Chapter 4: Arrival in the Capitol
I am roused early by banging on the door of my room. Murmuring, I stir in Peeta's arms, where he has been nestled against me for the past few hours since my screaming from a nightmare summoned him and nearly woke the whole train. Upon both of us emerging from my quarters, Haymitch cocks a ruffled eyebrow, but says nothing, leading us down the length of the car.
He wakes both of our tributes in a similar fashion, Mrs. Mellark screeching at him if he has any idea what time it is.
"Yes. 7 A.M. Sun is up, sugar cakes," Haymitch bites back. I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a guffaw, and even Peeta is struggling not to smile.
The whole lot of us arrive in the dining car to find that the Avoxes have left out a spread of breakfast food... and that Effie is waiting for us, tapping her wristwatch impatiently.
"We still have the better part of a day before we arrive in the Capitol," Haymitch holds court. "I suggest we use that time to watch the recaps of the other Reapings, and study our competition."
Turning on the TV, we begin. Given this Quell twist, I have come to suspect that while none of these people will be like Victors (who are experienced killers), they won't be like sniveling children either. All of the tributes will come into the arena with significant life experience, whether that is measured in terms of years or some other metric.
Like last year, when Peeta and I were competing, only a few tributes stick out in my head. There's the jacked 30-something male from District 1 who still moves like someone fifteen years younger, when he beats other aged recruits from the DAEYD (the district's Career training school) to the stage. His district partner is a strikingly beautiful girl who must be only 19; she's even prettier than Glimmer was. When I see Peeta straighten a little in his seat with intrigue, my heart hisses, threatened. District 2 gets a volunteer - Andronicus, a man who must be past 50, but is still imposing and apparently can't wait to have the opportunity he was denied thirty, thirty-five years ago. The male from 5 is apparently a peer of Mayor Undersee, but he certainly doesn't look like he's in his 60s - this man still possesses lean muscle; I wonder if the Careers will try to court him to join their crowd. The woman from Seven is announced as aged 75 - she's been alive as long as the Games have been in existence. District 8 is in for a shock when their apparently despised Mayor - an 80-something weathered politician - is Reaped. Wild cheering is heard in much the same way that people cheered for Mrs. Mellark. The single solitary woman roped into the 90s pen in District 9 is Reaped, and the Peacekeepers have to literally carry her to the stage. Peeta studies her stats on the screen. "Selena Dogwood, aged 96."
Effie dabs at her face with a handkerchief. "Dear Panem!"
The woman from 10 looks to be about Paula and my mother's age, but that is the most I can recall about her. Both of District 11's tributes turn out to be 20-somethings who are black, broad and strong. Then we see Jax and Paula being Reaped. That's it.
What an excruciating Reaping. The Quell twist allowed the Reapings to run the gamut of ages. Only a handful of tributes are not far past the normal Reaping age, like Sparkle (the girl from 1), District 11 and Jax. But that doesn't mean that the rest are or will be past their prime - far from it. Sheen (the 30-something from 1), Andronicus and the 60-year-old from Five certainly look like they could give us a show. To me, the rest seem fairly hopeless.
I surreptitiously study my tribute, as she begins to dig into the morning meal. Paula is my mother and Haymitch's age - not much beyond 40. Does she have what it takes to make a go of it in the arena? I may despise her, as does half her homeland and quite possibly some of her own family, but that hatred could still be useful. Hatred can easily transition into fear - from what I've observed, Peeta is clearly wary of his own mother.
It might not take much for the Capitol to follow suit. And that, coupled with intrigue, could lead to sponsors. Which might get us a Victor.
The only problem is I'm still not sure whether I want my future mother-in-law to be that Victor.
We hear the cheering from a mile or two away, as the locomotive slows down through the final bend and pulls into the City Station.
Capitolites in eccentric dresses and with piercings and nose rings are pressing themselves up against the glass of the train windows. I had thought their greeting of Peeta and me as tributes last year was weirdly wild. This is a madhouse. I seriously fear that the fans, the pressing in of the crowd, may actually push the locomotive off its tracks, or even overturn it.
