Chapter Four
Rosie soon joins him and their mentors in the sitting room of their quarters looking flushed but victorious.
"I did the Gauntlets." She crows. "You know, the obstacle course? I ran them a couple of times during training to get a feel for them, only slowly, so that the others don't realize how quick I really am." She pauses, and a large grin spreads over her face. "A lot of the Gamemakers were paying attention to me."
"Good job, honey!" Will tells her ruffling her hair. "I told you you'll do fine."
"I sure you both did well!" Lucretia says proudly. "Go wash up, and come down for dinner."
Once they had all been fed, they gather in front of the enormous television to watch the scores being announced. Because the training wasn't open to viewers, and their private session where secret, the Gamemakers started assigning a score to each tribute according to how much they impressed them. The number received, from between one and twelve, one being the lowest and twelve being the highest, allowed the public to have an idea where to place their starting bets and the sponsors to have an indication of who was worth sponsoring. Though it was worth remembering that having a high number didn't promise a chance at victory. Often, they were among the first to die. A high combat ability wasn't the only thing that could save a tribute's life in the arena. More than once it had been the ones that hid until the end that won.
Had he been alone, he'd have aimed for something in the middle like a five for his score. He would have hidden his meager potential as a surprise for the arena, but with Rosie… They had to show they weren't worth getting into a fight with. And at the same time, they had to show they weren't threats either. It was a very delicate balancing act between being good and being not that good.
After some music, Caesar Flickerman, host of the Hunger Games for more than thirty years appears on the screen. In all that time, his looks remained virtually unchanged, thanks to the youth-restoring surgery available solely to the Capitolites which allowed them to forever look young if they wished so. The only thing that changed was Caesar's color scheme. This year, it was white, from the dye in his hair to the makeup on his eyelids and lips. It was not a flattering look, and not even his typically colorful suit helped. Will much preferred the previous year's dark green.
One by one, a photo of a tribute appears, and Caesar announces their result. As usual, the Career Tributes get in between eight to ten, while most of the rest average out at a score of five. Occasionally, there are some unexpectedly high scores from the lower districts, such as District 7's Jack, who pulls a nine, and District 10's Cooper, with the same. Although to be fair, they had those two pegged as threats from the beginning, anyway, so they really weren't that surprised. Will had noticed the two of them had stuck to the combat stations with the Careers during training too, and suspects they will be part of the alliance.
It is finally District 11's turn, and his picture flashes on the screen. Rosie's hand slips into his, feeling clammy, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze, trying to ignore his own churning gut. A number appears below the photo.
"Seven." He breathes, relieved. Now, if only Rosie did just as well…
Her picture is displayed on the monitor, and they hold their breaths again as Caesar looks at his notes. "… a score of six."
It was as if an enormous weight fell off his shoulders, and he collapses back into the couch, all his strength unexpectedly gone. Beside him, Rosie is laughing a little hysterically, elbows braced on her knees and trembling hands hiding her suddenly teary face from view.
"You did well." Seeder congratulates them with one of her rare smiles, while Chaff toasts them with his ever-present glass of wine.
Lucretia is also beaming, nodding her head in approval. "We can work with this." She gushes brightly. "Oh, well done! Well done, indeed!"
Only Bacchus remains quiet, watching from his seat, while his partner bounces around happily with their escort. Still, even he has a slight smile curling at the edge of his purple lips.
That night, he finds himself lying in his bed staring blankly up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep despite the stress of the day. Somehow, his thoughts keep circling back to his siblings and the orphanage. He wonders if they were proud of them. If they had felt as relieved as he and Rosie had been when they saw their scores. His chest tightens, and Will rolls over on his side, tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. He's never felt so homesick before in his entire life. At that moment, he would have given anything to be back at that old, barely standing building, to be surrounded by his dozens of siblings, all laughing and talking and being happy together. He wanted the good, reliable Spade, and the violent, short-tempered, yet exceedingly loyal Basil, and the mischievous twins Heather and Hazel, and sweet, kind, naïve little Eva and… He squeezes his eyes shut. He'd be happy with even the Matron.
