters that have spoiled my appetite. Still, all things considered, I respect you for what you have endured. In another life, I would have gladly associated with you. But this is the life we lead, and I dislike how heavily placed you are in my son's."
You and me both. "At the very least, Seneca has his wish. We've managed to meet," I say. "No doubt my darling will be thrilled."
"Yes. Quite," Cicero says.
The curtains shift and Thrax steps through them. "I apologize for the delay," he says, returning to his seat. He reaches across the table and grabs a pad that I hadn't noticed was there, then quickly writes something across its surface. "There. All signed. I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. Crane. This is truly going to put you back on map." He smiles on as Cicero gathers his bearings and departs, sparing no other words or looks in my direction. Once he's out of sight, Thrax's smile fades. "You must be curious. Go ahead, ask."
I couldn't give a damn over what kind of negotiations Cicero and Thrax are doing together. They're both relatively important men within the Capitol, I'm sure it's some way to earn a stupid amount of money. Still, I can tell that Thrax wants me to ask, so I indulge him. "What was that all about?"
"Mr. Crane and I are investing together into some new advanced technology for the Gamemakers. Better Arenas, better resources, just better quality Hunger Games," Thrax says. "Allegedly, the tech was built by that oddball Beetee Latier, though it hasn't been confirmed. I wouldn't be surprised, of course, but I would be disappointed. The reliance we have on Victors for anything other than carnal pleasure is absurd. Their minds break in the Arena. They are, pardon my language, useless. It may not be obvious right away, but sooner or later they all break, much like that...Amara girl from District 4."
"Annie Cresta," I correct, biting back the urge to snap.
My hand remains clenched under the table, though I'm forcing my expression to remain neutral. I can't let myself shatter under my rage, as he speaks so foully against the people who survived in those Arenas, despite their odds. And his outward disrespect towards Beetee Latier quietly infuriates me. Despite the fact the man is definitely odd, he's a genius. He found a way to electrocute his opponents and has proven to be a valuable asset to all of Panem, thanks to his mind. A double edged sword, I guess, since it does benefit the Capitol. Yet another example of how the Capitol leeches off of its Tributes. But I know that Thrax isn't going to see it that way. We're just mud-people to him.
"I imagine you know a great deal about Gamemakers and the whole elaborate system they have within their tower," Thrax says.
I shake my head. "I'm afraid that my reach isn't that high."
"Oh. Well, that must bother you, then. To be so close to such a vibrant resource, through the Head Gamemaker himself, and be unable to truly see things for how they are. It would be like a shark unable to reach a nice plump fish in a coral." Thrax smiles, coldly. "I do hope my little metaphor is factual. I'm afraid I'm entirely oblivious to the nature of the ocean, save for it is as savage and unpredictable and wild as its Victors - arguably as all of the Districts. Wouldn't you agree?"
Play along. Play along. Don't snap. "It is an accurate metaphor."
"Still, all of that nonsense likely doesn't bother you nearly as much as how you are the whore to your brother's killer. Well, that is to say, your spear pierced his heart, but it was Seneca Crane's Arena that ultimately killed him - and took your arm, actually."
I bring my gaze down to the food set in front of me, overcome with the urge to grab it and throw it across the room and storm out, or better yet attack the man in front of me. My hand twitches, suddenly filled with the urge to remove a rapala that isn't there from its sheath and stab it into him, opening his guts to me the way I did to the girl from District 8 in the Arena. Instead, I force my hand to stop shaking and I grab a fork, instead, carefully cutting apart the piece of salmon in front of me. It smells too sweet. Its color is too artificial. It looks wrong. It's too chewy, it tastes wrong. I just want to throw it back up, but I swallow it down.
Thrax is staring across the table intently at me, waiting for my reaction. No doubt he wants me to - as all Victors allegedly do - break. Make no mistake, I want to. There are a hundred different violent things I would love to do to Thrax Mellona in this moment, especially considering we're in a private room and no one would immediately see us. But there are likely cameras situated everywhere. Even if, hypothetically, no one noticed, the cameras would. And the cameras would just go back to Snow.
I swallow my third bite of salmon and smile. "That is an interesting perspective, Mr. Mellona."
