(a/n): Here we are, everyone! We are on the eve of the Hunger Games! This chapter will feature the release of the Scores AND the Interviews with the Tributes! I am so beyond excited, you guys, I truly hope you like it!
Enjoy, loves!
CHAPTER TWELVE
revelations
Ceres.
I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or horrified that I've received a request from Seneca Crane, so I settle for that nice in between of paralyzing uncertainty. On the surface, the request is very straightforward. He wants to meet with me at our usual hotel room at the Oneiroi, I have my choice for whatever I want to wear, and he's hoping to give me the evening he's been promising since our last encounter in his office. All that being said, it is a very standard thing. But on the other side of that, it just so happens to fall on the same day as the Scoring announcements. I don't get to be with my Tributes or my fellow Mentors when the Scores will be revealed, which is deterring. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure that I could have had the right to say no, on account of the day, but I also have to take everything else into consideration. Now more than ever, I can't say no to Seneca Crane, not when I have Thrax Mellona and his fucked up mind attached to me like a shadow. I still don't know what he has planned, and I like it less than less each passing moment.
Arriving to the Oneiroi had also been relatively normal. Due to the utter exclusivity and secretive nature of the Oneiroi, discretion is key. The room that Seneca maintains for us is accessed through a back hallway through a door located within the broad, almost maze-like lobby. As far as I can tell, it leads to the back section of the hotel where particularly important "meetings" are conducted, though I've never encountered anyone else other than staff when passing certain doors. It makes me wonder if the hotel is careful to only allow a certain number of people in this section at a time. As per every occasion, I am led to the room by a hostess wearing a long red dress with two slits reaching dangerously up to her thighs, with Leto behind me. And when we reach the door, I go in alone.
It goes without saying that the Oneiroi, a business effectively built on the foundations of secretive affairs and sensuality, has rooms that indicate the same atmosphere. I imagine that the rooms vary in size and purpose, but since Seneca is so important and has all-access to me, the room he maintains for us is massive; likely one of the most expensive, if not the most expensive, room available. It's absolutely huge, with two different seating areas (one for a fireplace and one for the telegraphic screen). There's an eating area with a fine table, and a table full of all types of vintage alcohol and food. The attached bathroom is too luxurious for words, essentially solid gold with an absurd amount of marble. The bed is stupidly big, could arguably fit five grown men onto it comfortably, and it sits on a marble platform.
I'm very familiar with this room. Every time I walk into it, I eye the sensual dull red walls with contempt and the marble floors lined with crimson and golden detailing, as well as fur rugs of exotic animals harvested from the Districts. There are mirrors all around the room, forcing me to have to look at myself too much for my liking; as if constantly reminding me of my place, how this is my gilded cage.
When I had first arrived to the room, I had found Seneca pouring us raspberry flavored champagne. If I'm being honest, he had acted a little strangely - more aloof than usual, his eyes flickering sideways sometimes as if lost in his own trail of thoughts. He didn't bring up the message I sent, likely deleted by Ames before he could see it, nor does he address anything have to do with Thrax Mellona. So, until further notice, I choose to believe he's simply acting odd on account of the Hunger Games commencing soon. My nerves are eased a little as the conversation got started, where Seneca explained his fatigue involving his work, and generally feeling guilty for not having had the chance to spend enough time with me...I really pretended to be saddened about it. I think I convinced him, too.
If Seneca remained lost in his own trail of thought or deterred by anything in the slightest, it certainly didn't show when he started discarding his clothes, then mind, and proceeded to have his way with me on the bed. Arguably, that was a little easier than having to maintain conversation and pretend to be invested in whatever the hell Gamemaking business he had to think about. At least when it came to sex, Seneca would get so wrapped up in himself and his own pleasure, even I seemed to disappear under him. I could just let my own mind wander, occasionally making obligatory sounds to remind him I was, indeed, paying attention.
Notably, I think Seneca had been more of a giving lover in the early beginnings of our "relationship." He had tried to accommodate me and my "pleasures," but later on it became less and less of an importance. When I faked it, he'd either believe me or pretend not to notice. I'm grateful for it, as it shortens the process, and it feels less of a violation against myself. It's all a very simple business transaction. Eventually, when it ended, Seneca fell on top of me, breathing heavily, and quietly praising how good it was, while all the while self-congratulating himself, no doubt.
This is where we are now. Seneca has donned a velvet robe hung up on the wall and is pouring himself another glass of champagne, whilst I sit upon the bed with the blankets raised to my chest, wondering if it would be possible to shatter that glass and slit his throat without being caught. My eyes skim briefly across the room, internally chastising myself for even considering it. Disregarding the fact that this place is basically an overly glamorized whorehouse that practices in discretion, we are still in the Capitol. No doubt there are cameras positioned everywhere, especially in a room like this; rented out exclusively by the Head Gamemaker for his equally exclusive mistress. If there is going to be any funny business, Snow would be the first to know.
Still, I guess it's a nice thought, if not morbid.
"More champagne?" Seneca asks, as he turns on the telegraphic screen.
I shake my head. "No. None for me."
I lean forward, watching the screen from across the room as it opens to Caesar Flickerman's smiling face, as the Scorings are about to begin. I can tell by Seneca's face that he is absolutely thrilled to be sharing this experience with me. He sits on the edge of the bed in front of me, leaning forward himself with anticipation. The man knows the Scorings, of course - he's the one who finalizes them after having countless council meetings with his peers - and yet he's acting like it's all one big damn surprise. The Scorings that begin for the Careers are relatively straightforward. The boy and girl from District 1 receive a score of nine, which is a little surprising. But it's immediately rectified when the Tributes from District 2 receive a score of ten.
The boy and girl from District 3 receive a humble six and seven, making me wonder what they hell they did to deserve such low scores. Sure, District 3 is the tech-based District, but they're equally as powerful, aren't they? Beetee Latier found a way to electrocute several Tributes at once in his Arena, proving to be a quiet yet efficient killer, and yet District 3 continues to be snubbed. Hmm. When the faces of my Tributes are unveiled, I inch a little closer to the edge of the bed, wrapping the velvety blanket around my torso.
"From District Four, Marina Tasman, with a score of eight," Caesar says. "From District Four, Kipper Estuary, with a score of seven."
"I know, I know. Their scores aren't high," Seneca says, before I have a chance to say anything.
My jaw clenches a little, eyes lowering.
"It's just this is the first time I'm seeing your reaction live. You don't seem pleased."