He loved Rosie, really. Just like he loved all his siblings. But they've never been that close. And however much he wanted to deny it, she will be a liability in the Games. Too soft, too caring, anyone who spent two minutes around her could see that. Would a girl who hated killing bugs be able to kill a human? Would she able to ignore the urge to help a wounded opponent? He knew people tended to change in the arena, but will she be able to change enough? Will it be in time or will it be too late? Will he even like the change, who she will become? Or will he regret not killing her to spare her from what will follow? Because he's thought of that, and often. He'd thought of killing her as soon as the Games started. A stab through the back right into her heart, he had imagined. Easy, quick, and most importantly, she wouldn't have suffered. He'd thrown up in the washroom after, disgusted with himself, but he had nonetheless still seriously considered it, if only so that she'd died pure and innocent instead of with bloodstained hands. He had decided against that plan of action eventually since he didn't think he had the guts to go through with it.
There is a knock on the door, and with a start, he realizes that dawn had come and he hadn't managed to sleep at all. He rises from his bed with a groan, dragging a hand across his face. It was going to be a miserable day, he just knew it.
Before they are let out into the arena to kill each other, all the tributes have to face the interviews. Their main purpose was to show the Capitol a little about each tribute to assist them in selecting their favorite, while for them it was their final chance to attract a sponsor. Will was not looking forward to them. He never did well in front of crowds, that's what he had Quil for. His older sister would have thrived under all that attention.
They start with presentation. For hours, Lucretia had them learn how to walk, how to sit, how to smile… It was as horrible as he had expected it to be, though the Matron had done her best to beat proper manners into all of their thick skulls. Apparently, her efforts haven't been enough. According to the adults, he had a habit of slouching horribly when sitting, while Rosie gestured with her hands too much when talking. Among other things. Because, of course, they had a lot more problems than that in their etiquette training.
"Be grateful you aren't a girl." Their escort tells him during a short break. "I would have put you in the tallest heels I could find and a full-length gown in addition."
"I just don't see how it matters how much or how wide I smile. My cheeks are starting to hurt." He complains, and Rosie giggles in response.
After lunch, they all gather back in the sitting room for the content session. There, they had to decide how they were going to present themselves to the audience. Are they going to be charming? Or will they be fierce? Or maybe they should be humorous? Their task was to figure out how they could appeal to the crowds the best.
"We'll definitely have to go with the protective big brother angle for you, Will," Seeder says and no one argues. It was the most obvious route for him. "while you, Rosie, could try the adorable, friendly one. Remember, as long as the audience likes you, they don't necessarily have to like Will too and verse versa. In this, you have an advantage in coming as a package deal from the start."
"I'll just channel Basil, then." He jokes.
"Only if you don't try to punch Caesar." Rosie returns, and they crack up. It wasn't hard picturing their brother hitting the man for one reason or another.
Lucretia and their mentors act as the interviewers, asking them questions similar to the ones Caesar has asked in the past. He thinks it goes well at the beginning, but by the end, Will has a mouth dry like the desert and wishes it was over. He becomes sullen, grumpy, and a little too angry to justify continuing the fake interview. Even Rosie's almost ever-present smile starts slipping into a frown.
"Leave the kids alone." Chaff finally interrupts his partner. "They get it."
Seeder scowls, clearly displeased, but at long last dismisses them and they quickly escape before she could change her mind.
After another long sleepless night, his room is invaded by his prep crew who don't let him out of their clutches until late afternoon. His hair is styled the exact same way it had been during the Chariot Ride only with a slightly less noticeable hairclip, and the blue paint on his nails is redone, covering the chipping that had happened while he was training. They don't cover him in glitter or decorate his face and arms with stunning designs again, but they do spend hours spreading all kinds of creams all over his body until his skin seems to glow. Even his makeup is understated, with only the slightest darkening around his eyes and some skin-colored concealer to hide his eyebags.
