Chapter Five.
Pre-Reapings, Part Three.
Syrella Tyriage, 18 years old;
Sector Two Female.
Syrella had been standing outside the door for about five minutes. Every time she went to knock sharply, her hand would freeze mid-air, and her mind went a hundred miles an hour as she tried to build up the confidence to make her presence known.
Though on the outside she was the prim and collected version of herself that a Tyriage was known for, on the inside she was a mess of nerves. Everything she'd believed in herself, her journey, her entire life, would finally come to fruition tomorrow and where she'd expected to feel happy, she couldn't help but feel inadequate.
And she hated those insecurities. They did not fit with the image she was trying to project.
When she raised her hand once more, before Syrella could even begin to flinch away, the door was thrown open and her fist almost collided into the nose of Head Trainer Eve. Syrella, for a second, went even paler. But then she found her confidence and beamed as her eyes met Eve's and her unsure hand fell by her hip.
"Afternoon, ma'am."
"Afternoon?"
Syrella in the face of other people refused to ever allow herself to feel less than. In these walls, the Tyriage name only went so far. Most people like Eve weren't immune to a hand in a pocket and a bit of money flashed here and deposited there. Syrella's peers on the other hand did not enjoy the fact that Syrella came with a last name attached.
Syrella was of two minds. Facing Eve, a fierce woman, someone that had won the Hunger Games herself, made her feel smaller than she cared to feel. But she also enjoyed wearing her surname as a badge of honour. It meant she was considered in a light that even in Two, so many others were never privy to.
"I believe you're expecting me."
Eve looked at her watch and chuckled. "Syrella, you're three hours early. This was supposed to be a post-training meeting."
Syrella just shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I could be down there with that lot, or I could be up here ready to discuss tomorrow. I've spent enough time with people my age who think they're better than they are." Are you not one of them, Syrella? No – no I'm not. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with being a little eager."
"I suppose not."
Eve stood aside and ushered Syrella through. In Eve's office, the walls were adorned with hanging baskets of bountiful flowers and enamelled frames fitted with photos ranging from people Syrella recognised as past Victors, to people that Syrella could only imagine belonged to Eve's family. It was a weird room – stifled and a bit pungent, and Syrella hated feeling confined within four small walls, living the life she led – but it reminded her that she was being seen by people like Eve, past Victors, as the cream of the crop.
She had to believe that she was. Otherwise her mind would only fall further down the rabbit hole.
Eve sat in her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. Syrella took it upon herself uninvited to seat herself down opposite, draping one leg over the other and smiling charmingly in the face of a woman that Syrella was sure believed herself to be intimidating, but to someone like Syrella she refused to cower. Though her stomach was a rollercoaster of nerves, outwardly she was doing her best to fit the bill of who she was soon to become.
If she conveyed the right attitude, then self-belief was sure to follow.
"Okay, Syrella. As of a week ago, you have been the candidate to represent Sector Two in this year's Quell. I suppose I might as well start with the elephant in the room," Eve began, to which Syrella felt her hands begin to sweat, "do you feel ready for such a mantle? We have a reserve, of course. If you wish to withdraw your candidacy then no one would look down on you."
Considering Syrella spent a lot of her time pushing others away with her painted-on cockiness, telling plenty of others that she was better than them, she knew for a fact that if a Tyriage stepped down from such an opportunity she would hear about it until she was old and grey.
Syrella shook her head immediately. "I am more than prepared, ma'am."
Eve made a gesture of flicking through a stack of papers on her table even though Syrella knew she was not reading them. People in Two always had the flair for appearing dramatic – a show for the masses. Syrella enjoyed being a part of this system. She'd never known anything else.
"You are top of the class in many of the strategic and survivalist areas. The only candidate to achieve one-hundred percent in Hunger Games History and you were also able to pass with flying colours through the case study portion of the examination. No one is doubting your mind."