Appearing a little displeased by my lack of a reaction, Thrax waves his hand and proceeds to cut into his lambchop. "I hope you've given more serious thoughts to me Sponsoring your Tributes," he says. "I would be a valuable asset with strong connections. With my money and power, I could then persuade others to take them up. It would be most beneficial to everyone."
To procrastinate answering, I grab ahold of the all-too tart lemon drink (which definitely has some alcohol in it, but I try to ignore that detail) and gently sip it, taking my time as I consider my answer. Sadly, Thrax seems to recognize my hesitation and smiles widely, folding his hands over the table.
"My dear, calm down. I can sense where your worries reside. I would never bed the likes of you," Thrax says. "I'm not inclined to take broken, incomplete things to my bed. Where is the pleasure in that?" He scoffs, as if appalled by the very idea, and then looks back at me with curiosity flashing in his eyes. "A thought occurs. You're not much younger than Finnick Odair, are you?"
"We're a few months apart. We went to school together," I say, dread instantly filling me.
He hums. "I see. Please, remind me how old Finnick was when he won the Games. I'm afraid I'm an old man and my memory evades me sometimes."
I'd like to see your life evade you. "Fourteen."
"Of course, fourteen, the youngest Victor in Panem history. Fourteen...like a freshly budded flower, not yet ripe for the plucking, but tantalizing, all the same. It's disappointing President Snow had me wait a year before I could have him. Still, the anticipation alone turned out to be half the pleasure, if you could imagine it."
Everything inside of me is hurting. My hand is clenching so tightly around my fork I'm afraid I'm going to bend the silver in two, but I don't care if I do, because I long to raise it high and plunge it into Thrax's neck; over and over again, his blood staining the multi-colored floor, spraying on the snow white walls. I want him to hurt. I raise my fork and stab into the pastry resting on a side-dish, watching the strawberry filling bleed out of the peachy exterior, and lift my eyes up to Thrax, imagining it's his head cracking open. I want his face to be unrecognizable. I want to walk out of this room covered in his blood, and smiling because his body is nothing but bones and mush, and knowing he'll never hurt Finnick or anyone else again.
But this fantasy is too dangerous to live in. I find myself captivated by the thought alone, feeling that deep, terrible darkness inside of me start to manifest. I act quickly to push it back down, but it only amplifies as Finnick flashes over my vision. Finnick sitting in his own blood, unable to breathe or even speak. The Finnick who hid in his room after coming back the year after his Games, who couldn't say a word of what he went though. When he did emerge from his room days later, he hid everything behind a smile, and acted like everything was fine. He didn't disclose a single word to me.
He would be fifteen. He's twenty-four now. When he was just a teenager, Thrax would have been in his early fifties. Now he's in his sixties.
I set my fork down before I start to grind the pastry into a bloody mush, or feel compelled to stab Thrax through the throat, and bring my hand down to my lap. I clench it there, gripping the fabric of my skirt and my nails raking over the skin of my knee furiously. Be calm. Be calm. Be calm. If I lash out, if I do anything to this man - especially in such a public place - it won't be me who pays for it. Well, maybe it will. Maybe Snow will have something done to me that is horrible, but first he'll take it out on Finnick, like he did before.
I'm hoping Thrax will change the conversation, bring it back to the concept of Sponsorships, but instead he leans across the table and brushes his slimy, terribly cold fingers down my cheek.
Don't bite, don't bite, don't bite...
"Perhaps I might have plucked you, too, had Seneca not taken you first, or if you'd kept your parts in the Arena," Thrax says, sighing almost sadly, and withdraws his hand from me. He stares at me the way someone looks at something too broken, irreparable. It's almost worse than a pitying glance.
"What a shame for the both of us," I manage to say.
"A shame, indeed. Now, Ms. Rhythe, will you accept my Sponsorship?"
"I'll have to discuss it with my -"
"I don't care what your team will have to say. I care what you think. Will you accept?" he asks. When met with silence, he sighs irritably. "Finnick Odair will accept mine, of course, the poor boy has no choice in the matter. He knows better than to refuse me. Alas, it seems you are still uneducated, so I shall be more lenient with you. Poor girl. Will you accept my offer to Sponsor your dearly beloved Tributes? It would be my utmost pleasure."