Bacchus enters with a big bag and the team eagerly sets to dressing him in his costume. Again, the theme was blue, from the darker coloring of the suit to the lighter, shimmering shade of the dress shirt. It was fitted perfectly, but he can't help tugging on a sleeve with a grimace as he examines himself in the full-length mirror.
"Something wrong?" His stylist asks mildly.
"No! No." He hastens to reassure the other man. "It's beautiful."
"But?"
"I don't feel all that comfortable wearing this." He admits.
"Take off the jacket." Cyrus suddenly interjects and shrinks back when they all turn to look at him.
Bacchus observes him for a long moment. "You have an idea?"
"Y-yes." The man stammers, avoiding his gaze. He must have thought he was overstepping his boundaries.
"Then go right ahead." The stylist invites indifferently and Cyrus edged nervously around him as he approaches Will.
Carefully helping him out of the suit jacket, the man's black gem-adorned hands smooth down the wrinkles in his shirt and pop open the first couple of the top buttons. After a second of hesitation, he also loosens the dark blue tie from its constrictive choke around Will's neck, before stepping away. "There." He says, looking a lot more confident. "Much better, I think."
"Oh!" Coco exclaims. "Roll up his sleeves too, Ciri!"
Back in front of the mirror, he had to admit his prep team members were right. Not only he looked better, he could actually recognize himself in the reflection now. It was something he could imagine wearing, had he had the money to buy such clothes.
They meet up with the rest at the elevator, and Rosie turns to looks at him anxiously. He has to admit Leto and her prep team did a good job. He'd been afraid his little sister will be made to look more mature than she really was, but that wasn't the case at all. Instead, she wore a fluffy and white short dress and tiny kitten heels. Her hair was styled into curls, and the only hint of makeup was in her rosy cheeks and pinked lips.
"You look cute." He compliments her with a soft smile.
"Thanks." She tells him, ducking her head shyly. "You look nice too."
The elevator doors open, and they join the other tributes in lining up to take the stage. Soon, they are paraded single-file up the platform and seated in a big arc on an elevated dais. He takes an opportunity to look curiously around in an attempt to calm his racing heart. Another elevated seating unit had been set up for prestigious guests and the tributes stylists. When their work was presented, the cameras were supposed to turn to them. There was a large balcony too, which was reserved for the Gamemakers, while all the other ones were commandeered by a multitude of television crews. The entire place was so packed with people, it was standing room only.
Caesar waltzes onto the stage to the enthused applause of the crowd, and it begins. One by one, tributes stepped to the center of the stage and for the next three minutes all attention was on them.
The first one up was the girl from District 1, Satin. Black-haired and green-eyed, she looked stunning in a floor-length form-fitting silver dress which twinkled under the lights. There was only one angle she could play and she did it perfectly. She was sexy, she was provocative, she made the audience fall in love with her. It was amazing really, how easily she managed to manipulate the Capitolites.
Her district partner who was next in line was less charming, and more barely contained violence. He spoke of how he couldn't wait to be out in the arena, of how long he'd been dreaming of this occasion, and the longer he talked, the more Will was certain he did not want to meet him once the Games started.
As usual, Caesar did a wonderful job. With his help, even the jumpiest of the tributes became stars. It was his friendliness, and his willingness to laugh at the weakest jokes that made him such a good host. It was his reactions to what the tributes said that made him a crowdpleaser even outside the Capitol like when he acted horrified when the District 6's female tribute bursts into tears as she explained she volunteered for her best friend because she was already dying of an illness. An illness that was entirely curable in the Capitol, but was much too expensive to treat anywhere else.
It's is Rosie's turn, and she bounces onto the stage with a large grin. You couldn't tell at all how terrified she truly was.