"That's just my resting face, Seneca," I say. "Don't overthink it."
Seneca sighs loudly.
"They aren't going to survive," I say.
"What makes you say that?" Seneca says. "My sons are interested in -"
"They could be Sponsored by a hundred people, Seneca. It doesn't change the fact he's a twelve year old boy up against burly teenagers who've trained to kill since they were his age. And she...she's just like me. Neither of them stand a chance in the grand scheme of things."
Seneca frowns, clearly unsure of how to respond.
"Even if your sons do Sponsor them, it won't matter," I breathe. "They're not ready."
"But...you survived," Seneca says, "despite every disadvantage thrown your way. After you lost your arm, countless people gave up on you. I watched your ratings drop. You should have died, yet your Sponsors kept you alive. Do you remember?" When I don't reply, he turns himself to look at me. "Have more faith in us. We can keep them alive, too."
I look at Seneca's odd smile lined by his equally symmetrically twirl-like beard and look back at the screen, watching the faces of all of the Tributes go by with numbers attached to them. I remember when those numbers meant a point of pride to me, how I had wanted that perfect twelve when I was a child, and now I can't help but to feel nauseated by it.
"Why do you care for me?" I ask.
"We're the same," Seneca says, strangely without hesitating. "Young and ambitious...we reached our highest peaks above everyone else, but at hefty costs."
"My winning cost your uncle his position. It fell into your lap after," I say.
"I...yes, you are an intricate piece to my success, just how I am to yours."
"Seneca, whatever happened to your uncle, anyway?"
"You've never asked before," he says, shrugging. "Well, after he was dishonorably discharged as Head Gamemaker and lost his assets, he was found hung in the Head Gamemaker's offices. There was a chandelier that used to be there...but we had it removed, of course. It was far too gloomy to keep around afterwards."
I swallow thickly, unable to not think about Neleus Odair and how he was found.
"It was all very melancholic," Seneca adds.
I shake my head, looking back at the screen. I remain quiet for the reminder of the time, studying each name that passes, until it reaches the end as District 12 is announced. Peeta Mellark receives a score of eight, which I find fitting. After all, from what I had seen, I could tell that Peeta was a physically strong and able young man. His score seems appropriate, all things considered. When it comes to Katniss Everdeen, I'm a little more uncertain. And I may have considered looking away, but then her score is announced, and everything in the room freezes. "Katniss Everdeen," says Caesar upon the screen, "with a score of eleven."
Eleven? Eleven? A near perfect score. I turn and stare at Seneca, who is smiling widely. "What did she do to earn an eleven?"
"It's complicated," Seneca says.
"Too complicated?"
"I'm afraid I can't discuss Gamemaking business, Ceresea...you understand."
To hell with that. I glance back at the screen as Caesar Flickerman now carries on with some back and forth banter with Claudius Templesmith as they discuss the Scores as well as the current rankings in Sponsorships and the new interests and the new fashions based around the Tribute Parade, and then back at Seneca who is watching it with pride. If he isn't going to yield the answers easily to me, then I'm not above resorting to classic techniques.
I let the blankets around my torso drop and I move across the bed in order to get closer to Seneca. I move myself around over his body, so that I am straddling his waist and effectively blocking his view of the telegraphic screen. I use my hand to push him down, to which he complies with immediately. "I'm curious," I say, reaching into his robe to grab his plastic member (of which he's admitted to having two surgeries on since he was eighteen to enhance it and render it more "pleasurable"). I stroke it, watching his willpower falter immediately as he bucks into my hand.
"She hot an arrow at us," he blurts in hissed moans.
She shot an arrow at you? I gape down at him, the movements of my hand nearly halting altogether. I try to picture it in my head, how it could have looked in that moment. I place myself back in my private training session, where I had performed countless tricks and techniques to earn my own score, and how the Gamemakers had been positioned on a stage looming over me; a place of superiority. For a split second, I delight in the idea of if I had thrown my spear towards them. Maybe that would have garnered me an equally good score. But such an unusual act of defiance...how could that have possibly earned an eleven? The two Tributes from District 2 had only received a ten, whilst their Career partners in District 1 received a score of nine. That hardly seems right.
I bite the insides of my cheeks. "Let me get this straight, she shot an arrow at you and you gave her a near perfect score?"
"She earned it," the Head Gamemaker gasps out.
"She could have killed you," I say.
"She...she aimed and hit an apple...from the pig's mouth," he says. "Not us...didn't...get us...would that have displeased you?"
"What?"
"If her arrow...had pierced me, if it had killed me. W-would that have displeased you?"
I suppose it would have, as it would have meant that my right to handle Seneca Crane myself would have been robbed from me. If anyone is going to kill him, it's going to be me, although I wouldn't have been opposed to learning he was murdered by the girl from District 12 with an arrow as he went to feast on a pig. You know what, that's almost preferable. But that isn't the answer Seneca wants. "It would have," I lie. "I'm unfortunately fond of you, so I'd be put out if a Tribute was the reason you died."
A look of pleasure and relief (how peculiar) graces his features. He surprises me when he grabs ahold of my hips and flips us over, staring down at me with unbridled lust. Great. The price one pays for answers - although I fully intend on relaying what I have heard and seen later on to my peers. They would like to know, and maybe it would be of some worth. Plutarch is obviously aware of it, being a Gamemaker himself and undoubtedly present for the Scorings, but I could share my thoughts with him on the matter. The thought immediately strikes me as odd, before I can stop it. Talk about Katniss with Plutarch...why? Well, her little performance for her Scoring was a strange show of rebellion. It seemingly aligns with what Plutarch Heavensbee has planned...a rebellion. A spark.
Seneca flips me around, bringing me onto my knees and my hand. I hear him open up his robe behind me and it's not long before I feel him rutting into me from behind, gripping my hips greedily. But without him staring down at me, there's no reason for my face to hide anything. I lower my eyes to the bed below me, my hair fanning out and acting as a veil. Pure hatred exudes across my features as my jaw tightens and my eyes stare cruelly down at the blankets I grip tightly with my hand. His hand drags across my back.
"I do love you," Seneca says amidst his pleasure. "You don't have to say it back, I know it's foolish of me."
Yeah. Damn straight it's foolish, and there is no way in hell I will ever say it out loud, regardless of how it may cost me. Those words will never be his. I know that I have to yield my body to him, but my words, those sweet words, belong solely to Finnick. I know technically it would be smart to just lie and tell Seneca otherwise, as it would be another layer of protection for what's to come. Maybe Seneca would fight harder for me if he thought I loved him. In light of recent events, of Thrax Mellona, me keeping a low profile, and this newfound rebellion, it feels like the smartest decision to make - morals be damned. But I've already had to sacrifice so many parts of myself. I won't give him everything.