When the hydraulic doors hiss open, Capitol Peacekeepers have to fling crazed admirers back with the force of throwing shot put balls. Wielding billy clubs and electric tasers and stun guns, the Peacekeepers have to violently part a path through the crowd to let us, the District 12 Victors, and our tributes through. A reasonably claustrophobic avenue is eventually cleared, but the Capitol fans keep trying to muscle their way in. Screams of my name and Peeta's pierce the air. I prepare my body for Peeta to at some point kiss me until his tongue is down my throat, if for no other reason than for the cameras, but he refrains. Still, we hold hands and send lovey-dovey looks at each other. My heart swells at the adoration in my partner's ice-blue eyes. He's great at this stuff.
Hustled into a limousine, our entourage is taken to the Capitol Salon, where our tributes will meet our stylists. Portia will be responsible for Jax. I have now earthly idea what Cinna will make of Paula, and I almost don't want to know. I haven't seen my old stylist since the end of the Victory Tour, and I am relying on him (with an assist from Peeta) to keep me sane as I try to mentor the abrasive mother of my lover.
Cinna greets me with a soft smile when we enter the salon. Many of the tributes are already there and being beautified for the Chariot Parade tonight. "Ready to glow again, Girl on Fire?"
"Cinna!" I cry as I throw my arms around him. Drawing back, he pecks me on both cheeks, before looking past me to my tribute. "And who is this lovely lady?"
I don't know whether to cringe or openly laugh at Cinna's description of the cow now eyeing her stylist as though he is going to garrot her. He is undeterred. Cinna flashes Paula with a winning smile and kisses her hand with a flourish. "At your service, madame."
The wariness in Paula's eyes dims and her expression softens just enough, though a slight grimace is still stuck to her face. "Well... it's nice to see that... one of you has some manners."
Behind me, Haymitch is rolling his eyes. "Good grief..."
"You wanna trade?" I hiss at him as Cinna escorts my tribute to her salon chair.
Though bloodshot and swimming, Haymitch's eyes still flash. "There is no trading!" he snaps brusquely. "And even if there was, I wouldn't take that bitch if you paid me a million sesterces!"
I elbow him hard as Peeta drifts over to us. "Jax and Portia seem to be getting along," he reports with a buoyant smile. "How's Mom doing?"
I smile tightly. "With Cinna? I have no fucking clue."
Haymitch barks out a laugh. "Well, that's his problem for the next several hours. Come on, you two - to the stable houses!"
Peeta looks flummoxed. "But the Parade isn't until this evening! What do we possibly have to do?"
It was a silly question to ask, but Haymitch doesn't hold it over him. Instead, he merely smirks, eyes twinkling. "You'll see..."
Effie stays behind at the Salon (as we suspected she would) and waving goodbye to her, we Victors slip back into our limousine. The car takes us about half a mile down the street, pulling into a cul de sac just in front of the stables. Haymitch leads us into the stables, which are as of yet conspicuously empty of horses. Our mentor seems unconcerned about this as he leads us into the back of a vacant stall. Pressing a panel on the wall, a hidden door is revealed, mounted with a hinging plaque that reads: H. Abernathy, K. Everdeen and P. Mellark: District 12 Mentors-at-Work.
The old drunk gives a jerk of his head, grin widening all the more at our gobsmacked faces. "Come on."
The tiny office behind the hidden door is little more than a hole-in-the-wall closet. Two desks brace either far wall, with only just enough foot space between them. On each sits a big red phone. It is similar to the one I have seen in the Telephone Room - a staple of every Victors' house in every Victors' Village in every district of Panem - in my mansion back home.
Haymitch sprawls into one chair, reaching for his flask before the receiver, while Peeta gallantly pulls out the remaining seat for me. Touching his arm lightly and granting him a warm smile, I accept the gesture.
A shrill RING pierces the air behind me, cut off by a click and Haymitch's voice. "Abernathy," he clips. "... Martinus Spickle! How the hell are you?!" I can't tell if the drink has something to do with it, but Haymitch's tone of voice is boisterous and jovial in a way I have never observed in him before. "Yes, I have my kids with me, and they sure are something else. What do you think of this Quell twist, huh?... Aw, well, you're too kind..." Haymitch's happy expression dims a little bit, and I wonder just what Martinus Spickle said to deflate him, albeit slightly. In the next second, though, Haymitch is back to being warm and gregarious. "Yes, Jax and Paula are both strong, and quite in their prime! I think they'll be sticking around the arena for a while... Oh, you want to talk with them? OK..." He lowers the receiver, and I find myself reaching for it when he yanks it back. "No, not you." He places the receiver back to his ear. "I'll put on Peeta first, Martinus, how's that?" Haymitch passes the phone to Peeta.