Despite everything inside of me saying otherwise, I nod. "Yes," I say. It's the safest move I can make, for all of us, even though it destroys me inside. "You can Sponsor my Tributes."
"Ah." Thrax lifts his finger, waving it at me. "Tribute. I'm only interested in Sponsoring the one. I am no fool, Ms. Rhythe. Only one Tribute is leaving the Arena and I have no interest in Sponsoring two when all of my finances could be placed into one. Such an impractical decision it is to even consider Sponsoring two, but I'll forgive you for your misguided, though I'm certain very well-meaning, intentions."
I bite down on my tongue so hard I'm certain to draw blood. I swallow multiple times before answering. "I see. Which one will you be Sponsoring, then?"
The look upon Thrax's face is incredbulous, as if I should know exactly who he's intending on Sponsoring - like I am just some stupid little girl he is honoring with his presence, and how I am the nuisance. "The boy, of course. I see a great deal of potential in him," he says, cutting a piece of the lamb and bringing it to his lips. He moans softly, delighting in the flavor, and his eyes glaze back dreamily. "You are Mr. Odair's age. Did you ever have a chance to taste him before he threw himself into our embraces? I assure you, he's sweet now, but sweeter when he was a boy - still so innocent, much to learn. I'm afraid your Tribute isn't nearly as appealing as Finnick Odair was, of course, but with some years, he has potential to ripen like a sweet fruit and then into a fine wine. Wouldn't you say?"
All I can do is sit there, stunned, as Thrax carries on with his speech. My stomach starts to twist, developing in such pain that I almost double over and cry out from the sheer agony of it. Hundreds of different screams are echoing inside of my head, some of them not even mine. Kipper's young freckled face flashes across my vision, staring up at me with glassy eyes after I had yelled at him, and then I am seeing the confident smile of a young Finnick Odair promptly fade out into broken bloodshot eyes when I'd encountered him on the beach, after he'd come home from the Capitol for the second time.
My whole hand is openly shaking now, spreading throughout the entirety of my body. I can hear my jaw clicking together, despite trying to clench it. Thrax seems unfazed by my reaction. Hell, from what I can gather, he seems damn pleased with himself. He continues to cut into his lamb as I sit across from him, trembling, and desperately trying to put together the flurry of emotions surrounding me. The horror, the ache, the pain, everything. All I can see is blood, not just Finnick's from that day, nor my imaginary illusion of murdering Thrax, but the blood I saw in the Arena.
The sensation I'm feeling now is similar to when the Mutt had me in its clutches and twisted me under the surface in the death roll. The phantom sensation of my left arm sparks to life, igniting into an indescribable pain that scorches straight through my shoulder. I can't breathe. I'm in a cloud of blood - my blood, its blood - and my vision blurry, with Liber looming over me, watching as the creature tries to kill me, before he turns and goes.
All at once, I want to throw up. But first, I need to fight. I need to run. I need to survive.
"Oh, dear. Have I flustered you?" Thrax says, his voice muffled amidst the sounds in my head. I barely notice how he stands up from the table, moving around it in order to face me. I almost barely feel his hands brush over my cheeks, caressing lower down my neck. "You are so very beautiful when you're speechless. Such a shame you're just a cripple."
When I feel his hands move to my shoulders with the intent to progress lower, something inside of me snaps. Like when I pulled myself out of the bloodstained water, out of the crocodile's maw, I snap back to reality and face the cruel smiling face of Thrax Mellona as he hunches too close to me. His breath smells like mints and bloodied lamb. I push myself out of the chair, forcing him to straighten as well, and looking a little startled. The chair staggers a little behind me, though it doesn't fall.
But there is a very loud thudding sound that follows, promptly followed by the realization that my palm is tingling, and my whole body has twisted in a different direction. In an act so fast and so blindly dictated, my hand had betrayed me and swung out to strike hard against Thrax Mellona's face, sending the older man hard into the ground. He had no time to prepare for the impact. I imagine he didn't even register the possibility of me retaliating in such a manner. He lays upon the ground wide-eyed, his pale, wax-like cheek instantly turning red. My palm burns, but there's a great measure of satisfaction behind it. Better still is how Thrax is the speechless one now, gaping up at me like a fish.