Whatever the case may be, Plutarch says that Seneca is a dead man walking, and I choose to believe that means my time spent with him - with this whole damn Capitol - is reaching its end. His days are numbered. I let Seneca live out his fantasy as he grunts and moans behind me, oblivious to my clenched hand and the twisted snarl forming on my mouth.
When Seneca is finished with me, by which point the hotel room has darkened due to nightfall, the exhausted Head Gamemaker doesn't even bother fixing his robe. He simply falls against the bed and falls asleep, spent and splayed out like a starfish, snoring. I lay in that bed for a short while, staring up at the ceiling until I muster up the energy to go to the bathroom to get myself cleaned up. I won't be able to leave until my pager goes off, God willing soon, but I let my thoughts drift in the now darkened room. I think about the rebellion, what it's going to mean or look like. Will it be like a full war, like the Dark days, when the First Rebellion collapsed?
I have enough knowledge of my history to know that the Capitol had obliterated District 13 clear off of the map because of it, so who's to say they won't do the same to the other Districts? Does Plutarch mean to overthrow Snow and usurp the presidency for himself or someone else? He talked about a spark and needing to find a person to fill that role, so maybe that person will take over...? Or maybe just be a symbol.
Once feeling significantly cleaner and less disgusting, I find a robe hanging up on the wall and pull it on to cover my naked body. I then retreat to a table in the far corner of the room, quietly pulling out my little tablet so that I can re-watch the Scorings with a keener eye. I mute the sounds, focusing solely on the scores; this time paying real attention to them, now that my Capitolian associate is indisposed. I wonder if Plutarch had any say in these scores...if Ren was pleased by the scores for our Tributes. They don't have the spark, he had said, and I can't help but correlate his words to Plutarch's. It aligns too well. The convenience of it...it can't be coincidental.
But why bring it up at all? Why would Ren be addressing it? Much less about our own Tributes...the spark, he'd said. Neither of them have it. The spark to survive, maybe, but there's something deeper there. My fingers drum quietly against the mahogany table, jaw clenching as the faces of the young Tributes flicker on the screen. One by one I count them out, making little notes in my tablet about their scores, evaluating who is the most dangerous. Marvel Blush and Glimmer Gallica from District 1 both received a score of nine. Cato Ismene and Clove Pyrite of District 2 both received a score of ten. The likelihood is they'll form an Alliance, as Careers often do. Together, they'll be lethal. Best to avoid them, I jot down.
One by one I go through each individual name, carefully evaluating the Tribute in question, and applying vigorous notes beside their names and the justification behind their Scores. But when I reach the end, to Katniss Everdeen's scores, I find myself briefly halted. An eleven. It's not unheard of for Tributes to receive such a score, but it's usually from one of the Careers - never from anyone close to the lesser Districts, much less District 4.
I freeze the image at Katniss' Scoring, Caesar's obnoxious frozen smile staring back at me, but my eyes are focused on the still image selected for the Girl on Fire; staring off into the distance, expression stoic and body stiff. Her steely grey eyes reflect something, flickering. I carefully adjust the image so it zooms in on her. The girl who wore fire, gliding in her chariot through the city, hand in hand with her District partner. Who Volunteered for her sister, standing as District 12's first Volunteer in history. Who has been nothing but stoic and cold towards the likes of me since we met. Who, forsaking the consequences, shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.
Something inside me clicks.
The spark.
The spark.
My hand clenches beside the holographic image, my chest tightening in the process. Ren was right, the spark isn't our Tributes, who never stood a chance at survival, anyway, despite how much effort and time we felt we could put into them - despite how often I've tried to convince myself otherwise, because I needed to believe in something.
I close my eyes.
Dust.
Ashes and dust look very similar, I think suddenly with a jolting intrusive thought. But ashes stem from glory, from the superb beauty of a magnificent glow; an enveloping warmth so bright, beautiful, and yet dangerous it can warm a home or bring down an empire. Dust, meanwhile, is dormant and impassive. Ashes stem from fire. A spark ignites a fire, which in turn can ignite into an inferno, and leave behind ashes in its wake. A spark.
Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire.
No, but that's impossible. The backwater poor girl from District 12...the spark? I open my eyes, thinking about the reaction the Capitol had to her, how they hollered her name for hours after the Tribute Parade, how her face has been plastered all throughout the Capitol, how young girls are wearing her colors, how she is the only thing that seems to be on the tongues of the Capitol. But more so than posing as the shiny new toy the Capitol would undoubtedly covet, there is her character. Overlooking the fact she is a rough and coarse personality, there is something warm there.
Katniss Volunteering for her sister was an act of selflessness that has touched the Capitol, though not necessarily for the reasons one may expect - like common human empathy. They don't see it as Katniss protecting her little sister from the horrors of the Arena. They see it as a bold and beautiful sacrifice, but read no further into it. If they do, they'll start to see between the cracks. And who would want that when they live so comfortably at the top? I swallow audibly, struggling to grapple with this fierce revelation, followed by a crushing weight in my stomach.
I could be wrong. Plutarch may have an entirely different plan - whatever the hell that plan is. I mean, how can I possibly argue that a sixteen year old girl would have such a profound place within a rebellion even I don't fully understand yet? A child has no place in war. But I can't shake this feeling.
With a sharp breath, I turn off my tablet and the dimly lit hologram fades, leaving me in the pitch darkness of the hotel room, with only Seneca's deep breathing to fill the air.
Girl on fire...I hope I'm wrong.
To say I feel sick as my Tributes are prepared for their Interviews would be an absolute understatement, though, gratefully, I'm not very involved in it. After what happened with Thrax Mellona, Tilda thought it would be a good idea to keep me at bay from general Mentoring and my Tributes' affairs - for my own sake. I agreed, I still do. I'm far from in the right headspace to be training these kids on how to survive when it's become abundantly clear I, who survived the Hunger Games, can't even keep my head above water. Aside from the obvious, what the hell had I been thinking when I hit Thrax Mellona? Well, the truth of the matter is I wasn't. My reaction was pure blind rage, no two ways about it. The problem is, it transpired at exactly the wrong moment, to the wrong person, and under the most horrific of times. And I still haven't heard anything from that sick bastard, making me wonder if he's going to save some twisted plans until after my Tributes are in the Arena. It could be he has no intention of taking his own rage out on me at all. He might very well inflict it on my Tributes, see to it that they die immediately into the Games. Disappointingly enough for him, it seems like those plans are already being set into motion, by Ren.