Syrella knew what was coming and she hated it. She'd hated it ever since she'd realised stepping through the main doors that she had more of a brain than anything else. Two was shallow in the way it viewed its prized tributes. Eve fit the bill of a run-of-the-mill brutish warrior. She had seven kills to her name to prove that. Each with little thought behind them other than stick them with the pointy end.
Syrella on the other hand only had to watch as Eve's face crumpled and her façade began to slip, which only caused Syrella's posture in the chair to lower. "Because of the Quell and through your father's insistence-" By insistence, Syrella knew it meant investment. It always did. "—we decided to look into the programme that puts more stock into the sides of training that most prefer to turn an eye away from. But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about your proficiency with basic weapons."
"I'm not unskilled!" Syrella said, much louder than she intended. She almost put a hand to her mouth and felt the blush in her cheeks but she refused. Syrella found herself and slid back up into the chair, crossing her arms round her chest and meeting Eve's eye. "I will be the first to admit that I know I am better in certain areas, but that does not mean I am incompetent. You would not have chosen me if you believed that."
She knew it was only partially true. It was what fed into Syrella's innate self-doubt. Outside she could wear as many smiles, or flip her hair as many times as she liked, or shoot a scathing look in the direction of someone mediocre, but it did not change the fact that her prowess with a weapon was not top of the class.
She did not fit the bill that someone like Eve did.
"I'm not doubting you, Syrella," Eve said, "I just want to make sure this is one-hundred percent what you want to do."
Syrella did not skip a beat. She refused.
With a nod, Syrella smiled once more at Eve and leant forwards in her chair. "I'm ready for tomorrow and what's to come. You put your faith in me, now let me repay it."
For someone that was top of the class in the ways that relied more on the mind, Syrella did her best to delude herself that what was to come would be easier than so many people tried to tell her. It was just her coping mechanism. The best way for her to feel self-assured enough to go through with it.
Truthfully, if she didn't, she had no idea what life would be like.
The Tyriage name, as ever, was both a blessing and a curse.
It was time to take matters into her own hands.
Bex Redgrave, 18 years old;
Sector Three Female.
It was lunch-time in Sector Three's Academy.
Bex was the first to the food counter, eager as ever, though careful with her food choices. She looked with absolute disgust at the carbs in silver trays, fatty foods where she honest-to-god could smell the fat bubbling away, and settled on a plate of half-cooked vegetables and a sliver of meat.
The girls behind her watched Bex choose her food and she knew intentionally why she had been the first to run up there. If someone now lathered their plate with the unhealthiest options, they would look bad in Bex's shadow. If they didn't take as much, they'd look ungrateful. Bex smiled at all the girls as she flipped her hair over her shoulder and settled in the central table, where she always sat, and laid out a small tablecloth she had stuffed into the bag over her shoulder.
Inside, the small bottle of vodka rattled around, and she licked her lips. A waft of alcohol hit her in the nose and for a moment her heart palpitated even harsher, sweat on her brow, wondering if it was her that was stinking out the room. Then Tash settled down next to her and Bex's hackles eased and she wrinkled her nose, disgusted smirk on her face.
"How fucking disrespectful of you."
Tash gawped at her, spoonful of mash dropping from her gummy mouth, splashing against the plate. "W-What?"
"First," Bex raised a finger, making a point to begin a pretty petty display of counting, "you think it's alright to sit next to me. Second, you got a juice box? What are you – five? And third, why in the hell am I getting a horrific alcoholic fragrance slapping me in the face? Why don't you just open my mouth and shove your disgusting vodka down my throat," Bex said, inwardly relishing in Tash's horrific look that warped her rather pretty face. Not as pretty as me! "Go on, Tash. Open my mouth and pour your disgusting alcohol down my throat. You might as well since you're practically punching us in the face with it."
Tash's lips opened and closed like a fish for air as she stumbled over her words. Bex pushed her bag by her legs to keep it from view. She had her own bottle of vodka inside but that did not mean anyone had to find out her nasty little habit. She hated having the vice but then again that never stopped her from doing absolutely everything she could to be the best of the best. Her ranking within this room proved just that. Tash, for all her outward beauty, was nothing more than an ugly husk of a human being. Maybe they were both liable to enjoying more than a dozen shots of an eve', but at least Bex was a competent Career.
