It's been a hot minute, but here we go. We have our D1 and D5 intros this time, and a big big thank you to goldie031 and Treble-Notes for Quatra and Calysta respectively, and to kremit1000 and ladyqueerfoot for Midas and Percy respectively!
07 – MAKE YOUR PEACE LAST
Midas Macedonias, 18, District 1
One Week Before the Reaping
"So ridiculous."
He watched Titan pace back and forth after slamming the tablet onto the table. On the screen, an article about a celebrity going into rehab and taking a break from acting upon release was displayed. Midas knew the celebrity personally, but he did his best to hide the proud smile he felt twitching at his lips.
He and Ray were set to do a final film together, though it was a stressful endeavour due to the pressure of both the film itself and their managers. After he saw the latest relapse from Ray, the sickly way he'd begun to look—just existing mindlessly—it was good news to see the decision being made public. Midas wanted a break too, but Ray had more sway being from the Capitol. This was what was best for his friend, he thought, and he wondered if he was doing well now that he was out of rehab and had coping mechanisms in place. From the sparse letters he got in the mail, which Titan didn't bother screening once he found out it was from Ray, the place sounded like heaven.
What he wouldn't give to visit for a month or so and try his hand at quieter hobbies like Ray had. Browse his garden while Midas brainstormed ideas in the shade, under an oak tree in clear air and peace and quiet.
"How can that boy be so selfish?" Titan went on. He was running his hands through his hair as he spoke. "He's ruining your career! Absolutely no regard for you whatsoever. I thought he was your friend."
He was Midas's friend. But some friends needed to be selfish for their own mental health, and Ray had done more than Midas ever could hope to. Ray had stood up for himself and put up that wall. If anything, Midas was the one disregarding Ray—instead of being solely happy for his recovery, Midas couldn't help being relieved that his own career had been completely halted thanks to Ray. A break he desperately needed but was too chicken to ask for. Titan would never agree to a break that didn't involve some kind of publicity, after all.
Call it whatever they wanted, but this was a blessing in disguise. Without Ray around, Midas wasn't going to be sought after as often. People preferred Capitol celebrities over District ones, and with Ray taking a break and making it known without outright saying he wanted to retire, Midas could also piggyback off of that retirement. Some people would still want him—always reaching, pinching, grabbing, critiquing, wanting—but it would slow down now. Midas could take a breath. He could focus better on his training at the Academy. He could try something else.
Ray wasn't the only one struggling with the darker sides of fame.
Titan clicked his tongue and sighed as he sank into his chair. They'd borrowed an office from the Academy to talk in, Midas skipping lunch to meet with his manager. It wasn't unusual, Midas missing a meal or two. He'd compensate with plenty of water and stay hydrated, take some vitamins, but he was still in the routine of counting calories and weighing himself several times a day. Muscle replaced baby fat and it took him a long while to differentiate the two, but he knew what he was supposed to be now. He just… had to keep it that way. Control it. Pretend like he wasn't walking down a path like Ray's and tell himself it was a feat of self-control and discipline, not something a therapist would blanch at and send him to a rehab centre for.
"This is fine," Titan finally decided, grinding his teeth together. He rubbed at his brow with one hand, the other fumbling for a cigarette. Midas dutifully moved to a nearby window and propped it open. Famous or not, it was still something Midas would get in trouble for if Titan stank the room out with nicotine. "You were far above that has-been anyway. He didn't have the balls for this kind of life."
Neither did Midas. Midas kept his expression neutral as he held the words back.
"I already met with the headmaster and the victors," Titan went on, "and I've made an arrangement with them. By the time this is over, everyone will have their eyes on you. They'll forget you ever associated with that pathetic thing."
He wondered what it could be—promotion? Some kind of involvement with the Games backstage? Midas could venture a guess a camera would be on him for his every waking moment, and for a brief second he wondered if Titan had tried to get some exposure for the District under the guise of a documentary. A documentary—or at least something close to one—would definitely bolster his fame. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but there was little he could do to protest.