That's a whole other matter entirely. I had spent so much time fuming and being absolutely disgusted that my fellow Victor, who had been my Mentor, would feed such life-threatening advice to our Tributes. The idea that he was telling them to run straight into the Cornucopia, be damned the consequences - filling their heads with lies that they could both be capable of surviving it - had drastically darkened my overall respect and perspective for the man. But now that view has changed, to my own self-disgust and absolute self-conflict. He had mentioned how neither Kipper nor Marina were sparks, and that thought has stuck with me. The word was too specific to overlook. He knew something I didn't and it was most definitely tied to Plutarch Heavensbee and his little rebellion. It wasn't until I watched the Scorings with Seneca and having him explain Katniss Everdeen's little act of rebellion against the Gamemakers that it all finally made sense.
The Girl on Fire is the spark. She has to be, even though I wish she wasn't simply because she's a child.
Ever since the thought occurred to me, I haven't been able to shake it. I see the images of her during the Tribute Parade, the girl from District 12 who selflessly Volunteered for her own sister, who won the entirety of the Capitol over in the span of twenty minutes by a mere fiery cloak, who has enticed so much curiosity and admiration, is it. It's entirely illogical. It feels wrong. It makes no sense. There are so many reasons why it shouldn't, yet too many reasons why it does. Above all else, it's unexpected. Who the hell would expect a sixteen year old girl from District 12 to win over the Capitol, much less be a spark for Plutarch's cause?
It's all dangerous and treasonous. I haven't dared share these thoughts with anyone else, not even Tilda - not even Ren, who, as far as I know, is oblivious to the fact that I'm in the rebellion now. Maybe the word spark had been deliberate, a way to tell if I truly was a part of it, but maybe it had been a slip. I certainly wouldn't have noticed anything if I weren't involved.
But, ultimately, what this all circles back around to is the fact that my Tributes are going to have to die, no matter what, to ignite the spark. That is to say, if Katniss even survives this. For all I know, she could completely botch her interview and die immediately in the Games. The spark could flicker out immediately, putting Plutarch and his plans back to the drawing board. Hell, if he's even considering her for his symbol.
I won't lie, I have considered trying to find a way to get into contact with the Gamemaker to ask about it, but that is all kinds of stupid. It would draw way too much attention for me to be actively seeking out someone for any reason. Seneca would more than likely find out and be full of jealousy, likely to pry into my intensions, and then he'd turn around and pry into Plutarch's. It would have the potential to blow up the whole operation. I can't have that. I can't risk it.
So, I've just been sitting around, impatiently waiting.
Above all else, I'm grateful to be kept away from my Tributes, as horrible as that may sound. Now that I have the same realization that Ren had, I struggle to look them in the eye. I haven't discouraged them from running into the Cornucopia, nor do I cast cold looks towards Ren when he fills their heads with damning advice. As far as I can tell, the other Victors haven't tried to persuade or dissuade them one way or the other. My father and Tilda are both affiliated with Plutarch, so their own agendas likely line together, and Finnick has been busy with Sponsors and general Capitol darling business, so he hasn't had a chance to see firsthand what's going on. Sure, I've told him about Ren's misguided teachings, but I don't think he's been able to address them. All for the better, I guess.
That being said, this is definitely one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life.
The Victors don't sit alongside the Capitolian citizens during the interviews, no matter how much they try to pay us otherwise; it's one of the few areas where we can say no, hell, we have to say no. There are designated sections throughout the building where each group of Mentors from each District are permitted to sit. We are able to be seen by our Tributes, as a show of moral support, but we are far enough away that there is an odd measure of indescribable helplessness. And, make no mistake, simply because we do not sit alongside strangers versus our companions, they make an effort to flock us. Capitolians will pay extra for their seating arrangements just so they can be situated around us. The closeness alone is worth the price of admission, or so I'm told.
"How are they?" I whisper.
Tilda exhales softly. "They're managing," she says, reaching out to squeeze my arm.
I stare ahead, knowing that no other answer will satisfy me. Shortly after, the music begins, loud and commanding. Caesar Flickerman, unbearably familiar with the new routine, glides across the stage and commences with his usual flurry of jokes. The audience laughs, as they do every year. The boy from District 1 is the first to walk across the stage. His name is Marvel Blush and the boy exudes confidence. He carries himself with utmost cheer, almost bouncing in his seat as he answers Caesar's questions.
When asked about why he wanted to partake in the Hunger Games, Marvel replies, without any hesitation, "Well, ever since I was a little kid I'd watch these Games, and I would see someone kill someone else, and I just thought, 'That's me.'"
At that point, I just avert my eyes. Standard. How very standard and predictable for a Career to express such jovial acceptance and envy towards the carnage displayed in the Games; to idolize it. He carries on with the same attitude, speaking so brightly on the matter that, in another life, he may very well have thrived as a motivational speaker.
Meanwhile, his District partner, Glimmer Gallica, takes on a different angle. While Marvel exudes confidence and utmost positive outlooks towards the Games (and the promise to put on a good show, by default), Glimmer exudes sensuality. She walks across the stage wearing a shimmering golden and pink dress, made up mostly of tulle that bunches well above her knee and around her waist; her legs are long and accentuated by absurdly high heels. Her golden curls bounce around her shoulders with each confident stride. She makes flirty banter with Caesar, talks about her necklace made from District 1 (luxury), and bats her eyelashes at the audience.
Tilda takes in a sharp breath beside me. "Seriously, Cashmere?" she hisses between her teeth.
Carefully, I spare a glance down the rows of Victors towards where the Victors of District 1 are situated. I can't really see them well from this distance, but I can tell that Cashmere is smiling on with pride, whilst Gloss is nodding his approval. I have to wonder what Gemma is thinking, but her face is blocked by the others, so I bring my gaze back forward before I can overthink it. Each interview goes on for three minutes, then Caesar excuses them with a kiss on the hand or hoisting theirs upward, and encourages the audience to cheer. All things considered, he's good at his job - he keeps the audience entertained, and he manages to find ways to raise the Tributes up, regardless of how awkward they are.