"Before you say anything, Tash, allow me this small act of kindness. Go over to the corner and think about what you've done," Bex said, watching as Tash stood up, picking up her ghastly tray of high-calorie food. "Go on. Shoo."
In Tash's shadow, Bex's own friends soon arrived and she was happy to see them. They were definitely the group to look at in Sector Three's Academy. Part of Bex was inwardly jealous of the fact that most of the girls she sat with were taller and sleeker, could shoot an arrow much straighter than she could, and the one or two boys that sometimes stood by her side were huge slabs of prized District Two beef, but either way, Bex knew she belonged.
Those wannabes, like Tash for example, would soon drop out. Bex condemned everyone that gave up this opportunity to train and ignored the fact that it was her words that usually led them to the door. It made Bex feel worthy being in this hall knowing that she was close with those that were actually challenging competitors. She'd dedicated herself to knowing absolutely everything – even the stuff that wasn't just stab, stab, cut, cut.
If Bex was going to volunteer tomorrow, she just had to be the best. Nothing else made any sense.
She felt an arm wrap round her shoulder and tried her best not to flinch. Sylas had nice arms which was definitely a plus, and he must have studied under some sex guru because what he did with his—oh my… but he was a shallow, fickle being that Bex was slowly starting to grow agitated by. He was someone that she enjoyed purely because of the way he seemed to dote on her. Those within her circle always seemed to look at Bex in a certain way.
She loved it.
"Bit harsh babe," Sylas said with a huge grin on his chiselled face, "I don't mind Tash."
A flicker of jealousy erupted inside of Bex and she knew, immediately, that Tash had to go. Not just from her table, but from her existence within her life, whatever small part that was. "Aw but Sylas, didn't you see what she was eating? And she's drunk! I think it's so disrespectful to waste this golden opportunity we've been given by getting all wasted. Not many are allowed here!"
Sylas was a mellow sort of guy. And he hated arguing. It was one of the things that Bex could read about him the second they'd met all those years ago. "Ah. I didn't think of it that way."
"Exactly!" Bex exclaimed. "I know it might be a lot for me to ask but for me, could you maybe – you know – not see her again?"
Sylas bit his lip and his eyes flickered over to where Tash sat sullenly in the corner. His eyes then fell back on Bex who was trying her best to smile for his pleasure but was finding it more and more tricky to keep it going. She didn't pretend to be someone she wasn't around him – she would call out anyone whether Sylas was around or not, but it still paid to at least try to act the pretty girl for him.
"Alright," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. "If it means that much to you babe, I'll cut her off."
Bex knew that Tash had been childhood friends with Sylas since they were in pre-school. They were neighbours for most of their lives. But that didn't matter to Bex. She didn't like Tash and that was that.
God, I need a drink.
Bex did her best, as their lunch-hour slowly subsided, to join in with the rest of her friends. For the first time in a while, however, it was tough. They'd been given the chance to all have a go tomorrow at volunteering if they wanted. Some had withdrawn their chances, even though they were actually better than Bex, because they knew going up against a whole Games of District Two was risky.
And doing it all over again – two Hunger Games! – was simply too much for some.
But Bex hadn't spent all her time in these halls working her ass off to simply give up. She knew she could do it. She'd made sure to get rid of anyone she had seen as weaker – anyone that didn't fit the image of a true Career candidate.
She relished the challenge. It was just who Bex was.
It was her calling.
Ozias Evermoor, 18 years old;
Sector Five Male.
Ozias heard the clatter of metal on metal, the mirth and laughter of the group of teenagers he called friends, and as the rain started to fall from grey clouds, in his heart he felt a flutter and couldn't help but stretch his arms out as the drops began to hit the rocky mountain-side.