"Hello?" my fiancé gets out politely.
"Peeta! My boy! How is life in the fast lane?" I make out through the receiver's speaker.
"Quite well, thank you. I think you're going to really want to think about supporting our crop this year."
"The lady's your mama, correct? Is she excited?"
Peeta chuckles, and I can't tell if it's genuine or not. "Very much so, sir. Would you be willing to put down any commitment towards a gift yet...?"
All the rest of that afternoon and into the evening, Haymitch, Peeta and I work the phones, ginning up sponsors. On the rare moments when the boys let me commandeer the receiver, I come off as quiet, polite and soft-spoken. A proud Seam woman, just as Mother raised both her daughters to be. Though I have always been shy, sometimes to the point of being standoffish, when interacting with most people, I find that I am managing social skills passable enough that the sponsors are more than a little intrigued to back either Jax or Paula.
It is getting to be evening when the calls start to fade to a slight trickle. When Haymitch finally hangs up with the last caller, he looks exhausted, but hopeful. With how high his expectations usually are, especially when it comes to me, I brace myself for a barrage of beratement over how I could have been a little nicer. To my immense relief, it doesn't come, which tells me that Haymitch must be pleased with how I've handled myself thus far.
The drunk glances at his watch. "Jax and the Bitch are probably just about finishing up prep. We'd better scram; the horses will be coming round." I nod quietly as I stand up. Peeta squirms, uncomfortable, but he follows us out of the hidden office to find the steeds are indeed just being guided into their stalls. In the center stretch between the stables, chariots are being greased and polished and in the distance, I can see the first limousines carrying tributes into the roundabout and ready to drop them off.
"Hurry up!" Haymitch leads Peeta and I past Sheen and Sparkle, the District 1 Careers and out to the roundabout, jostling past entering tributes and stylists. At last, a twelfth and final limousine pulls up. Effie's pink high heels step out of the car first, followed by the rest of her. Our escort is predictably fussing with her hair and gabbing a mile a minute, not even glancing back to check that Paula and Jax are following her out of the car. Portia and Cinna bring up the rear.
Weaving our way through the crowd of other district entourages congregating by the chariots - horses already hooked up - we find our chariot at the back of the line. Cinna hands a clicker to Jax, much the same as he did to me last year.
"Press this when you're ready." I find it telling that he has entrusted Jax with the device and not his own tribute. When I sneak a glance at Paula, her mind and eyes appear to be elsewhere, taking it all in. Her son is studying her, but she doesn't glance his way. An entire gulf seems to exist between parent and child, and I can't help but feel sad for them both.
There is a creaking rumble at the head of the line, followed moments later by wild cheering; the District 1 tributes must be inching out into the Avenue of Tributes, leading the procession. Jax mounts the chariot, holding out his hand to Paula to help her up after him. The Baker's wife blinks, taken aback at his chivalry in much the same way as I have always been by Peeta's gallantry. But she accepts his hand and swings up into the chariot.
I am not a gossip, but I am almost tempted to hang back and pepper Cinna with questions about how he and Paula are (or not) getting on. Cinna is such a diplomatic sort that I suspect he won't reveal much, and in any case Haymitch corrals us Peeta, Effie and I away before I get a chance to ask.
Slipping out a side door of the stables, Haymitch guides us into the bleacher stands lining the left side of the Avenue of Tributes. The throngs are pressing in from all sides, mostly pushing and shoving each other out of the way to get good seats and we are carried like a river into a row about fifteen up from the front, affording us quite a view.
"Haymitch! HAYMITCH!" A voice is booming from somewhere in front of me. Twisting away from a Capitolite who has run scaly fingers down the bare skin of my shoulder, I crane my neck over the crowd to see Haymitch's blonde toupee embracing a ginger-haired and bearded man with a roar of delight. My mentor ushers Peeta and I over.
"Kiddies, meet Matthias Fletcher, District 5. He won a few years before I did."