"Did you just hit me?" Thrax says, audibly startled.
I don't reply. The victory I feel in the moment is short-lived, as a newfound realization strikes me. My palm tingles and burns, my fingers twitching to inflict more damage upon the man still laying on the floor. I realize what the hell I have done. I've just struck a Capitolian. Thrax Mellona of all people. The immediate dangers don't quite click yet, since things are just chaotically falling into place around me.
Touching his cheek, Thrax pushes himself up to his feet, and continues to gape at me with disbelief. "It appears I underestimated you and your arm," he says.
"I..."
Thrax brushes his hands over the front of his outfit, adjusting his vest accordingly and smoothing out any noticeable wrinkles brought on by his fall. His cheek is crimson now, the very obvious sign of a handprint visible upon his skin. "I see you need some time to consider my offer, don't you? It was so cruel of me to thrust so much on you all at once. Clearly, your constitution is delicate," he says, with ice. "I shall provide you with time too sit and ponder, thoroughly. I'll call upon you in the next few days, of course - see if you've given it more proper thought."
I stand there, frozen in place, as Thrax lays some money upon the table. He looks across the room, then at me. I half-expect him to strike me in retaliation. He even takes a step towards me with his hand slightly lifted, but nothing comes of it save for a caress down my cheek, on the same side of where I had struck him, and he laughs mirthlessly.
"I look forward to calling on you again. You've proven to be just as interesting as I'd hoped."
My hand is still burning by the time I reach the elevator at the Tribute Center. My memories leading up to being taken from the Lemon Vine back to the Center are foggy at best, despite the short amount of time between the then and now. Leto's hand had been placed on my upper back, guiding me back to the car, and he had come damn close to escorting me up to our District floor when I had barely mustered any words. He'd asked me if I was okay. If I had been hit by him, since he'd heard the sound of skin against skin. But I hadn't spoken. Words evaded me, they still do. Everything is just...it's like walking through a sea fog, during those oddly cold days in District 4 during our fall and winter seasons; that thick grey layer covering the water and the shoreline, making everyone look like ghosts.
It's dreamlike. That's how I feel now, like I'm walking through that grey layer, but it isn't real - it's just a dream. I'm going to wake up at any given moment, sigh with relief because none of it was real and didn't happen, and carry on with my day. But the burning sensation in my hand is real. The throbbing pain between my eyes is real. All of it is gripping me like a vice, coiling around my torso, threatening to choke me out. Every once in a while, between my haze, the memory of my body twisting around my outstretched hand colliding with Thrax Mellona's cheek hits me (pun intended, I think). The vision of him on the floor, vulnerable and startled, fills me with dread and victory and horror and nausea.
None of it is a dream. It's not sea fog. I have hit a Capitolian citizen, an important figurehead at that, and a prime abuser of Finnick Odair's. The very man who had violated and bloodied the man I love, no doubt at Snow's behest, when I had been late to a fucking dinner with Seneca Crane. My mind works against me to conjure up terrible images of what will happen to Finnick now that I have done the unthinkable. God, how will I even tell him? My eyes squeeze shut, praying for the elevator to just ping to life already, as my mind also brings up his words to me to stay out of trouble. The terror in his eyes when I had informed him that Thrax could potentially know about us...it had been unfathomable.
And now I am going to be responsible for any pain inflicted upon Finnick. I will be the reason for his -
The elevator finally pings and I am on that thing before the doors even fully open, my hand lunging out like a striking snake to push in my floor. I wish I could say that I enter that elevator in peace and solitude, but as the doors close again, a new hand outstretches to stop it. I press my body against the elevator's side, in part to support me as I fight back against the trembling sensation threatening to overtake me, but also to apply as much space as humanly possible between me and whoever is daring to enter the elevator with me. To my chagrin, it is Haymitch Abernathy, his hair hanging in his eyes and oddly clad in...training garb? Training? Even with my mind working against me and every nightmare scenario undoubtedly to become a reality, I can't help but to be a little stunned by it, especially when his two Tributes follow after him, both sweaty.