Looming over the rest of the District, Ozias and his group could almost push aside the idea that they were on a metaphorical pedestal for something that actually looked like they were gazing down on those that they did not like. In Two, Sector Five or wherever, there was corruption that was tainted with nepotism and brutality and the wheel that kept turning.
Up in the mountains with Ozias as their guide and leader, he spoke of freedom from the shackles of Two, and those that stuck by his side wore smiles that only strengthened Ozias' resolve. He walked with Avia by his side and placed a hand on a younger boy's shoulder, grinning at him as the boy beamed up at Ozias, a delicate thing who had been kicked out of the Academy the second he'd fallen from the high-beams. A failed entry examination. No promise of a second chance.
Ozias hated the entire system.
"Weather has taken a turn," Ozias hummed, looking over at Avia as she smiled up at her boyfriend. Though she was definitely the more physically strong of the two, more of a true Career if ever there were a definition of what it meant to be one, Ozias loved her deeply and marvelled in the fact that she was here by his side. It only strengthened the belief that he was up here for a true, honest reason. "Is there any news?"
"Not yet," Avia said.
Ozias nodded his head firmly. "Pity. Hopefully soon."
As more and more faces turned to look at Ozias, his ego continued to inflate, his sense of self there for the world to see. Another young-ish boy went to high-five Ozias and he clapped his hand gleefully, laughing alongside the pitter-patter of joy that followed him. Every step he took continued to fill Ozias from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head with the self-assuredness he'd always had inside of him.
They had turned their back on the Academies below that had deemed them incompetent. Tainted by the system, Ozias had promised so much more to the fifteen or so that had stuck by his side, through thick and thin, through the highs and lows. They looked at Ozias for what he was and he gave them promises of luxury and gold once he came home from the Games.
With his head in the sky, almost quite literally, it was very hard for Ozias to feel anything close to fear over his future. He was doing his best to be the Ozias he had always promised his people. When they truly believed in him, it was very difficult for anything close to doubt to begin to shrink inside of his heart.
Those sorts of feelings did not make sense to someone like Ozias.
He finally found his seat, perched atop a rocky ascension that peered down on the earthy expanse where their make-shift training camp had been erected. Many eyes that had looked at him now resumed to face their opponent as they continued to clatter and clobber each other. All with purpose. All with Ozias' direction.
"I just can't believe it's tomorrow," Avia said, looking at Ozias from where she sat, legs draped over a rather jagged looking rock. "I don't know what we'll do for the few weeks you're not with us."
"You'll manage just fine, Avia. It's always been inside of you – that drive, that love, that understanding. You know why we're here."
She nodded and smiled up at him. But as she smiled, there was something that flashed through her eyes which unnerved Ozias. Something that made his own heart flutter in a way that no longer felt good, but something close to a darkness that crept in. He didn't like it.
It was so much easier to wear the smiles and give out the high-fives and the praise and sometimes the orders that needed to be given, rather than deal with the reality that sometimes he was asked to face. Avia's worry over his well-being came from a place of love, but it was not something that Ozias needed. Especially not a day before he would be heading to the Capitol.
"What if you don't make it to the stage in time?"
Ozias paled. The wind blew through his straggly, shoulder-length hair and he felt the chill roll down his spine, clawing at his resolve. "That will not happen."
"You sent Everard to see what was going on down in the Academy, but he never came back, what if—"
"You. Are. Wrong."
He made sure to keep his voice quiet enough so no one else heard him, but stern enough for Avia to wince, as her eyes lowered from Ozias' heated glare. Her fingers delicately twirled around a lone daisy that bloomed from the crack in the earth and the flare of fire inside his chest began to dwindle until he felt a blossom of guilt.
He moved closer to her and placed his fingers lightly on her shoulder. "I will make it to that stage, Avia." He then smiled, putting on the Ozias that she had come to fall in love with, the Ozias that they all looked to for guidance. "It's been written for so long the path I have to take. Something so trivial as me not getting to the stage first is not going to be what keeps me from returning to you. To all of you. I made a vow to myself and this group. I shan't break it."