"The 46th Games, right?" Peeta guesses scholastically. "Wasn't that the year your last opponent tripped on a rock and fell off a cliff before you could find her?"
I am startled by Haymitch giving Peeta a hairy eyeball past his now too-tight smile, but Matthias merely chortles as he nudges past our mentor to greet us.
"You're quite an expert, kid. You study the Games?"
Peeta shrugs. "We have a whole class on Hunger Games History in Upper School."
Matthias pumps Peeta's hand, then takes my palm and kisses it, his gaze fixating on me in a way that is almost leering. Matthias looks eerily similar to a rat, with his long, pointy nose and beady eyes. The resemblance reminds me painfully of Foxface, and I feel a pang go through me at the thought of the fallen District 5 girl, even though I never knew her.
"Where are Emrys and Circe?" Haymitch is asking his friend.
"Oh, they'll be along," Matthias dismisses with a wave of his hand. "In the meantime, you and your kiddies can sit with me, eh, Mitch?" Procuring a flask, he and Haymitch chink glasses. "Cheers!"
Matthias helps us to a section of open seats in the center of the row. It is still a tight squeeze, so Peeta brazenly tugs me into his lap. Though I am startled by the intimate position in which I find myself now straddling him, a strange thrill courses through me. I even take Peeta's face in my hands and kiss him sensuously, more for Matthias's benefit than anyone else.
Peeta and I soon lose ourselves in the kiss that quickly escalates into a make-out session, tuning out the rest of the crowd and only vaguely overhearing Haymitch and Matthias discussing the competition, in between my purrs and groans of pleasure.
"That Andronicus will make it into the Final Eight, easily."
"Matty, who's your male? He looks like he could give us a show, despite his age."
"Fritz Sparkplug. He's strong."
The voices of the crowd crescendo with each passing chariot, until suddenly the cacophony swells into a thundering scream so pronounced that Peeta and I break apart, our arms still around each other and my cheeks flushed with my breathing labored, as I turn my head to see what has the throng's attention.
When I figure it out, my jaw drops.
The District 12 chariot has entered the Avenue at last. It is clear even from this high up that Jax and Paula's costumes are accented by licking, synthetic flames, complimenting the red cloth even more beautifully than the flames did for Peeta's and my costumes last year. The Jumbotron focuses on Jax and keeps its lens there, prompting the crowd to begin chanting his name. They go crazy.
"Jax! JAX! JAX!" Around me, I can see fancily-dressed sponsors leaning into each other and heatedly whispering, as the Jumbortron intermittently zooms in on Paula.
"Paula! PAULA!" The crowd stamps its feet. Or, alternatively, "Peeta's mom! PEETA'S MOM!" I find the childish alternative naming incredibly amusing, and I sneak a peek at Peeta to see that even he is smiling.
The chariots enter the City Circle and the Jumbotron captures President Snow giving his address. At the conclusion of his speech, Matthias helps direct us to the elevators of the Training Center (Effie says it was specially built for this year's Quell) where we meet up with our tributes.
Jax is flush with exhilaration. "That was….. fun!" he exudes. Paula's mouth is set in a thin line, her scowl unimpressed. For the first time, I have to admire her, for not buying into the veneer of Capitol fortune and glamor. In the very next instant, however, it is gone again, as Paula walks by her son as though he is a hat rack. She doesn't say one word to him, and I have to marvel at the apathetic relationship between my lover and the woman who gave him life.
Matthias waves goodnight to us, Haymitch calling something after him. Our mentor seems light and bouncing, pointing and laughing at some of his friends in the crowd. At the very least, he appears tipsy. Punchdrunk.
"Abernathy!" My eyes have to follow the voice until they land on a bronze-haired demigod. Finnick Odair, the handsome guy from District 4 who was crowned ten years ago at the ripe old age of 14. "Party in the Victor's Lounge tomorrow night! Bring your kiddies!"
"You got it!" Haymitch bellows back gleefully, as he steers Peeta, Jax, Paula and I into the elevator that will take us to Floor 12 – the penthouse suite - of the Training Center. At my dazed, befuddled stare, the drunk just shrugs. "You'll get used to it after a couple days, Sweetheart."
However, as we usher our tributes off to bed for the night, I find myself unsure as to whether I will ever get used to it.