Like a coward, he instead asked, "What'd you work out?"
"Oh, you're the volunteer this year. For the Quell."
Titan said it so casually, like he was announcing dinner for the night. He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out towards the window.
It took a moment for Midas to catch up mentally. Jumping from staged movies to acting to pretending to cameras to Hunger Games. It was a whirlwind of buzzwords and thoughts that eventually came to a grinding halt at one word in particular, and his blood ran cold as he felt his lungs give out: Killing.
Midas was by no means a pacifist. But he was definitely not the type to fight and draw blood. He wasn't… He wasn't bloodthirsty like the others. He could play the part of the villain, he could play the part of the hero, he could do anything and everything—people adored him for it! But people never asked him to kill before. More to the point, he was years behind his peers at the Academy. It wouldn't be fair to the ones who wanted to participate and sabotaged each other at every turn to get the coveted spot. If you died, you died brave and with a proud legacy in your wake. If you won, you were a god among men who deserved to be worshipped alongside the other victors.
Midas… No, he was definitely not a god among men. Teen heartthrob, maybe, but not that. And if he died, it wouldn't be a legacy of pride left behind—it'd be disappointed remarks about what a waste it was for him to pretend to be a career. Insults that would weigh on his soul far more heavily than any praise possibly could.
He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. His voice cracked when he asked, "Come again?"
"Right, they didn't tell you this morning. Only one kid's going this year since the Capitol has to send twelve kids. Less competition for you—not that you aren't already a star, but you get what I mean."
"Am I… good enough to volunteer?"
Titan scoffed. "Who gives two shits about being good enough? You're a celebrity and you're nubile and there's a whole market of kids in the Capitol who would max out their parents' cards to sponsor you. Money makes a winner, kiddo, not skill."
He hesitated. Titan caught it. Midas watched him stand up and flick the cigarette, still lit, out the window. It landed in the birdbath outside, startling a sparrow that had been taking a drink.
"You'll be fine," Titan said. His voice took on a soothing tone reserved for young children, the kind of tone he would speak to Midas in when Midas was at his lowest. Like comforting a frightened animal and coaxing it out with promises of affection. Perhaps Midas really was just a pet to him, staying on his best behaviour so that hand continued to pet him rather than punish him. "The Capitol loves you. You'll be just like Lola Amos out there, y'know? Everyone pulled all the stops for her, and you're even more beloved than she was."
Titan circled the desk and stood behind Midas. Midas was stiff in his seat, his hands tightly gripping at the hem of his shirt, and he kept his breathing as steady as possible. The sweet words Titan whispered, promises that he would never do anything to hurt Midas, fell on deaf ears as everything faded away into a dull ring.
He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't want to die. He was pathetic and useless and a coward but he didn't want to die.
Hands landed on his shoulders. Midas swallowed a thick lump in his throat and struggled to figure out what to say. Everything he could say was turning into protests and pleas for his life as soon as he tried to speak.
"Midas, kiddo," Titan cooed, "since when have I ever made a bad decision for your future?"
Several times. So many times that Midas lost count. Titan was lucky he had a silver tongue shiny enough for the Capitol to still adore Midas after all the mishaps in the past, all the trauma he absorbed from the reality of being a celebrity. Titan was lucky Midas was a good little actor and knew how to salvage a mess with his good looks and boyish charm.
"I've even got some people inside the gamemaking team," Titan went on. Some of the stress began to leave Midas's shoulders. Directions. People could give him directions. He worked well with a goal. It would be just like acting, like being live on a stage and unable to do several takes. He'd acted on a stage before. "They'll make sure to take good care of you, okay? So you'll be a good boy and do as I say, won't you?"
He'd be a good boy. Midas finally felt his heart stabilise a little more, fear still present but far easier to ignore than before.