The two Tributes from District 2 are next, each other exuding the same measure of confidence, though more contained. The boy from District 2 once again preaches the glory of the Hunger Games, whilst the girl calmly boasts how she could kill Caesar with a knife clear across the stage. Bold, indeed. The two tributes from District 3 aren't necessarily memorable, but they serve their purpose. They share their interests in Capitolian technology and how they feel they can utilize their tech-savvy skills in the Arena, despite the more hand-to-hand combat nature of it. I don't see them lasting long, truthfully.
The banner images behind Caesar Flickerman shift from District 3 to District 4, showing Marina's stoic face. She walks across the stage wearing a long frilly white dress with a pleasant sway to it, reminding me of the ocean foam back home. She maintains a smiling face, though I can tell she is terrified by the way she shakes when Caesar kisses her hand and as she looks across the crowd. I look down. She reminds me too much of me when I had stood there, smiling the same way at the crowd...naïve and unassuming. I know that Marina is a practical mind, that she wants to win and believes herself capable of it, even at Kipper's expense.
There's no need to hyper focus on her words. There's no need to hear her say it out loud all over again, knowing that she's likely going to die tomorrow - whether by Ren's advice or Thrax Mellona playing an influencing role in the deaths. Frankly, I'm not sure which repulses me more, but both make me feel as if I am holding the blade.
Tilda must sense the tensions radiating beside me, as I stare at one particular spot on the wall behind Caesar and Marina. She reaches out to squeeze my arm again, saying not a word. I try to block myself out of it to the best of my ability. There are one too many things going on in my head at the moment and it's hard to keep my face composed, but I am managing. Well, trying, but trying is better than nothing, right? For the most part, I endure. I don't entirely block out the interviews, knowing I'll need to internalize the key factors, not for the benefit of my Tributes, but for the spark - if I am right.
When Marina walks off of the stage, the young face of Kipper Estuary takes her place in the background, over our banner. He's posed awkwardly, staring off into the distance at nothing. No hope, no fear, just nervous. My hand clenches over my lap as I watch the young boy walk across stage, wearing a suit that is far too mature for his age or his build; too square against his gangly form. It's made up of a dark blue fabric, almost black, with a lavender tie. His curly hair is unkempt, though it's brushed from his face. He's wearing shiny shoes with sea green ties. A small measure of disdain fills me, as I realize his Stylist has dressed him to look not as a twelve year old boy who, come tomorrow, is going to be fighting these much older and stronger teenagers to the death, but rather a young man.
My stomach twists and churns as I stare up at the stage, at this boy whose mother had wailed and screamed as he was taken to that stage to stand beside Ivoree Greenscape. I try to swallow the nausea down.
Caesar reaches out to shake Kipper's hand, having to bend down to do so. To my Tribute's credit, he meets the gesture with grace and shakes his hand back, albeit with a little too much vigor; up and down, with a broad smile. Caesar smiles back down at him, his face contorted into an exaggerated impressed look.
"My, my, what a grip!" Caesar says. When he pulls his hand away, he shakes it dramatically, earning a round of applause from the Capitolians. "You must have been really working out lately."
Kipper smiles sheepishly. "My Mentors keep me in shape."
"Yes, well, with Mentors you have in District 4, who can be surprised?" cackles Caesar. When the two sit down, he crosses one leg over the other and gestures towards my Tribute. "Tell us about yourself, Kipper. Young man like yourself, you must get into quite a bit of shenanigans back in District 4."
"Well, not really shenanigans," Kipper admits. "I spend a lot of time helping my mom."
A small round if aww's resound throughout the building, making me want nothing more than to scream at these people, who are touching their chests with delight and having the gall to smile at each other. Their charm is nothing, it's worth nothing. None of them will shed a tear or bat an eye when Kipper dies in that Arena.
"How very sweet. Would you mind elaborating a little?" Caesar asks.
"My dad died when I was young in an accident, so it was my mom and my brothers. I'm the oldest, so I've helped take care of everyone ever since. My mom and I run my dad's bait shop in town. It's really nice." He smiles at the crowd, and they return his words with another set of aww's and small cheers. "I've gotten the chance to learn a lot. I've learned how to make baits and traps to sell, which I can use the Arena to survive."
"Your mother is so very lucky to have you, Kipper. Now, did you say anything to your mother in the end? I imagine that was a very sad farewell, given you were the man of the house."
A sad look flickers across Kipper's face. His hands, otherwise folded neatly on his lap, wring together a little bit and he looks down. He spends a moment too long pondering over the query, or trying to get ahold of his emotions. When he looks back up at Caesar, his eyes aren't wet and his face isn't sad anymore. It's back to his pleasant smile. "I told her she'd be okay if I didn't come home. My little brother could pick up where I left off."
"Are you confident in your ability to go home to her and your brothers?"
Kipper shrugs. "In District 4, there's no certainty. If you go out to fish, you could step on a sea urchin and die from poisoning or you could be capsized in your boat by a shark, or you could have great weather and come home with a net full of fish. We live everyday at peace with our decisions," he says. "I feel at peace with mine."
"Such composure, such profound words from one so young," Caesar says. "I think that deserves a round of applause?"
The obligatory applause around us is muffled by the ringing in my ears and the stinging sensations I feel behind my eyes. I turn my head, regarding Tilda beside me who's face remains stoic. I force myself to smile, though, knowing that cameras will be placed on us for those watching at home as Kipper shakes hands with Caesar once more and walks off of the stage. Composure. Profound words. He's only twelve years old. I close my eyes, trying to remember if I had ever seen Kipper Estuary before, when I had gone shopping to one of the bait shops in town. I regret to say that I don't remember. I'm usually in my own head in those moments, not necessarily paying attention to the people around me. I very well could have gone into his shop, encountered him to some capacity. Maybe we shared words once or twice.
A sense of misery fills me as I consider it. Time and time again we may have passed each other in such a store, yet I was oblivious to him...until he was Reaped, until he became my Tribute. Now I can't even say that I am playing a role in keeping him alive, not when I know what I know, and am forced to, alongside Ren, make the most impossible of decisions - all based on the uncertain hope that Plutarch Heavensbee is going to help free us, free Panem.
It feels like hours, with each Tribute carrying on one after the other. Throughout the duration of the interview, I've made internal notes about who I consider to be the greatest threats, who would be credible allies, and countless other details that I shall be jotting down in my tablet later tonight. But I haven't the time to fully reflect on them now, not as I hear her name being called, and all at once I am alert. My back straightens and I look up across the stage, watching as Katniss Everdeen appears from the corner. Her dark hair is pulled up and out of her face, which looks stunned to say the least, and she's wearing a long, striking red gown that effortlessly emulates fire with every movement; the fine layering of red, yellow, and orange tulle creating such a vast illusion of colors. Even if her movements are a little awkward and her eyes are wide like a shocked deer, Katniss looks lovely.
