Althea Ivory. District 4 Female.
The Capitol is obscene in its glory.
It's the light that attacks Althea first. Her eyes blink as they adjust to the sheen bouncing off the train's silver, and it's blinding, it's so bright. Light adorns the Capitol. It shakes the grounds with diamonds; leaves sprinkling glass with every crunch of her step. Dazzles of pearls smear across the grandiose buildings reaching ten-feet tall, and it's almost like District 4, reincarnated, remade. It's grandiose; ornate; declamatory; pontifical. The Capitol: their strength dashed in air, in their flair and ridiculous fanfare.
Althea doesn't care. It's really just a place, making up for what it lacks. The Capitol's emasculated, castrated. They venerate themselves with their plaques, as if their excessively grand air could compensate. They demonstrate with the Games, like megalomaniacs, as if that could strengthen their slave state. But it's quite listless—pathetic.
(It's a little funny if she dwells upon it. But she doesn't need to. It's inconsequential, really—the Capitol's reason for the Games do not matter towards victory. And victory is what she needs.)
Needs—because that's how she'll show her District just how capable she is. Needs— because that's how she'll be able to live in the Victor's Village, forever, with Kani, so far away from home. Invincible, immortal, irreverent; where nobody'll be able to touch either of them.
The Capitol will be her vehicle. Sure, they may be ridiculous— with their frivolous dress-up games and their bleach-pale skin that makes their frail bodies weaker than they are; with how they gorge upon entertainment, like death were nothing more than sweets— but they're a means to an end. And that's how Althea'll get there.
To what she wants.
So she turns her eyes up ahead of her, as she's marched down away from her train, flanked by four—no, six Peacekeepers by her side, towards the wide, open, gleaming square of the Capitol. The other tributes are getting the same treatment—there's a boy with strawberry-blonde hair that's being escorted, along with a dark-haired girl; there's a woozy girl that's stumbling and a… boy, a child, too, that's being brought to the centre of the square.
No, not tributes. It's the Careers.
District One is… intimidating. While the boy has no muscles to show of— not like Talon's, who'd always flex when given the opportunity— he's still incredibly lean and athletic. It's a cyclist's build that he has; and Althea wonders what tricks he has up his sleeve, especially to be chosen to come here.
But the girl's another story entirely. Built like a dancer if dancers had muscles to show; she's undoubtedly strong, and undoubtedly fluid, too. It's the type that she'd always admired back in the Academy, that she'd always been jealous of because they somehow managed to combine fluidity with brute strength. A dark intensity burns in the girl's eyes, that oozes like festering pits from the rot of hell.
(That girl. That girl is who Althea'll watch out for.)
Compared to District One, District Two is so obviously… deficient. She's not gonna start on the kid—he's a weakling, and he'll probably die on the first day. Althea doesn't care how, but he's practically a walking corpse at this point.
The girl, however… is interesting. She's strong. She's not District One levels of strong, of course, but she's got muscles that remind Althea of herself. But there's a glaze in her eyes that leaves Althea with an impression that she was blind—till she snaps out of it with a half-almost smile.
(District Two Girl. Mentally unprepared.)
Althea knows they're analysing, too—for who's the weakest, who's the menace, who's the first dead, who's the survivor.
So Althea relaxes her posture. Pushes her shoulders back; she's unassuming, she doesn't matter. Makes her eyes crinkle, her fists relax; she's unprepared, she's cursory, she doesn't care. Lets a slight smile rest on her face; she's weak, she's frivolous, she's just another one of those stupid little Career girls that die in the Bloodbath.
Althea puts her armour back on and smiles.
Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.
It's unusual, seizing up the other Careers.
Maybe because when she faces off other people, it's usually when she's… sober. Sober and conscious and aware. But now, still in her afterbliss, she's… floaty. Happy. Ethereal. Okay.
(Not down-in-the-dumps. Not crying her eyes out. Not grasping for more, for those too-light feathers to environ her skin, because she's still living in that bliss, for a bit, for a minute, and she can convince herself that it'll stay like this, for a bit, for a minute, and another, and another, and…)
They're…
Hera can't quite collect her thoughts. There are faces that form in her eyes, yes, but they don't mean anything to her. They're just… faces. Bobbing in mist.
(Soon-to-be-dead faces. Skewered faces, cracked faces, broken faces. Left-on-the mantle-of-a-child's-neck-faces.)