"I will."
Perseverance Bon Vivant, 18, C-District 1
One Week Before the Reaping
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Petitions raised for renewal of hit tween series, After School Club. Will Midas Macedonias abandon the Quell for it?
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Doubts Raised Over Whether Midas Macedonias Has What It Takes To Be A Quell Victor.
Caught in 4K! Midas X Aurelia coming true? Here's the scoop on their latest rendezvous!
Percy swiftly blocked the last tweet.
The nerve of some people, he thought. He locked his phone and smothered his face into his pillow, a long, tired sigh escaping him all the while. Always scrutinising, always looking for a crack in the foundation. When would people realise that Midas was perfect? So perfect that no one could remove him from his pedestal?
Perfect… Always perfect… Always…
Always everything Percy wished he could be.
Percy pulled his face from his cushion with a groan. The room was dark aside from the light of his TV on the wall, muted as it played a loop of Midas's movies over and over, and he cuddled closer to the life-size pillow next to him. Despite the things his family would say, the ways they would beat him down psychologically for not being enough, for wanting to be someone else, at least Percy could find comfort in how well he knew Midas. Enough that the conversations late at night were real enough, perfecting Midas's responses and personality to a T.
The pillowcase was—to scale—a full-body image of the other teen. Percy held onto it for dear life, brows furrowed as best he could, and he glanced at the TV again.
"I thought you didn't want to go into the Hunger Games," he mumbled.
He knew the responses so well, knew the mannerisms so well, that Midas may as well have been in the room with how clear the reply had been. Percy closed his eyes as he held the pillow, light from the movie flashing over his lids.
"I didn't at first," Midas's response came. Percy furrowed his brows and scrunched his eyes shut tighter. "But I can only do my best with my training, right? Kids younger than me were deemed fit to volunteer some years."
Yes, the fourteen- and thirteen-year-olds allowed to volunteer. But they were more invested in poisons and playing dumb, acting like babies to pretend they were an easy target. Midas didn't have that. Surely he knew that.
"Is it a good idea?" He sighed into the pillow.
"Maybe not… It's definitely something that doesn't allow for reshoots." A chuckle so soft and humble, so irrevocably Midas. "If at first you don't succeed… Well… Exit stage left, pursued by muttation?"
Percy pulled his face from the pillow. He glared at it, the perfect smile and shy gaze, and he let himself pout as he gazed at it.
"That's not funny," he sniffed. The idea of a mutt sinking its claws into Midas… Perish the thought. Percy had seen how violent those things were. Even the little mutts, like the jackers, were torture. Midas didn't deserve to be tortured. Midas was far too innocent and free-spirited to deserve anything like this.
His Midas was truly such a saint, he thought after a moment. The Hunger Games, a tradition rooted in atoning for the sins of their forefathers, was only something that the scum of the earth deserved. But here was their golden child, Midas Macedonias, volunteering himself to risk his life and take on their burdens. How could anyone else reach that level of altruism? How could anyone become such a scapegoat so selflessly?
Percy stifled a laugh and relaxed into the bed again. Look at him, getting all poetic and junk. He should've been paying attention to Midas instead of forgetting the conversation.
"What's funny?"
"I got caught up in myself," Percy chuckled. "Can't believe I let it slip. We were in the middle of talking."
"It's okay, honest. I like seeing you think. You get this cute little dip in your brow that I almost want to poke at."
Percy kicked his legs and smooshed his face into the pillow, laughing some more. "Stop it! It's nowhere near as cute as yours!"
A thump on the other side of the bedroom door. His father's voice on the other side, muffled and angry. Nothing new, he thought as Endeavor's voice faded into the distance. Like always, the man was just there to yell at Percy to shut up, to be normal for once, and then he was off in search of Maven to scold the woman for coddling the boy.
His mother understood him. She didn't coddle him in the slightest. Endeavor was the outlier here, the one who wasn't normal.