"Ceres. Sparkling delight, per usual," Haymitch greets, punching in his own floor number.
I clear my throat. "Haymitch," I say, a little too raspy. I turn away, facing the wall. My arm tightly coils around myself in the closest thing I can accomplish to folding my arms, and I hope that my cold, distant demeanor will be off-putting towards my fellow Victor. Maybe we can ride the rest of this in silence. Just four floors for me, then I can run to my room and throw up that foul salmon.
"Just got back from one-on-one training," Haymitch says, instead of giving me the silence I crave so desperately. "It was eventful."
I force myself to look at Katniss and Peeta. The former is staring dead ahead, refusing to look at me, and Peeta has the decency to look a little flushed. "I can imagine."
"Can't help but to notice how you haven't approached about Alliances," Haymitch says, dryly.
"The same could be said for you," I say.
Under normal circumstances, I might've rolled my eyes at my fellow Victor. In spite of the fact that everyone in their right minds would never ally with District 12, for numerous reasons, I do often try to put some emphasis onto them, in some merit of support. After watching Birch Indica die trying to protect those two children from District 12, my heart had been softened a little, especially having experienced firsthand the general isolation that comes with being a Victor and Mentor and the general guilt that accompanies the Tributes who die under our care. It is bad enough having to do so with a support system, I cannot fathom Haymitch enduring it alone.
I might've taken his words with a grain of salt and provided a sardonic response, but I can scarcely muster it. I can barely even look up at Haymitch as he stares back at me, oddly sober (at least half-sober) with a raised, expectant brow.
Peeta clears his throat. "We would be honored to have an Alliance with your Tributes. They both seem like good fighters," he says. "Unless you think we should ally with another District."
I bite back a scoff. "You shouldn't ask for tips in front of your Mentor."
"C'mon, now, you're giving me too much credit," Haymitch says, reaching into his vest to withdraw a flask.
Katniss makes a low sound, casting a cold glance at Peeta. "Don't ask her anything," she says, lowly - almost low to where I can't hear her.
Sadly, the elevator is still just an elevator, as luxurious as it may be, and the contained voices cannot escape. "Because I killed my brother, right?" I offer.
Katniss looks forward.
"I Volunteered to keep my brother safe. I never wanted to kill him," I say. "But it was his choice, probably from the beginning, to decide to kill me."
"I Volunteered for my sister," Katniss says. "That's the difference between you and me."
"No. As if anyone could ever possibly predict being the reason for their sibling's death," I say.
"You chose to die for him. What's the difference?"
I suck in a breath. Amidst the haze and pain I'm feeling, my mind brings me back to that moment in the Arena where Liber and I stood across from each other in that cave, cut off from the rest of the Arena, in what would be our final battle. He had asked me the very same thing. It's a question I've often pondered, for better and for worse. I've tried to justify it. I've tried to forgive myself. I've even accepted it as the truth, that I was the one who betrayed Liber in the end, by not staying true to my vow.
That's the general gist of it, isn't it? No matter what, I find ways to hurt the people I love. I Volunteered to protect Liber and he died because of me. I have tried everything within my power to keep Finnick safe, but now I've likely damned him in the most unfathomable and horrible of ways. Carnage follows me. It is me.
"Maybe you're right," I say, as the elevator finally pings to a stop.
"Spitfire, isn't she?" Haymitch says.
I glance at the girl on fire, watching her as she stares at the ground with a cold look in her eyes. Ironic, for the girl on fire. "Killing him wasn't something I wanted to do, Katniss. I had no choice, at least not at the time. And I hope you never have to make a decision like that."
I leave the team of District 12 like that, stepping onto my floor, and collapsing onto it once the doors shut behind me. Once certain I am alone, all my fellow Victors absent, Ivoree gone, and my Tributes nowhere to be found, I release a blood curdling scream. I know it'll never penetrate through these walls. It is contained, and it sends itself right back onto me, as I lay curled on the floor, unable to do anything but to blindly sob, scream, and claw at the ground.