She's a little awkward at first, no doubt a bit taken off guard by the enormous crowd before her. The Tribute Parade is one thing, because all you have to do is stand in that chariot as it guides you through the city, waving and smiling at the passing crowd surrounding you. But here in this building, you're faced with it whole. All eyes are on you. Every single thing you say or do is watched, criticized...words matter. But little by little, Katniss finds her footing (literally), as she takes to twirling.
All at once, the crowd erupts into murmurs of disbelief and awe, hooting and hollering, demanding more even after she sways a little and has to be caught by Caesar. The flames that had erupted around her were beautiful, to say the least, and not once did she display any ounce of fear - fake or otherwise, I would have been terrified.
I glance experimentally at Tilda beside me, gauging her reaction. Her face remains stoic, though I notice the subtle way her brow is arching. It's only a slight change in her expression, but I can tell there's an interest residing there. I have to wonder if she's in the same loop as Ren, and when I will officially be a part of it.
"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the Reaping," Caesar says. I snap my eyes forward, realizing I had missed something. I can tell at once that the man's mood is more somber, less playful and flirtatious. "And you Volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"
Katniss' expression, which had been broad with smiles and giggles, becomes just as somber as Caesar's. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."
"What did she say to you? After the Reaping?"
"She asked me to try really hard to win."
"And what did you say?"
"I swore I would."
I look down at that, staring at the immaculately clean floor and my heel-clad feet, holding my breath as Caesar announces her name for the grand farewell. My eyes close, feeling an enormous weight taking over my chest. Perhaps my assumptions are bias-based...that she could be the spark that Plutarch wants so badly, but it still feels right. All the same, I can't help but to think about my own thoughts and feelings when my brother had been Reaped. It was as if the air had been robbed from my lungs after being trapped in a riptide, the panic so broad inside of my head, knowing there was no escape - no fighting point. All I could do in that moment was Volunteer to be there beside him, to keep him alive. I damned the consequences, damned the fact that my father would be our Mentor, and the possibility of Liber turning against me.
You chose to die for him, what's the difference? Katniss was right. I did Volunteer knowing full well that I would die for him, but it had felt so important at the time. I had been too afraid that without my presence he would be unable to do anything, that even with the help of our Mentors he would be defenseless. I did keep him alive to some capacity. I stayed by him every possible moment I could, even if we were split up by countless forces. But I could never have imagined that he would turn his weapon to me and try to kill me myself. It wasn't enough that he knew I was planning on dying to keep him safe. He wanted to be the one to do it. Then, on the flip side of the same coin, Katniss Everdeen chose to Volunteer for her younger sister's life - to a greater benefit than I could ever hope, even now. Her motives were entirely selfless and sincere, whilst mine, even with sincere intent, had had some selfish undertones. In my hubris, I believed I was enough to keep him alive. And, deep down, I think I knew I would outlast him.
The boy from District 12 is entirely different from his District partner. Whilst she had been a little awkward, albeit endearing, Peeta Mellark bleeds charm and likability. He immediately is engaging in banter with Caesar, causing the building to burst into volcanic amounts of laughter, and he even manages to carry the conversation. I can't help but to feel a small measure of fondness towards him. Peeta had been possibly one of the first people outside of my inner circle to offer condolences for Liber, without applying the blame to me or stating how lucky I was to survive or how he had betrayed me. He had been kind, in a way I'm unfamiliar with. It's a rare kind of heart to encounter.
"Now, Peeta. You're a handsome young man. Tell me - tell us - do you have a special lady back home?" Caesar inquires, waggling his brows suggestively.
Peeta pauses in response and shakes his head, but that does little to deter Caesar Flickerman.
"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"
The baker's son yields with a quiet sigh, opening his hands almost with defeat. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the Reaping."
At that, the audience releases an audible cooing of sympathies.
"She have another fellow?"
"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her."
"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"
"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning...won't help my case."
"Why ever not?"
"Because...because...she came here with me."
Holy fucking shit.
"Star-crossed lovers...genius!" Ivoree groans audibly, slamming his glass of wine down on the glass table in the open living room. To say he's frazzled would be an understatement. His wig is halfway off of his head and his face is flushed and he looks absolutely horrified. "To think, it's an angle we could have been playing at for years! But instead, Haymitch Abernathy - that drunkard - comes up with it? The Sponsors are going to be flocking to District 12 before we even had a chance...!"
I'm leaning back on one of the couches, not really paying attention, with Finnick beside me. We the Victors are gathered together to try to process what the hell just happened, whilst our Tributes are in their bedrooms, no doubt unable to sleep on account of the fact tomorrow is the day. We had had dinner together after the Interviews, shared what would be our final words, and departed from one another. I hadn't said much, if anything, aside from standard words of support. Ren hadn't bothered pushing the topic of going into the Cornucopia over dinner, as he has already embedded into their heads that it's their best tactic to survive. None of my fellow Mentors preached anything in particular, though Finnick had cautioned them to avoid water - find it, sure, but don't linger. In a matter of predictability, District 4 can always be found near water, and that's where they're easier to kill.
Kipper had nodded his head understandingly whilst Marina had stabbed at the food on her plate, her jaw tense and her expression focused. I could only imagine what was going through her head. Under normal circumstances I might have sought my two Tributes out individually to talk to them, to find a way to calm their nerves and talk them through their game-plans; who to ally with, who to avoid, and how to survive. But knowing what I know now, it would be stupid to do so. All I would be doing is prolonging the inevitable and standing in the way of who needs to survive - a thought that fills me with complete and utter disgust.
In spite of the fact I am repulsed by Ren's motives, I understand his intentions. The steps that he is taking are necessary...our Tributes need to die to make way for the spark to ignite into a flame, same with the other Tributes. Katniss Everdeen needs to survive. Strangely enough, it seems that Haymitch Abernathy might very well have a similar understanding, given that utter revelation depicted on the stage earlier.
Peeta Mellark confessing his love to Katniss, then the cameras panning over to her blushing and bewildered face, had done exactly what it needed to. It created an intense reaction from the Capitolians. Already there have been countless herds of people eagerly rushing to cast their money in for the star-crossed lovers from District 12. What should have been a pair lost in the undertow is now the whole damn wave. I have to wonder if Haymitch put the thought in Peeta's head to say it. It doesn't really seem like something Haymitch would come up with drunk or sober, but it might very well have been Plutarch's influence. Then again, maybe it was all sincere, and, much like a Gamemaker, Haymitch sought to utilize it to his advantage.