Percy sighed and looked back at the TV. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he wondered if it was the wrong thing to say when he saw the Midas on the screen begin to tear up.
"Sometimes he makes me want to die."
The hurt expression quickly cut away to another scene, Midas no longer present, and Percy focused his attention on the pillow again. "I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay, Percy. I won't make you feel ashamed for how you feel."
"Thank you." Percy took in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. He almost wanted to go to sleep like this, but he had to let his cats into the room first. He could never sleep without his babies in the room with him, purring the night away and keeping him warm. "Midas… Be honest. Are you scared?"
Silence. At first he didn't panic, thinking the response was taking a while to process. How could Midas be scared of anything, after all? But the longer the silence dragged on, the sooner the panic began to set in. Percy felt himself deflate, his conversation with Midas cut tragically short by a stupid question like that. He wanted to scold himself, to punish himself for being so imperfect, so tactless, so unlike Midas—
"A little bit."
And then Midas replied, hesitant.
Percy relaxed again. He held the pillow tighter, as though embracing him reassuringly. "It's okay to be scared," he cooed. And then, "I'm sorry you're scared. Wish I could do something to help."
Being able to help Midas, to hold his hand and tell him it would be okay, to even get his hands dirty for Midas—Percy would jump at the chance if he could. All these bloodthirsty tributes coming at Midas, and no one to stand before him as a shield and friend. Midas would have no friends among the group…
"Percy?"
"Hm?"
"I'm… scared to die alone."
Percy picked at his fingernails, though could hardly see the damage being done to his manicure in the dark. "I know."
"If… You don't have to, but… If you volunteered, would you keep me company? Stay by my side, just in case?"
His heart stopped abruptly. The solution was so easy, he thought. Capitol kids were allowed to volunteer, after all, and District kids had to ally with them to win. So it made sense if Percy volunteered, stuck by Midas's side. He could be the shield Midas needed. He could take a bullet for him.
Percy broke out into a huge grin, the stretch of his cheeks painful and unfamiliar. He hadn't felt a rush of excitement like this since the first time he witnessed Midas's beauty.
"You're so smart," Percy praised him. "Of course I'll volunteer. Then you won't die alone if someone attacks you. I'll even die for you."
A half-chuckle. "Percy, no, if you die, I'll be alone again. I'd just want to die to be with you."
"Like Romeo and Juliet?"
"Only if you promise not to fake your death without telling me first."
Percy giggled. Distantly, Midas's laughter began to fade. Once it was just Percy in the room, laughing by himself, he was well and truly alone with his thoughts once more. What a novel idea. How had he not come up with it sooner? If he really put in the work, he wouldn't even have to worry about getting bad sponsorships. He just had to be in the same District pairing as Midas, and the issue of supplies would solve itself. They'd be able to relax and take a short vacation while they waited for everyone else to kill each other!
He picked up his phone and unlocked it. He opened his feed again, and he made quick work of sending out a message to all the Midas fans of the Capitol. They didn't need to know his intentions with this. They wouldn't understand, anyway. Not like Midas did.
No one loved Midas like Percy did.
[sparkle emoji] Percy the First [sparkle emoji] posted:
Hey sisters! This might be our last chance to see Midas in person, so let's pool our brain cells together and figure out where D1 is reaping in the Capitol and hold a meetup! See you all there! [four sparkle emojis]
Calysta Omega, 17, District 5
One Week Before the Reaping
The phrase "don't look a gift horse in the mouth" should've been easy for anyone to follow. When met with an opportunity, curb your dubiousness and accept it at face value for what it was: An opportunity. It took far too much effort to poke and prod and think in circles, so it made sense that people would prefer to just go with the flow more than anything.
But people liked to poke. People liked to prod. People liked to interrupt her work that they asked her to do with doubts and disagreements. They would look the gift horse straight in the mouth, and they had to expect to get kicked after a time.