They're… faces. Faces that become scarred masks that tributes wear, for show, to the Capitol, for the blood it seizes from them.
Blood. It sticks in her mouth: that foul magnetic sensation. One she'd felt when she was slapped in the face by a boy during training. It's one that dribbled down her lips and had grafted upon her skin. Synthetic. One that her parents have drenched her lungs in. As if it were an anaesthetic and not apheretic. Red. Analgesic; copasetic…
She feels it already in her mouth.
(Why does the Capitol love it so much?)
Blood pervades her in copper and metal, it makes her so putrid. It subsumes into her skin and makes her so much not-herself. But she needs it. Her father will watch her. That's my girl. Look at her go. Murdering all four of em in the Bloodbath. I couldn't be prouder. And her mother. Don't waste our efforts, Hera. Blood is blood; I don't care what you think. I'm sorry, love, but you need to win.
(The Capitol likes the feeling, Hera supposes. Perhaps they are all paraphiliacs; sadists; symphorophiliacs. But how likely is that? Perhaps it's a punishment for them, too. Like how it is for the Districts. Maybe they don't like to watch the blood. Maybe it's… maybe it's just…)
Wouldn't it be nice to think that?
There are more Peacekeepers than usual, scattered across the square. They're blobs, little blurred figures and silhouettes in the sameness of the too-grand Capitol. If she fits them with wings, they might almost look like doves.
Doves. A swarm of them… too many, too much. More than those at home… and there was a lot at home. Since the riots sprung up and waged a conflagration across the District, because of something that the last Two girl did. Pockets of rebellion would be caught by a dozen of them, letting loose explosions in their feathered uniforms.
But it's not even that. There's an army of Peacekeepers here. More than enough to control even the worst outbreaks in Two.
It twinges at her, dimly… more Peacekeepers have to mean something. And she's thinking, she's trying to think, why did she take so many drugs, fuck, she can't think—
But there's something that's mismatched from the rest.
A woman. A figure. She's in the centre of them all. The Peacekeepers all flank her, and they're like swans, fluttering behind the mother.
The leader.
It a dryness that first starts in Hera's throat. A scratchiness that signifies the aftermath of too much alcohol; too many drugs. But it spreads like an infection and then she's halfway coughing and her lungs are choking and oh no oh no her vision's so clear—
Hera sees the leader. She's a pretty woman, shoulders back, head tilted up, an air of solemn distance that stays with her. Darkness roils inside her cold eyes; her power exudes through her posture.
She's waiting, she's wanting, they're here for, she's here for…
Blood.
"Welcome," the Leader says, a smile flitting in her voice, eyes flicking between Career to Career, "To the Games."
The Leader gazes. Tribute to tribute, creature to creature, bodies to bodies, flesh to flesh. Bone and ash; soon to be dust. Because of how much they want—
Blood. It must be like a drug.
(And can she blame them at all?)
Rhodos McNamara. District 4 Male.
The Head Gamemaker takes in him in like he's a specimen.
Rhodos keeps himself still. He evades her gaze; lush in raven-blackness, sparkling with glitz that reminds him of an abyss—
(But he's here, anyway. He's volunteered, anyway. He's signed up for this—hasn't he?)
He looks, instead, upon the platinum palace that makes the scenery. Although it is dim in the din of dusk, the balusters of quartz and the pilasters of marble turn the despondent place so much so into a sun-spangled display.
The Capitol. Too large. Too powerful. Levelled in its marble and crystals, in its diamonds and quartz, unbreakable, untouchable—and he, what is he to all of this?
(A student. A volunteer. A tribute. Nothing, really, but what the Capitol wants. They and their phantom hand; that'd descended, into his life, to push him up and play dress-up: student, volunteer, tribute. They and their hand, that'd infiltrated the minds of his parents; fight with vigour and you'd be a Victor, comply and we'll let you make music on the side. They and their hand, and just how much they like to strangle: you're a volunteer, you're here to fight, we've brought you out of your life to survive.)
A tut. Rhodos's eyes snap back towards the Head Gamemaker, and the coalescing blackness in them is enough to make him look away immediately.
It's not just observance —it's disapproval, it's dissatisfaction, it's disappointment. That's what's in the Head Gamemaker's eyes.