I'm not sure how much time has passed between Tilda finding me curled on the floor of my bedroom and when I had first collapsed in front of the elevator. Hours, maybe. Minutes. All I know is, somewhere between my screams and sobs, I'd managed to crawl from the elevator towards my room. Somewhere in the rational part of my brain, I knew I didn't want to be found like that. I couldn't let my father see me like that, not Finnick, not Ren, not my Tributes, not anyone. I remember I had only just barely made it, too, because my whole body trembled. When I'd tried to stand up, I'd been hit by a wave of dizziness and fell over again. So, on my hands and knees, I'd dragged myself back to my room.
I hadn't even managed to shut the door properly, it had just been ajar when Tilda had passed it. I doubt she even would have paid it much mind, had it not been for my dry sobbing and rapid wheezes. What a sight it must have been, to find me like that on my floor, unable to speak or even process her presence.
All I know is, I'm now sitting in a bathtub full of cold water to help pull me out of my self-inflicted mental assault (I recall Mags calling a similar event happening to Annie a panic attack once). My knees are pressed to my chest and my arm is wrapped around them. Tilda is kneeling beside the tub, periodically pouring cold water over my head, and gently rubbing the back of my neck and back. She's remained mostly quiet, despite the oddity of the circumstances. She hasn't demanded any answers from me. She's simply been here, patiently watching me, and occasionally murmuring softly when my breathing would start to quicken again.
Eventually, I manage to pull myself out of it, enough to uncoil my body from its tight spring-like state, and focus a little on Tilda beside me.
Her long red hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, framing her long, narrow features. She's wearing a nice dress and her makeup has some smudges and there's a hickey on her neck, an indicator to me that she had arrived back to the apartments from visiting a client. Embarrassment and shame swells inside of me. She ought to be cleaning herself up and tending to her own needs, rather than mine. I doubt she's even had a moment to breathe since that session, but here she is, smoothing out my wet hair.
"I'm sorry," I manage to say, my voice hoarse from the absurd amount of screaming I'd unhinged earlier.
Tilda simply shrugs. "It happens to the best of us," she says. "But I think this is the first time I've seen it happen to you." Her eyes skim over my naked figure, though not lewdly. She's searching for something. "What happened?"
"I wasn't...I wasn't assaulted, if that's what you're wondering."
"I was," Tilda admits. "Ivoree told me you had a session with someone but wouldn't disclose who. So, naturally, I assumed the worst."
"It was Thrax Mellona."
Tilda hums audibly. "Then my concerns were justified," she says, pulling strands of hair from out of my face. "Tell me what happened."
I swallow, opening my mouth and closing it again. "Tilda...I did something wrong."
"That's fine. Just take your time."
"I hit him..."
Tilda blinks. Confusion reflects across her face and she looks at me a little disbelievingly for a moment, before, all at once, her expression is enveloped by seriousness. She draws in a deep breath then exhales slowly. "I see. Talk me through what happened."
"He...he wanted to meet to discuss Sponsoring our Tributes, and he...he said he only wanted to Sponsor Kipper. I just kept seeing Finnick in my head, before the Games, and when he was twelve and -" I cut myself off, realizing my voice is about to crack. "God, Tilda, I couldn't do it. I couldn't. Not him, not Kipper. He's just twelve...he's so young, just a kid, and Thrax was already describing..."
As I hunch forward, my hand pressed to my face, Tilda moves her hand up and down my back. "It's going to be okay. Tell me what he said."
"He said he'll call on me later," I wheeze, "and that he'll give me time to think it over."
"Breathe. It's going to be fine. I can talk to him, too."
I tear my gaze upwards towards Tilda's face, horrified. "No. Absolutely not. I refuse to let him hurt you more -"
Tilda shakes her head. "Everything is going to be fine, okay?" she says. "I'm his client, too. I can handle him."
"He's going to hurt you. Hurt Finnick -"
"That's certainly a possibility, but we're going to try to minimize the collateral damage to the best of our abilities. I apologize for being harsh, but that's the reality of it. That being said, you're not going to be able to do anything in the state you're in. You're hysterical. So just sit here for a little while longer and breathe. I'm right here beside you."