Whatever the case may be, things have become very precarious now, and I genuinely don't know what's going to happen come tomorrow. All I know is, the Girl on Fire better survive, because, otherwise, my Tributes are dying for nothing.
As Ivoree continues to rage on, my fellow Victors looking like a mingling of perplexed and almost impressed, I lean a little closer to Finnick and drop my voice into a quiet whisper only he can hear. "Do you think that was rehearsed or improvised?" I ask. "The confession, I mean."
Finnick glances down at me, his face shifting into lopsided smirk. "The boy's smart. He pulled quite a stunt there, but that's all it is," he says, just as quiet. "I doubt anyone is going to try to top it. Doubt they can."
I exhale through my nose and look down. He's right, no one else can possibly top it, in part because they have no time to. Had such a revelation been made public knowledge sooner, the Victors could have acted quickly to have their Tributes introduce new engaging stories to entice public interest. But now, on the eve of the Hunger Games, nothing can be said or done to create a stir; all we can do is sit idly by, wringing our hands, as Haymitch Abernathy has unexpectedly duped us all. I look up towards the screen on the wall replaying some of the highlight moments from the Interviews.
Needless to say, all anyone can talk about is the giggling and twirling Katniss Everdeen, now publicly seen as a desirable entity adored by countless boys, and Peeta Mellark, the one who truly fell in love with her and was dragged with her to the Games. It's a damn good story. If she survives this, she'll already have the love of the Capitol, which could theoretically be utilized in a revolution...not that I necessarily know what benefits a revolution, this is all just guess work on my end. But love feels necessary. They need to love her, not hate her, if she's going to stand against them.
What am I even saying? She's just sixteen years old and is probably laying in bed terrified like my own Tributes, like most of the Tributes within the Center, yet I am sitting here wondering how she is going to be standing against the Capitol if she wins; yet another pawn in these stupid games. Plutarch's intentions may be good, but there are areas where he is no different.
My hand clenches at my side.
I'm not paying attention to anything they're saying around me. I'm aware that Rheon is suggesting an alliance with District 12, an obligatory suggestion given the circumstances, and Ren agrees with him. Bastard. Tilda remains relatively silent, periodically glancing at me. I have to wonder if she's struggling to focus for the same reasons I am, including the fact that I have Thrax Mellona hanging over my head. Still no word, but I imagine he'll leave an impact tomorrow to some measure...if he desires to take it out on my Tributes.
The ache in my chest intensifies to a degree where I almost lose my ability to breathe, yet I manage to stay mostly in the present as the conversation carries, until it occurs to us that our Tributes will be leaving at dawn, and we will begin our own final preparations. For the average Victor that means gathering as many Sponsors as we can last minute, but for us...who the hell knows? Just sitting around, waiting for them to die. As the conversation wraps up, I excuse myself and venture off towards my room, leaving my door a little ajar as an invitation. Sure enough, Finnick arrives not long after to find me sitting on the edge of my bed, tapping my fingers on my knee.
"You look a little lost earlier," he says. "Do you need help finding your way back?"
I shake my head, exhaling. "No. I'm here."
"Sometimes you get lost in your head."
"Don't we all?" I say, my lips lifting into a mirthless smile. "I'm fine, Finn. Just...thinking. That was just a bombshell to drop the night before the Games, you know? All things considered."
Finnick hums quietly and approaches, sitting beside me. "Do you think our Tributes stand a chance?"
No. No, they don't, because neither of them are the spark. "I don't know," I admit.
"I talked to Ren," Finnick says.
"Yeah?"
"He says he's taking the less obvious approach by encouraging them to go to the Cornucopia first," he says. "I know I haven't had much of a role in training them - sessions here or there, but I've been...busy." He visibly shudders and I reach out to squeeze his hand. He squeezes it back. "I wish I had. I would've taught them the say way you I know you did, not being stupid."
The same way I did. Indeed, in the beginning I really did try to teach them not to be idiots. Obviously that perspective has changed, and, to my defense, I haven't said anything otherwise. I've just let certain words slip through the cracks. The guilt of my hypocrisies and their young lives in my hand weighs heavily on me, then it starts to crush me. My bones crunch, my blood spills, and my mind starts to fade. I squeeze his hand to return myself back to this world. "Finn, can I sleep with you tonight?" I ask.
"Something wrong?"
"No...I mean, yeah, a little."
"Did Crane hurt you?"
"Don't worry about me," I say. "I can handle Crane. I just...I'm really fond of them this year. Kipper and Marina."
"I see." Finnick reaches out and brushes a few loose strands of hair out of my face. "You can always sleep beside me, Sea-Sea. You know that."
"Something wrong?" he asks.
"No...I mean, yeah, a little."
"Did Crane hurt you?"
"Don't worry about me," I say. "I can handle Crane. I just...I'm really fond of them this year, Kipper and Marina."
"I see." Finnick brushes my hair out of my face. "You can always sleep beside me, Sea-Sea. You know that."
I know. I don't even have to ask at this point, but I always make sure I do. Every year since I won, I spend the night with Finnick in his room on the eve of the Hunger Games. We don't sleep together like that, but we just lay beside each other, quietly lamenting the possible losses of our Tributes, and trying to find some small measure of comfort with each other. We both need it. Every year is the same, but I always seek out his consent. Finnick sharing his bed with me is so important. His body, his time, beds, are all violated aspects of his life. To know he willingly gives himself to me in countless aspects is meaningful beyond words. The sentiment is pure, to the both of us.
For a while we just sit together in silence before we rise to go to his room. I decide to steal one of Finnick's shirts which hangs above my knee, letting my legs go bare as I retreat into his large bed. Finnick is the opposite, choosing to go shirtless. We lay together for what feels like hours, both on our sides facing each other. Finnick has his arms tightly wrapped around me, his hands periodically stroking my back. My face is pressed against his chest, listening to the calm rhythm of his heartbeat.
Neither of us will be getting any sleep tonight, neither will our Tributes or fellow Mentors. Finnick and I both understand what they must be feeling, the sense of dread and looming terrors, the knowledge that this is potentially the last night to ever know sleep; know life. I try not to let the guilt overwhelm me. If I do, I'll forget how to breathe. Ren's advice, the Girl on Fire, all of it needs to rest for tonight. Right here, this very moment, there isn't anything I can do about it, for better or worse. My eyes close, with my hand, nestled between Finnick and I, folded and pressed against his chest, occasionally drawing little idle circles and lines.