"You said you'd get some catchers."
"That was a code. You know what codes are, right? You'll save money like this anyway."
"I wanted a professional."
"Christ sake, Sam, let the girl do her job and save a few bucks for once."
The two neighbours bickered over the fence line like an old married couple. Sam, today's "client", had complained about an infestation of mockingjays trying to make their nests in his small field of turbines. They weren't the big industrial kinds that made a lot of noise—the mockingjays would never go near those. They were the small, homemade kind that powered a small area of land he owned and rented to others, typically Peacekeepers doing mandatory service in the District, and the scarecrows never did a thing to stop the damn things.
Was what she did legal? Absolutely not. The fact that she had a weapon at all was considered illegal, but the added bonus of hunting with it and learning to "fight" was considered training, and any kind of training before reapings were illegal. Not that certain other Districts got in trouble for it, but she digressed. She was doing illegal stuff today.
Calysta was prepared to be all smiles and friendliness as usual when she arrived. Everyone knew her, she just had that sort of vibe after all, and everyone tended to get along with her. But her mood had soured as soon as Sam had doubted her capabilities and insisted on getting a professional instead. It wasn't the fact that he disregarded the trip she'd taken to reach his property that bothered her, really—that was a scenic trip she could enjoy, and Sam's neighbour was a nice guy who had plenty of stories to share. It was Sam trying to make her look like a fool, acting like he knew what was best right in front of her, when she'd already agreed to do the work at his request. She wasn't what he expected—she was still just a teen with an illegal weapon in her backpack—and he expected fancy.
Fancy would leave some mockingjays to repopulate and demand a second visit. Fancy would exploit some money out of Sam that Calysta had no interest in to begin with.
"I ought to report you two for this."
"Oh, quit whining already." Sam's neighbour slapped his shoulder good-naturedly. "Just give the girl a few hours. If you aren't happy, I'll take her home."
"And how the hell is she going to trap some mockingjays without any actual traps? She gonna throw her little bow at them?"
Calysta piped up, "I start by being quiet, for one."
Sam glared at her. His liver spots were hard to tell apart from his freckles.
"My walk," she went on, salvaging what little politeness there was to be had. "I make sure not to step on things that make loud sounds. Keeps me quiet."
"She's got experience, trust me. And you can eat the things later or stuff them, who gives a damn? Pretty sure the Peacekeepers like it when the population's kept down, anyway."
"I still wouldn't advertise this openly, though," Calysta mumbled.
The neighbour nodded and jabbed a thumb at her, almost as though to say, See?
Sam threw his hands up in the air and gave up rather quickly. He dismissed her to her job, telling her that he'll leave a bottle of water for her to sip at and supply some lunch, and Calysta felt herself relax a little more. As much as she would've hated to argue with the man over her capabilities, part of her had expected him to be too stubborn to give in so easily. Like he'd said—he was a landlord who rented to Peacekeepers, and he only wanted to trap the mockingjays. It was sheer luck that he gave in when he did, and the neighbour gave her a thumbs up and a wink as soon as Sam's back was turned. Calysta would meet back at the shack around noon for some food, and if she didn't produce enough dead mockingjays by that point to convince Sam, the food she ate was all she was getting paid and Calysta had half a day to fill her time.
At the first signs of mockingjays in the field of small turbines, Calysta climbed the frames and set herself up comfortably above the ground. The climbing gear Sam supplied helped out some, letting her dangle off of the frame and move about more freely, and Calysta had no trouble shooting down a few nests before breaking to collect them and retrieve her arrows. When she'd found the collapsible bow by chance, she'd taken to using it and getting used to it rather quickly—but there was only so much she could do without arrows, and just carrying it around all the time would get her in trouble.