"Hi, Caesar." She chirps before he can say anything. "Call me Rosie. Everyone does."
He laughs. "Someone's excited! Very well, Rosie it is."
They exchange some pleasantries, and then Caesar gets down to business. "So, Rosie, tell me. Are you and William really not siblings?"
She wrinkles her nose. "Technically, no. But we all consider each other family back at the orphanage. Even Aster." She leans forward as if sharing a secret and Caesar follows suit. "She's mean and can be pretty nasty, but we love her anyway."
Will imagines the girl watching the interview back home and had to stifle the smile that threatens to spread on his face at the mental image of her face turning an angry red when she hears this. The others were going to tease her mercilessly for weeks.
The spectators laugh and Rosie beams at them with a what-can-you-do shrug. "There's always that one family member, right?"
"Yes, yes." Caesar acknowledges. "My uncle exactly." He becomes serious again. "Now, what about fighting? Can you fight, Rosie? I remember you getting an impressive six as a score."
She nods. "One of my other older brothers thought me how to. He didn't want me getting bullied, you see."
"Oh? And did that happened often?" Caesar looks concerned.
"Not at all. Not after I punched one of them right in his nose." She giggles sweetly. "I think I broke it."
That was a lie. But judging by the crowd's reaction, they entirely believed her and were extremely impressed. The situation had really happened, but she certainly wasn't the one doing the punching. And it hadn't been Basil, either. There was a reason why they all tried to keep Spade happy. He had a long fuse, but once his patience ran out, it got very explosive. Luckily, he also normally calmed down quickly.
Three minutes are up, the buzzer sounds, and Rosie flounces back towards her seat after a quick round of goodbyes with Caesar.
They announce his name, and Will makes his way to the center of the stage. In a fit of inspiration, he disregards everything Lucretia had said about proper posture and collapses into the chair like he would have when surrounded by the people he knew. All self-confidence with a hint of arrogance as if he and Caesar were old friends.
"And you must be the big brother." The man extends a hand in greeting.
"One of them." He lazily agrees, shaking the hand.
"The scariest?"
"Not by far." He chuckles. "But still pretty scary, I hope."
"I've been wondering, exactly how many of you are there? There you two, and Aster and the other big brother who thought Rosie to punch bullies in the nose..."
"Well, people come, people leave. Currently, there are thirty-eight of us, if you don't count the adults who take care of us. With them, it's forty-two."
Caesar whistles impressed. "That's one big family. Must be hard at times with so many people in one house."
He shakes his head. "I wouldn't know. It's always been that way for me, I don't remember anything else."
"William…" Caesar begins, and he immediately interrupts.
"Will."
Caesar raises an eyebrow but indulges his demand. "Will, then. Will, what would you say are your strengths?"
He pretends to mull it over. "I won't starve for one, and I know how to take care of my wounds. Medical herbs." He explains when some of the Capitolites in the crowd look confused. "I won't be in as much danger of dying from an infection. And I'd say I'm rather handy in a fight too."
Caesar turns sideways to the audience. "You hear that? Sounds like we got a pair of fighters here. Speaking off." He faces him again. "Will, everyone is eager to know, are we looking at an alliance here?"
"Me and Rosie? Of course. We're staying together until the end, whatever it might be." He smiles, sharp and angry. "I'll kill anyone who thinks they can lay a hand on my little sister while I'm still alive like a rat who got into the grain. Painfully." The buzzer sounds and he rises. "It was nice meeting you, Caesar. Love the suit."
The cameras follow after him until he's seated again, and then switch to the trembling District 12 girl. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales heavily, hands clenching the fabric of his pants. It was over, for better or worse, and there was nothing more he could do.