Now more than ever, I need to hear something good, a reminder why I'm making these decisions, why I chose to align myself with Plutarch Heavensbee...what I am fighting for.
"Hey, Finn?"
"Yeah?"
I exhale softly, lifting my chin up so I can look into Finnick's face. His eyes are closed, expression soft. "Tell me about the what if," I say, gently. When Finnick opens his eyes, they're full of curiosity, and I reach out to cup his face. "I just need to think of something good. Please."
Finnick considers me for a moment, then he presses a kiss to my forehead. "We'd build a house on a hill, out of reach from everyone else, where we can see the whole ocean - all the way across the horizon and beyond," he says, rubbing his hands over my back as he stares into my eyes. Even in the darkness of the room, I can see the warmth in his gaze; the wistfulness. "We'll live there, able to see the world but it won't be able to touch us. I'll...I'll give you my mother's pearl. You can wear it as a ring or a necklace, if you wanted, or just keep it in your pocket. It's yours. It's always been yours." He pauses, brushing his thumb over my cheek, then my lips. "We'll grow old on that hill, the two of us. If the world is good, I'd like to have..." He sops, a saddened gleam on his face. "We'll grow old. And when the time comes, the ocean will come up and pull us back into it."
Despite myself, I can't help but to stop the way my eyes water as he relays these words to me. A house on a hill. Growing old together. His mother's pearl. It all seems too good, so much so it's all out of reach. I close my eyes, trying to picture it as vividly as possible in my head, but it's like a water color painting; the outline is clear, but the vision itself is blurry.
"I like that dream, Finn," I say.
"It's going to be real someday," he says. "Maybe when we're old and grey, it'll be real."
I open my eyes and look up at him. It's going to be, I tell myself, firmly. I have to believe in this dream now more than ever, to push me forward, to help me muster the strength, the will, to fight. "Hopefully you'll still like me when I'm old and wrinkly," I say. "I might lose my teeth, you know...you're going to have to mash my food down, make sure there are no bones in my fish."
"Lucky for you, I'll always like you," Finnick replies.
"That's pretty gross, Finn," I say, softly. "How long have you been sitting on that compliment?"
"A while now," he says, his face slowly shifting into a more somber one. "I'm keeping you safe, Ceres. You know that, right? Everything going on, everything we'll face, I'm going to keep you safe from. I swear."
"And I'm going to keep you safe, too, Finn."
I mean it. Now that I have sold another part of myself, this time to a worthier cause, I am going to do whatever I can - everything within my power - to keep Finnick safe and free him, free all of us, from the hell we live in. It's not going to be easy. Come tomorrow, who the hell knows what's going to happen? But I know for certain that I won't bend, not when I have something real to fight for, a true game to play. People are going to die, not just in the Games. I accept this. I yield to it, knowing I have no other choice. At the end of it, though...that's all unknown. Everything about this is. But finally, finally, there's hope.
Katniss Everdeen, unknowingly, is just that.
Hopefully she doesn't die tomorrow.
(a/n): *whistles* Ceres is really on her last straw with Seneca...but even with all of these things going against her, she refuses to say the three words to him. I can't tell if that's very foolish or very morally sound of her or both. I hope you guys enjoyed getting to see the Scoring AND Interview this chapter! I am so hyped for what comes next. Next chapter will feature the POV of Finnick and Ceres, so get ready for that, ladies and gentlemen. *evil grin* It will also show the beginning of the Hunger Games, and from here...so much is gonna happen. Ya'll already KNOW. *eviler grin* And Ceres is officially theorizing that Katniss is the spark Plutarch is talking about! Will she be talking to Plutarch? Will she share her thoughts? What are his own thoughts? ;) We shall see...
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~
Slytherin-vikis (c. 11): The foreshadowing leading up to Seneca's...fall from grace...has been quite fun to write, as has gradually showing his decline from self-righteous Capitolian to a man with a rising hero/god complex and absolutely little regard to human life. Oh, how I look forward to the good ole eventual comeuppance! When it came to Ithaca, I spent a lot of time thinking about who she'd be. I imagined her as being the compliant wife for a long time, but then it occurred to me she could only fill that role for so long. After all, she's been married to Seneca for over four years, has had twins with him, and is now pregnant with their third kid, and he is still seeing his "paramour." She's reached her limit of patience, so she's short and cold with him, and that's how I chose to portray her. It was honestly baller for her to put him in his place. XD Truthfully, I doubt we'll ever get a real insider into Snow's head and his genuine thoughts on Seneca's exclusivity. I imagine he thinks very poorly of it, especially considering his own relationship with Lucy Baird Gray. He probably deems it as one of Seneca's many weaknesses, but also views it as something to exploit for his own gain. But mostly, he thinks it's insane a man of Seneca's age and stature would be so invested in a Victor that way. And honestly, thank you! Tilda and Plutarch's scene was a delight to write. I loved Tilda calling Plutarch out on his crap. Sure, he's doing good, but he's also done bad things, and Tilda (who's done bad things herself) isn't shy on reminding him. I apologize for the lack of FinSea last chapter, but I hope their snuggling this chapter made up for it. ;)
Slytherin-vikis (c. 10): That is a wonderful scene you have in your head and I implore you to keep it in your pocket...for safe keeping, of course. Also, thank you so much! It was definitely extremely hard to write Thrax's dialogue and Ceres' reactions to it. As someone who was assaulted and sexualized as a child, it was important for me to take the topic seriously. I considered glossing over it, but I also, as a survivor myself, didn't want to ignore it. The Capitol is absolutely disgusting and Finnick's trafficking began early on, so I didn't want to sugarcoat it. It's a very serious and important topic and I hope I continue to do service to it. Oh, yeah, Cicero is a dick! He acts holier than thou, but he's no better than any other Capitolian. And as far as Ceres not snapping, she definitely wanted to, but Ceres has grown a lot since she was a child. Younger Ceres 100% would've snapped, but her older self has matured significantly and learned to reel in her anger, and I for one am proud of her. Also, you should be very worried for Ceres and Finnick. *Cough* Thank you! Tilda is my favorite and I loved her taking on a warm and caring role with Ceres. She needed it. :') We'll be seeing Beetee, don't worry...I also think he's dope, so he'll get lots of screen time. ;)