Her grandparents had taught her how to whittle and there was never a shortage of sticks and branches in the area she lived. Near the solar farms were also small biomass plants, and the compost that was too big to be burned in the large batches for electricity were ripe for the picking for Calysta. It certainly was a trial-and-error affair, her first arrow snapping when she'd drawn the bow and slicing her palm open. But the more she practiced, the more she got used to it all—and now here she was, she thought as she checked the time, doing odd jobs thanks to her illegal hobby.
She had about a dozen mockingjays in the sack Sam had supplied her with, and Sam didn't hold back his surprise at the sight. Calysta flexed her hands as she ate, the sandwich plain and easy on her stomach, and Sam looked over each carcass with an appraising eye.
After a while, he asked her, "What do you normally do with the things?"
Calysta shrugged. "Lady on the other side of the District likes to use them for taxidermy," she said. Calysta got a small commission fee on top of the work hunting the birds from the woman, since there weren't many suppliers of decent-looking mockingjay corpses who sold them cheap to boot.
Sam sniffed and let out a grunt.
"They're fat little buggers," he noted. "Could probably stuff a few and no one would tell the difference between it and quail once it was roasted."
"Why don't you, then?"
Sam furrowed his brows. "Why don't I what?"
"Take the mockingjays and cook them up." She pointed to the bag once her sandwich was finally eaten, her hands fully free to check for any blisters or callouses. "Same lady who stuffs them says they taste alright. Gamey, but you just have to season it right."
The old man didn't need much time to make up his mind. He loaded some of the birds into his freezer in the kitchen, making a note to pluck them as well that he pinned to his fridge beside it. Calysta didn't want to be rude and set out for the rest of the mockingjays before Sam properly dismissed her from conversation—a lot of people she did odd jobs for had a habit of trying to get more information out of her through awkward small talk or praise of her skills, and her grandmother didn't raise her to be rude when people were just asking polite questions.
"Right," Sam went on after he washed his hands. "I never got your name, either."
Calysta sucked in a deep breath and felt her cheeks burn. Oh, she totally forgot to give him her name this morning. She was way too focused on trying to convince him to just let her do her work in peace.
She cleared her throat and babbled, "I'm so sorry, it slipped my mind earlier. I'm Calysta Omega. If you ever want to have me come out again, you just ask around for Meg."
"Oh, Joey's grandkid," Sam deduced. "Not a lot of folks here with Omega as a surname. Ain't your parents the ones who ran off to Four?"
Calysta pursed her lips. "Supposedly."
"Youngsters these days," Sam went on. "Should never start a family if you can't handle the consequences. How's Angie?"
Angie? He meant Angela, right? She never let people call her Angie, Calysta thought.
"She's doing okay. Still sort of a…" She waved her hands about vaguely. "Big presence. She's not letting age stop her any time soon."
"Good to hear." Sam scratched his chin with a thoughtful look on his face. He seemed to be a bit warmer with her now that it seemed he knew her grandparents, though she only assumed the familiarity ended beyond the work Joey and Angela had to slow down with due to their health. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Calysta was helping to make ends meet with what little money she earned doing this.
She spent the rest of the day hunting again, getting another dozen mockingjays out of the way before Sam's neighbour came back to take her home. Calysta took the remaining dozen mockingjays with her, loaded them into the truck with the rest of the supplies the neighbour owned. When she turned back around to say goodbye to Sam, she found the old man rummaging through a wallet and mumbling to himself.
A thick wad of cash was stuffed into her hands before she could even tell him he didn't owe her money for the birds he kept. But Sam was just as stubborn as Angela, and it showed in his refusal to take the money back.
"Don't argue with me, girl," Sam scolded her after a time. "Chicken's been too expensive lately, and I'd rather pay you for the birds than get some overpriced poultry from the butcher in town."
"I still don't charge this much," Calysta pointed out.
"Then it's a tip. What, you don't take tips?"
She snorted a laugh. She couldn't really argue with tips. There wasn't a good reason to decline those, at least none she could think of.
Calysta loaded herself into the truck after that. She gave Sam a wave, thanking him for his request, and tucked the money in her pocket with a small smile.