I want to protest, but a part of me knows better. In the end, I just sink into the cold water until I'm neck deep, staring up at the white ceiling above me, and trying to focus on Tilda's calm breathing. Out from the corner of my eye, I can tell by her furrowed brow and clenched jaw that she's not happy. She's scared, just like I am, but she's trying to hide it. In a way, this makes me feel better and worse. Miserably, I come to the conclusion that I am completely helpless. Nothing I say or do can make a difference...I'm trapped. I'm stuck in a place I can't escape, and I'm forced to watch the people I care about pay for it.
I need insurance. Now more than ever I need to take Plutarch's offer. I can't afford to think about it, the certainty I felt earlier needs to be amplified, and I need security for not my life, but Finnick's, for everyone I love, immediately. I need the guarantee that he will be safe at the end of this, touched by the Capitol, and can live peacefully. Thrax will be dead. Finnick will be free. I need that. Granted, Plutarch doesn't seem to keen to make a move until he finds his spark, whatever the hell that means. Is it an inspiration? Something to help prod other Victors close to his side? Is it a symbol?
Symbols can be useful. It's easier to fight for something if you have a collective visual.
Now more than ever I need to take Plutarch's offer. I can't afford to think about it, the certainty I felt earlier needs to be amplified, and I need security for not my life, but Finnick's, immediately. I need the guarantee that he will be safe at the end of this, untouched by the Capitol, and can live peacefully. Thrax will be dead. Finnick will be free. I need that.
But Plutarch doesn't seem keen to make a move until he finds his spark, whatever the hell that means. Is it an inspiration? Something to help prod other Victors closer to his side? Is it a symbol?
Symbols can be useful. The spark.
The spark.
The spark.
Why did Ren say that our Tributes weren't the spark? Is there someone else...?
I finally sit up in the water, knowing what I need to do. To understand what is happening, to have access to the truth, to protect my loved ones, I need to do it. Recognizing the fact that there is no turning back now, I clear my throat and force myself to speak. "I need you to grab my pad, please. Now."
Tilda seems to consider questioning me, but decides against it - very wise of her - and she stands to go fetch the pad from somewhere in my room and returns with it. "Okay. What do you need it for now?" she says. "And no, I'm not handing it to you in the bathtub."
"Then send a message for me, to Ames Cairncross. I need to meet with Seneca."
Tilda's whole face shifts. "What? Ceres, do you even -"
"Just do it," I snap, watching her as she slowly opens the pad and slowly sets up my messenger. All the while, I ponder over my words - dust, dust, dust - and finally settle with an uncomfortable exhale. "Send, 'Sometimes when I am low I feel like dust. When I am with you, I feel like gold. With that in mind, I need to see you.' Do it."
Her hand clenches beside the pad, looking more apprehensive than ever. Despite the fact her head hangs low, I notice how she discreetly mouths the word dust. "Are you sure about this? Once this is sent, that's it."
"I know. I know," I say. "But I have to do this. It's my last chance..." To protect the people I love.
"So long as you understand," Tilda says, hitting send.
We both sit in a long lapse of silence for a while, until the water gets too cold to bear. Tilda starts to drain the water, then slowly helps me to my feet, armed with a large, fluffy red towel. She wraps it carefully around my still unsteady form, tightening it around my torso, and then surprises me by pulling me into a strange, out of character embrace. Tentatively, I hug her back. I feel her smile, then her lips move close to my ear, speaking in a voice so low, I almost don't hear her.
"Welcome to the rebellion."
(a/n): *PROMPTLY DUCKS BEHIND A BARRICADE* Now listen I kindly ask everybody to lower their weapons and not to hurt me...writing that scene with Thrax was just as horrible for me as it was for anyone reading it, trust me. I had to take, like, twelve showers after. And yes, I am now taking volunteers for people interested in whooping his ass.
For reals, this chapter was an emotional roller coaster. A lot of shit hitting the fan, a lot of tensions, a lot of rebellions. *evil grin* Next chapter...oooh boy, do I have plans for the next chapter. Be prepared, because I already have a lot of the next chapter written. There will be feels...lots of feels.