"Rhodos McNamara," she drawls, and the notes shred his skin, sinking in him like shards. "My District Four Male. Were you concentrating on what I was saying at all?"
(He was. He was listening: first, there, welcome to the Games, then, next, I'm glad you were all here, and after, you were chosen for a reason, and fourth, you should prove yourselves in the Arena, and fifth, I hope you're listening, tributes, because this is important.)
"I am," Rhodos says, his throat so tight, his words as quick as they can be. Because it wasn't what he'd intended, he didn't want to seem like he was ignoring her, no, he just couldn't look at her face, he was listening, he wouldn't've dreamed not to—
A half-smile twists the Head Gamemaker's lips. "I'd thought so, Rhodos," she says. "Snow had always thought that you'd looked attentive."
The other Careers are staring at him now. Rhodos swallows and finds another spot in the horizon to glance at.
Fear roils in his chest, just as pride swells in his heart. And guilt sloshes in his stomach for the latter, because two weeks before the Reapings, Snow had visited Four.
(He still remembers the way his eyes had taken in his male training group: piercing and cold and supercilious. Rhodos had always kept his head bowed, even as the others hesitantly looked at the President of Panem.)
Judging by the looks of the other Careers—and even Althea—visits from President Snow were not common.
Rhodos forces down a gulp. Bitterness. Frostiness. Anger. It's crushing in his chest; knowing that they were envious of him. He didn't mean to have Snow visit; he didn't know why Snow picked him out in particular. It wasn't as if he asked for it—he'd just met the rest of the Careers, but they'd have certainly deserved the visit far more than him.
He lifts his eyes to meet the Head Gamemaker's for a moment, unsteadily, and his mouth opens as if to ask the question itself. But he closes it immediately—what are you thinking, you'd interrupted her once already, she'd have far better to do than to be bothered with your problems—
"I am sure," the Head Gamemaker says, "—that you have all been aware of the recent riots and so-called "uprisings" in your Districts. You have been chosen, this year, for that specific reason: we do not want the unpredictability of a bowl to change the course of the Games."
Rhodos doesn't need to think to know what the Head Gamemaker's talking about. Last year, there had been far more wiggle room in selecting the Careers: every Academy would pick their top choices and come to a consensus, ultimately allowing the student a choice to volunteer or not. But this time was different; the tributes had been directly ordered from the Capitol. He'd be surprised if it hadn't had anything to do with the 55th Games at all.
(Rebels, kids; a mess. Career rebels; romance; everything cataclysmic served up on a platter.)
The Head Gamemaker's eyes linger upon them all. And it rises his heart: he's been chosen by them. Recognised. Seen.
"However, this also means that you'll have to represent your District," and the Head Gamemaker's voice drops low down into a baritone; like she's keeping a secret. "We require you to play a normal Games. Kill the troublesome first. Kill the dissenting first. Kill the chaotic ones first. I want this to be a slaughterhouse Games. Understood?"
Dior—District One girl—is the first to nod. The District One boy, Chrys, is a little more uncertain, but concedes with a yes. That twelve-year-old from Two— Kiernan, was it?— has his jaw set gaunt, his fingers gripped into a fist, but an agreement gets out his lips. Hera—Two Girl that looks a bit tipsy—bobs her head a few times. Althea doesn't hesitate, and another nod goes the Head Gamemaker's way, too.
Her eyes fixate upon him. The Head Gamemaker cocks his head: like she's weighing him in; how valuable he is. Rhodos swallows; now's the moment when she'll find out he's no good at all, now's when she'll find out that she and Snow's made the wrong decision, now's the moment when everything blows up—
"Remind the Capitol why the Careers are so beloved by us, Rhodos," she says. "Won't you?"
Something as soft as a pick brushes against his nerves. And then again, and again, and again still; like they're making a crescendo.
He knows what they're asking of him: give us a show, Rhodos, and maybe then you'll be able to return to your life as normal.
It's the Capitol. It's the Gamemakers. It's what they do.
And Rhodos tilts his head down.
A/N: First of all, thank you all for your reviews! I honestly appreciated them so much; it was amazing hearing your thoughts about the Careers in the Train Rides (regardless of when they're written - right after the chapter updates or days after, I love them all equally!) And now we're at the Capitol!
Question: What do we think about the uprisings going on in the Districts? What do you think will happen? And will it affect the Games in any way?
Let me know what you think, and thank you so much for reading!