That wasn't the worst direction today could've gone, she decided.
Quatra X, 14, C-District 5
One Week Before the Reaping
"This isn't fair!"
Quatra clenched her hands into fists again. No matter how much time passed on the train that had picked them up, her sister wouldn't let go of the circumstances and adapt like everyone else. Was it unfortunate this had happened? Absolutely. They'd all been investigating various sources of illicit activity, every single member of the family, so it wasn't just Cinca having her daily life disturbed right now.
The cover story had been easy enough to deliver to their peers: Dos, having graduated high school and been accepted into a university in District Three, had been offered a chance to bring their family with them for the trip. More opportunities for the younger three siblings, their parents had lied, and Quatra had watched everyone eat it all up and praise Dos endlessly for their intelligence.
Well. Praise "Denali Marcellino" for being so intelligent. That was who District Ten knew them as—the Marcellino family. Not the X family.
Not that it mattered now, she thought. With the cover story, there was no reason to go back to Ten unless they got an upgrade in disguises. Not to mention, they'd all gone to scattered schools in the area to observe the curriculum; most students their age would recognise them, even if they'd tried to keep a low profile. With Quatra's luck, maybe even Lily would notice…
"We shouldn't have to leave Ten for some Hunger Games!" Cinca snapped again. "We aren't citizens of any area of Panem!"
Una dragged her hands over her face with a groan. "Enough, Cinca, this is what we were ordered to do."
"The Marcellino family was in the reapings every year, anyway," Tres chimed in.
It was true. Cinca just didn't think so up until now because she wasn't of reaping age. The less she stressed about upcoming reapings on behalf of her more beloved siblings, the more she could do her work properly and observe those who did act irrationally during reapings.
It didn't help calm Cinca down. Quatra reacted much like her older sister did, dragging her hands over her eyes and groaning to herself, and it didn't go unnoticed by Tres. The two siblings exchanged a look, and then Tres was up on his feet with a quick announcement of, "Quatra, let's fix your hair before we arrive. It's been a while since you were allowed to keep the natural colour."
It was as good an out as any for her. Her only gripe was that now she had to go back to being blonde, when she was more than fine staying brunette for the brief return to the Capitol.
Back two carriages and into her room, Tres shut the door behind them and let out a slow sigh. Quatra watched him, understanding, as she pulled out a chair from the desk nearby and sank into it. The small mirror on the desk was lit up just right and the perfect height to see her face, and she noticed the contacts were still in. Quatra wasted no time pulling them out, and her eyes went from brown to their natural grey as Tres ran his hands through his hair.
"It's amazing that she even keeps her cover from being blown," Tres mumbled. Quatra huffed a laugh, quiet and hidden, and fought back a smile.
"She would've found out the hard way if it was a normal Games and one of us got reaped," Quatra reasoned. But she still felt that annoyance and aggression that came with dealing with Cinca, and Una would've joined in if given enough time to make fun of Quatra. Sometimes this family tested her patience, and it made a little more sense how she'd gotten so close to a civilian in Ten over the years; who would want to be stuck in the same house as the X family longer than necessary? There was only so much time Quatra could spend in her room before cabin fever set in.
Tres flopped onto her bed with a grunt. "How we feelin', Q?"
"Like I just got myself twenty minutes of peace," she told him. Tres chuckled to himself, soft and silent. He was the only one who understood Quatra and her frustrations with this family. For a group of spies monitoring the children of the Districts and their educations, keeping to themselves as much as possible and drawing almost no attention to themselves, they really took a bombastic way to leave by their own standards. Not to mention the fact that Cinca was a more outgoing presence, which meant her alias was going to be discussed and possibly missed just as much as Dos's was.
It would be bearable if Una didn't pick on her so often. An older sibling giving her a hard time while a younger one annoyed the hell out of her just wasn't doing her any favours with her stress levels.