Avia's lip trembled but the one thing that Ozias had always loved was her strength. She found it quickly and firmly, blinking away something that looked close to a tear, and placing her own hand atop his. There was a gentle squeeze and the light that flowed from her fingers made Ozias feel heavenly; elated atop the mountain.
"I'll just miss you," Avia said. "Terribly."
"As I will miss you. But it won't be long. And when I return, we will have everything that I have promised."
He made sure to enunciate the last word, with vigour that came with such fortitude, and the nearest follower to Ozias caught the words and beamed up at him, gesturing for the rest of them to gather. The boy that was first to smile up at Ozias had arms twisted with scars, chiselled with the muscle that Ozias had used occasionally for the things that had to happen down below in the shadows away from Avia's gaze.
Sometimes, and only sometimes, a voice was not quite good enough to get the message across. Sometimes for information, it was people like this young lad in front of Ozias that had to be sent down to the scum below. It was a delicate balance. A code that Ozias had cracked right from the off.
"Make sure you do not forget why we came here in the first place!" Ozias declared, reaching his arms out as a clap of thunder cracked through the blanket of grey above them. "In my absence, do not lose what makes us whole, do not flounder in the face of the voices you will hear below when they see me on that stage. It does not matter what they think. When I return, we will be the loudest of them all."
He watched with pride in his heart as the group looked up at Ozias. From his literal pedestal, he looked down upon them all and knew who he was, what he had to do, and the blessings that had been showered over him.
He was Ozias Evermoor and he kept his promises.
He would return in a blaze of glory.
And from that, real change would finally take place.
Brodus Marcano, 17 years old;
Sector Twelve Male.
On the outer edges of District Two, tucked away near the snow-capped mountains, where fields rolled into woodland that melded into pockets of barren wasteland, stood Sector Twelve.
Within Sector Twelve, Brodus heard the tell-tale ring of the bell at the shop's door and instinctively patted down his creased shirt, combing his hair with his fingers and straightening his back. On his face, he wore a polite, if rehearsed smile, whilst on the inside impatience gnawed away, edging Brodus more and more to focus on the clock ticking away atop the store counter.
"Afternoon," Brodus said at the sight of the tall man, trench coat and umbrella under his arm as rain began to trickle down from the grey clouds. Where it had been momentarily sunny, now it was all but gloomy and miserable. Brodus didn't mind. He was stuck indoors anyway. "What can I-?"
Brodus' question became claggy in his throat as he realised who the man was. Though Sector Twelve was deprived of most of the wealth flowing through the inner District, that didn't mean they still weren't focused on training new recruits. It was just a smaller, less flashier style. The man that loomed over Brodus, taking a step towards the counter, was none other than Head Trainer Illiaro. A man that Brodus had deep-rooted respect for, but also disdain, two worlds that were a constant turmoil for Brodus as he continued to stand still, smile plastered ear to ear.
"Good afternoon, Brodus." He looked over the counter and then smirked, tapping the glass. "Serena's famous quill? How much does that go for?"
"She knows my grandmother so was happy to part ways with it. I think we're selling it more as a charity piece. To fund a local school."
"How sincere," Illiaro said, with no sincerity to his voice whatsoever. "It's a quaint shop this, isn't it?"
Brodus was proud of his grandparents for constructing this business from scratch. A merchandise store selling all sorts of Victor memorabilia. From signed photographs, to journal entries, to clothing and authentic tokens of their past and present. It was all here at Brodus' fingertips. It fuelled why he too believed himself to be a part of Two's system. He knew he was tucked away on the edges, but it had always been there, a way forward for him. A way of giving him hope when his parents had almost toppled any chance he had of succeeding in the first place.
It had taken a lot of convincing for Illiaro to even allow Brodus to train in the first place. When you had two parents against the Games to the point of burning down training facilities, Brodus' name had been tainted before he'd even been able to form his own image. It was a constant battle – both externally and internally. On the outside, Brodus maintained a smile and composure because if he pushed the button too much, he would be seen as his parents' son. But on the inside, he hated them all. He hated everyone for their judgement. Everyone for rolling the dice and deciding his fate before he had the chance to make his own name.