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~
DreamonAlina: FINNICK ODAIR JUST CONFESSED HE LOVES CERES! GOD, WRITING THAT SCENE MADE ME SO HAPPY! I've spent a lot of time wondering how Finnick would initially tell Ceres, and it felt right for him to blurb it out in a moment of panic, where it didn't fully register. And I actually considered Ceres bringing it up, but it felt more right for her to let it slip between the cracks, until he's ready to admit it out loud. :') I WAS HAPPY TO GIVE YOU FINSEA SMUT. I'LL TRY TO GET YOU MORE SOON, I PROMISE. *SOBS* also *lifts hands* I mean, Ceres isn't okay...but like...*quickly ducks behind my barricade* I'm sorry it hurt me to write! *sobs profusely*
Slytherin-vikis (review for chap. 9): In her narrative, Ceres basically describes how indifferent her parents were to her sneaking out and her general shenanigans...partly due to the fact they're #exhausted by their small, annoying af young child. X'D Was Liber alone? Was he waiting for someone? Will that be revealed? Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe. Stay tuned. ;) Literally, though, the audacity of Plutarch for waking Ceres up at five am to discuss a rebellion...honestly, Ceres should've just upped and reported him right then and there. XD Hopefully you're satisfied with what she says to him. ;))) MORE TO BE REVEALED SOON, I PROMISE, HEHEHE. Writing for Kipper and Marina has been fun, but for Marina especially. I made the decision for her to be a younger Ceres early on, and Marina leaning on Ceres as a lifeline mirrors how she's been used essentially all her life, by Seneca but also by Harpee and Mara to some extent (so happy you noticed that detail btw!). I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out how Finnick should say he loves Ceres, but having him just spill it out and not even realize it felt right, because he feels it so innately and passionately. And now Ceres knows. :') I'm up here putting Finnick on the man pedestal. XD No man can reach his heights haha. LISTEN, I'M ALL FOR FUCKING THRAX UP. I SAY WE WILL FIGHT HIM. (More Kilo to come ;) Hehe...Ren has his reasons. More to be revealed sooon.
ammiemarie123: Oh my gosh, thank you so much! So, fun fact, I actually came very, very close to quitting writing Reap What We Sow many years ago, due to Ceres' early character. It was hard writing a character I knew was unlikable, but had a multi-planned arch for her, also knowing most of my readers didn't like her. But I am so, so glad that I pushed through and saw Ceres through to Converted Into Dust. So I truly, truly appreciate you reading through my story and putting up with my bratty daughter in her early years. X'D Finnick and Ceres both collectively grew together and I love them for it. :') Ceres is gonna be goin' through a LOT more in CID, as well as in the third and final installment. I have many, many things planned and I am so excited for you to see them! *heart*
the. apple .seed: Writing the meeting between Ceres and Plutarch was SO fun. I've been waiting in anticipation for these two to have a solid one-on-one for so long! It was satisfying finally getting to write it. XD The meeting with Thrax Mellona, too...oof. *evil grin* More to come.
Slytherin-vikis (review for chap. 8): Listen, I'm weak...I had to keep the flame metaphor going, even if Plutarch may or may not have already decided that Katniss is the *spark.* XD Honestly, I always feel the burn when I write stuff I morally disagree with. As a very nonconfrontational personality, writing Ceres being cold towards Gemma was rough. We'll be seeing more of Gemma soon, plus delving more into her, Rheon, and Demetra later. ;) I have a lot planned for that. (But mostly for the third installment...sadly. XD) The saying totally makes sense, no worries at all! Seneca is definitely living 100% on the blind side, so much so even his own father (a former Head Gamemaker AND partaker in Victor affairs) thinks he's being an idiot, which is saying something. Seneca is very much willfully ignorant, but does believe he's a good person. It's very sad but also very *eye roll* to write him, because he is so delusional, and he's so lost in his own world. He's floating in a fantasy and oblivious to the fact he's going to fall at any second. OH MY GOD! THE WAY I SCREAMED! I am considering this the ultimate form of fanart, that someone made Sims of my babies. X'D I can't! Ceres and Finnick getting the lives they deserve! If you have a Twitch or YouTube or Instagram or anything where you post that stuff, I'd love to see it! (Definitely would cry) Plutarch has a lot of moves planned. ;) And yup! Ames is in on it! Boi's tired of dealing with Sleazyca's shit. XD Listen, everyone is allowed to hurt Thrax. Feel free to make a Thrax Sim to torture. XD