He finally manages to get some real rest, thanks to Chaff, who slips him some sleeping pills with a wink after the interviews. Come dawn, when Bacchus gets him from his room and leads him to the roof, he doesn't look half-dead from exhaustion. There, a hovercraft seemingly appears out of thin air, and a ladder drops down. As soon as he starts climbing, a sort of electric current freezes him in place. Before he can panic, he's slowly lifted inside. As soon as they reach the top, he prepares to let go, but instead of immediately releasing him, a man in a white coat approaches his frozen form to jab a syringe into his forearm.
"A tracker." The man explains matter-of-factly. "It's easier to implant when you're still."
The worker leaves, and it's only now he's free to move again. He steps warily away when the ladder starts descending for Bacchus, unwilling to be forcefully held immobile for an instant longer and heads into the neighboring room from where he could smell breakfast. He doesn't feel like eating at all, but he still forces himself to fill his stomach with as much filling food as he possibly could without throwing up. He's well aware it might possibly be the last time he could ever eat that good again.
Bacchus joins him at the table. "That was some attitude yesterday." He notes uncaringly.
He snorts. "Not really."
A purple eyebrow rises, and the stylist stares at him, head tilted to the side, and smoldering cigarette hanging from his fingers.
"The people are going to see the real me in the arena anyway, so I didn't see the need to be all that polite like I did for you." He explains wryly.
"It was all an act?"
"Not all of it. I can be respectful occasionally too." He grins. "Besides, I was told to channel Basil for the interview, so that's what I did. He's the rude one in the family."
They ride the hovercraft for about an hour before the widows suddenly blackout. He'd been passing the time by looking out at the passing wilderness, and he moves away from them disgruntledly. They were nearing their final destination.
Once the Hovercraft lands, they go back down the ladder, only this time they descend much deeper, down a tube underground, and into the catacombs below the arena. From there, an Avox leads them into the Launch Room.
"We call them the Stockyard back in the districts." He tells Bacchus offhandedly.
The man frowns. "Why?"
"Because that's where the animals go before they're slaughtered."
"Ah." A dry smile flickers across his face. "I suppose you, the tributes, are the animals in this metaphor?"
"Yep." Will says, examining the newly arrived clothes, and then curses loudly.
Bacchus approaches and rubs the material of the grey turtleneck shirt between his fingers thoughtfully. "Thermals. Those are going to be some cold Games."
"Yes." He growls. "And there goes our biggest advantage. Do you know how many species of plants grow in below-zero weather? I can count them on my hands and nearly all of them are bioengineered by the Capitol. What more, most are purely decorative!"
The only non-waterproof clothes Will had been provided with turn out to be the shirt and the socks. Everything else, from the furry-hooded coat to the pants, to the heavy boots were white, waterproof, and visibly made for warmth. Even the gloves and belt were the same. Thankfully, nothing was bulky, and they were actually reasonably comfortable to move in. Will assumes the clothes were made of some kind of special material available only in the Capitol, they were so light.
As he pulls his hair into a tight tail, Bacchus produces a pendant from his pocket. "Your token, I assume." He says.
Will reaches out and takes it, twisting it around in his hands. It might be a simple circle of dark wood hanging from a leather cord, depicting a carving of a large tree, but it had been a present from his siblings for his last birthday and as such infinitely precious to him. He hadn't taken it off since receiving it, and had been wearing it for the reaping. He'd been forced to part with it during the Chariot Ride and he hadn't thought he'd see it again. His throat tightens, and he puts it on, tucking it away securely beneath his shirt. It reassured him, to feel it hanging against his skin again.
Soon enough, a woman's voice pleasantly announces it was time to prepare for launch. He walks over to stand on a circular metal plate in the middle of the room. Faintly, he realizes his hands are shaking. A glass cylinder lowered around him, and he begins to rise. His last sight before being blinded by bright light is off Bacchus staring back at him, casually smoking his cigarette.
All around him booms the voice of the announcer, Claudius Templesmith. He says the same thing he says each year with only the slightest of variation to the numbers. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin!"
I don't own the Hunger Games.