A knock from her door. Quatra leaned back in her chair and softly called, "Who is it?"
Dos entered without a reply. In their hands, they had two bottles of dye and some clothes more suited for the Capitol—though, Quatra thought with relief, still plain by the Capitol's standards so they wouldn't feel like they were in costumes. She couldn't feel comfortable in the fashion trends and the big spectacle ensembles. She truly did enjoy the Districts' way of life and its simplicity, poverty and fear of the Hunger Games be damned.
"Mom said it'll be televised through the Districts," they explained. One bottle of dye was thrown to Quatra. It was the exact shade her hair was naturally supposed to be. "All of us need to do a little makeover so no one recognises the Marcellinos. These clothes okay?"
Tres nodded happily. "Finally, a nice sweater that isn't itchy. I won't be missing the tweed any time soon."
"We can get some cream for that rash while we're in the Capitol," Dos agreed. It was a wonder Tres survived the wintertime with the reactions he got from the tweed sweaters that everyone used in the area. They couldn't stand out with more expensive material, after all.
"Thanks, Dos," Quatra sighed. She stood up, collected the clothes from them, and turned to go to the bathroom. She might as well shower while she rinsed the dye out once it set.
Dos sucked in a deep breath and made sure Quatra's door was shut. They looked at their siblings with a sympathetic expression.
"I know this feels like it's unrelated to what we're supposed to be doing," they started. Quatra didn't outright say she agreed. It felt pointless to bring them back home when they were supposed to be observing the education system of the Districts, making sure anti-Capitol propaganda wasn't being spread. "We actually got called back by the party that sent us out. There's… dissonance back home."
"Tell us something new," Tres muttered.
"I think the Snow loyalists are worried President Crane will try something with the Quell," Dos went on. They scrunched up their face, displeased by what they were saying. "One of us is definitely being sent in to take a look behind the scenes and observe the staff. We just don't know who. Una will be our contact—she's getting assigned as security. Don't know if she'll be posing as an Avox or as a Peacekeeper, though."
Quatra turned to face them fully. "Are we spying on our own government?" she asked slowly.
Dos hesitated. "I… I think so."
The trio let out dismayed sighs all at once. Tres held his head in his hands, all his previous energy sapped from his body, and Dos leaned against the door with their eyes closed. The mixture of emotions on their face was a cocktail of questioning that, for once, Dos was aiming at their goals. Quatra couldn't blame them.
But still, maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed on the surface.
"I guess we should assume there's something going on," she mumbled. "More than just the Snow loyalists having suspicions about Crane. Maybe… Maybe the Quell itself might be in danger of being hijacked by a third party."
"I'd sooner believe that," Dos agreed. "Crane may be District-raised, but she doesn't rock the boat. She knows everyone's stance on the Games throughout Panem."
Tres looked up again. "Have you told Cinca?"
The way Dos's face scrunched up said it all. They knew Cinca wouldn't do the best job of observation, even if she was raised into it. Cinca would run to Una too much and expose their plans—back in the Districts, it was easier to wait until school was over and they could tell their parents, who did the reporting. But with Una in disguise, Cinca wouldn't know how to covertly deliver her findings like the privacy of home would allow.
Tres sighed. He reached into his mouth, fumbling around, and let out a pained grunt as he pulled something out from his teeth. His wisdom teeth had been removed long ago, but fake ones were still present in the back of his jaw for times like this.
"I'll keep the capsule empty," he decided. "Just tell Una to make sure any messages are mixed with my food so I can tuck it in without being noticed."
"Same with mine," Quatra said. Dos nodded. They would give the small capsules to Una before the reapings began, and they would have to wait until they were fed for any news.
Quatra hoped it really was a third-party issue they had to observe. Being involved with a potential coups led by the Snow loyalists… It didn't sit well with her. Not when her job was to keep the peace by preventing violent mindsets from being spread.