And most of all, he hated this man in front of him. Because Brodus had worked his ass off for so many years and he knew, even if he was one of the best in the facility, that he would never be chosen. So Brodus already knew, inside his heart, what he would do tomorrow. He would show a little bit of his own rebellion. And whichever name Illiaro had decided as tribute to the Games would not be the one to grace the stage of the Capitol.
Brodus watched the man as his eyes gazed over more and more of the merchandise they sold. Whether he was interested at all or here to simply toy with Brodus, he was growing evermore impatient, staring at him with a waning smile. The clock was torturous as it counted down his shift. He wanted to be outside, enjoying the rain, taking in the time to say goodbye to District Two before tomorrow.
But here he was, working because he respected his grandparents too much to just walk out.
"I don't suppose you've heard?"
"Hm?" Brodus said, raising an eyebrow. "No, sir. Although you aren't really giving me much to go on."
"Persephone has withdrawn her voluntary status and there doesn't seem to be anyone who is willing to step up," Illiaro said, with mild disdain on his face. Reputation meant everything to him – something even Brodus could relate to. The way people saw both of them in this shop, two completely different members of Two's society, meant an awful lot. Being in Sector Twelve, so far away from the central luxury and status, especially with a Quell like this, must have put a lot of pressure on Illiaro's shoulders. "At least we have Xavier. You know him, right?"
Brodus nodded his head but resentment still coursed through his veins. He wanted the shop to be empty so he could enjoy just sitting back with his own thoughts. No more of this pretending to be content and happy when really he just wanted to scream into a pillow. He looked at Illiaro and for once, allowed the grin to drop, and with it he exhaled deeply.
"Sir, I'm sorry but I don't quite understand why you're telling me this. Did you want something?"
"My niece is celebrating her birthday soon and she does love Serena. Quite a daring, adventurous Victor she once was."
"Mhm," Brodus said, nodding. "Yeah. Well if you want her quill, the price is there."
"And I just wanted to inquire as to whether you knew much about Xavier. He's known for his speed, isn't he? He'll be quick to that stage when he volunteers."
Their eyes met and a chill ran down Brodus' spine. He knew exactly what Illiaro was implying and for a second Brodus almost stammered out an apology, his inability to really stand up for himself once again playing on the edge and forcing him to cower. But instead, Brodus just nodded once more, and tried to grin in the face of the intimidating man.
The man who had decided Brodus was worth nothing.
"I hope he'll do us proud," Brodus said. "I'll be watching him from here. Rooting for him."
Another pause and Illiaro just nodded, tapping the glass with a firm finger and pulling out his wallet. "I'll take it. Anything for charity."
"That's very kind of you," Brodus said, internally wincing, "sir."
One day, Brodus knew, maybe if he came back from the Games, that he would finally stand up to them all. He was not his mother. He was not his father. He was someone that wanted to forge his own path forwards without feeling the mountains behind this small shop closing in on him, pressing him down further and further into the earth.
The Games were the only possible future he could see for himself. He was willing to accept the labels of deluded and weak if only it meant he was finally on a stage, smiling out at those that had always taken it upon themselves to hold him back.
He passed the plastic bag over to Illiaro with his niece's present and bid him goodbye.
Not long left, Brodus mused, sinking back into the stool, crossing his arms round his chest.
Soon, he'd be known for something else.
Something better.
Something of his own design.
It's amazing how not being at work rekindles my motivation for FF.
Last week, I did not want to write at all. And today, I wrote this entire chapter. Thanks again to all of you that are showing your face, means a great deal, it helps motivate me even when I can't find my own motivation!
This marks the halfway point of these pre-reaping chapters. Twelve tributes seen, twelve tributes left to be introduced!
Up next: Svanna, Tayte, Briel and Tavius.