The real danger of the Rebellion wasn't any of that nonsense about saboteurs and wreckers. Irma doubted anyone with half a brain believed that. It wasn't anything nearly so big - or, indeed, easy to catch. It wasn't District people just waiting for the chance to raze the Capitol to the ground, it wasn't mysterious inciters in the Capitol, and it most definitely wasn't Thirteen with the nukes it would never use.
The real danger was the lack of trust in the government among the average Capitolites. The person who watched the Games faithfully, looked around nervously at the slightest hint of unrest in the DIstricts, and praised Snow without a hint of irony still told political jokes about particularly odious individuals, and when someone, no matter how obvious their Rebel sympathies, was arrested for a joke, they also began to worry.
Irma looked around before pressing 'Play'. An assistant of hers had brought in a thumb drive with a file of a song that was making the rounds in the Capitol's kitchens. The search for the author and distributors was consuming the National Committee for Internal Affairs, though not quite at the levels of a true purge. The song was about Irma's least favourite colleague, and the jaunty guitar lifted her spirits even before the singing started.
All my life, I've been roaming the streets here
And I'm ready to wander some more
And everyone here, they live their own life
And won't tell you how to live yours.
But there is a place in the heart of the city
Lit so bright, it will draw any gaze.
There, any and all will be taught what is what
And quickly rethink all their ways.
The evening loudmouth speaks!
The heroic worker of our time now arises!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
More truthful, more honest, and better than all
That is him!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
Whatever he's told, he will tell the crowds
Any question, the answer will stun
The nation's in danger, and so are our mores,
Our traditions: the whip and the gun.
He shines like a freshly made dollar
He drips condescension and scorn
And when children die at the hands of the state,
He'll explain that more will be born!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
When the truth is required, he'll define what it is.
The evening loudmouth speaks!
A symbol of a nation, epoch, and era –
That is him!
The evening loudmouth speaks!
For a minute, Irma was too stunned to react.
Irma's assistant, Joy, had told her that people were joking that Lark and Jellicoe, the two most notorious talk-show hosts, were secretly arguing over whom the song actually referred to. Lark himself had been the only person from the Ministry of Information to react to the song, claiming alternately that it referred to Rebel propagandists or to Irma herself. His reasoning was a mystery he never explained.
Now that she had listened to the song, it was obvious that it referred to Lark. Not only was he the symbol of Capitol mass media, second perhaps only to Flickerman (who only dealt with the Games), but his daily talk-show was in the evenings. Irma's news show was weekly, and aired in the afternoons. It was more of a side-gig, her real job was putting together the District feed.
It was actually just half an hour before she was due to appear on screen. Irma closed the audio player and took out her earbuds. She left the thumb drive in, as Joy had promised to deal with everything. Irma walked briskly down the corridors to the studio, marveling at the audacity of the anonymous songwriter. She'd have to show her uncle when she saw him next. Her parents would just start fretting about how this could affect her, so she'd have to play it down as much as possible when she talked to them.
Decision made, she walked into the studio and went about the last-minute preparations. Her show was for the people who didn't care about the Games or the glitter. Irma explained scandals without degenerating into a gossip-fest and talked about the Districts without spit and bile. When Rebels were caught, Irma didn't start stirring up panic, as some others did. Making a fuss about a criminal was counterproductive, after all.
Irma checked her appearance in the mirror as she stole the pens from the drawer (she really didn't need them, but it was a habit she couldn't break). Makeup unsmudged, braids in place, blouse sitting properly - good. Irma wore extremely elaborate makeup for her program that she simply didn't have the energy to put on every day. Usually, she stuck with a very simple look, not this elaborate, though very beautiful, full face of makeup with detailed patterns growing out of the black eyeliner and a full spectrum of colours on her eyelids.
Taking a deep breath, Irma became the mask. Talking to a camera was exhausting, but for her show, she pretended to be someone who found it easy. She turned back around to face the cameras. It was almost time now. The teleprompter was on, in case she forgot her place. The producer gave a thumbs-up.
"Here speaks Irma Slice," she began as always. "The news I'm sure most of you are the most desperate to hear about are the arrests made during the past week of several individuals who have allegedly been spreading Rebel propaganda. So far, the NCIA has not given any updates, but NCIA Head Talvian will give a press conference in six days, where she will provide information about the case." After briefly elaborating on what the NCIA had done so far, she talked about the surprise retirement of one of its high-ranking leaders. Even Irma didn't know what had been the real reason for that.
After that, Irma described the capture of several defectors near Two, the execution of a local rebel in Eleven, and the finishing of the Arena of the upcoming Games several days ahead of time. Then, she went into news from the fields and factories. She only gave the good news, of course. Someone else would handle the bad news appropriately, most likely Lark.
As the Games approached the average person forgot about the "evening loudmouth", which was fortunate for Irma. She was beginning to worry that at this rate, Talvian would start poking around Lark's ill-wishers, a category that included every single media personality in the Capitol. Irma had never met the NCIA head, and had no desire to do so.
Neither had she ever met the people she was reading about as she sat on her office couch and waited for a meeting she was supposed to have in ten minutes. Odd, to think that thousands of people trusted her to tell them about individuals she had never had a single interaction with. Irma read the transcript of an interview with Coll, the Minister of Resources, who was describing the alleged increased milk production in Ten with the same boring words as before. Having been promoted at just twenty-nine, everyone knew that the reason for his early success had been the sauna.
At least the next interview was shorter. In fact, it was nonexistent. What had been supposed to be an interview the Head Engineer of the Hunger Games gave to Flickerman was in reality Flickerman monologuing about the previous year's Arena as the Head Engineer stared off into space. Next to the immaculately coiffed Flickerman, Blues looked like the sort of engineering student who couldn't be bothered to wash their face in the morning, much less apply makeup. She shrugged when asked to give an insight into this year's Arena, and when she shook hands and left, it was clear that she was very relieved. It didn't seem fair to Irma that this socially incompetent individual was happily married with five children (the last one born just weeks ago) while Irma couldn't maintain a relationship for longer than a few months.
Irma's phone chimed. Joy was claiming to have juicy gossip about Blues of the who-is-the-father variety. Irma politely told him to focus on a more plausible target, like Dovek. The wife of the Minister of Internal Affairs was about as unlikely to have cheated, but at least their lifestyle made it within the realm of the even halfway imaginable. Irma flicked through the newsfeed. Finding nothing substantial, she turned to the Games speculation, wishing that she could be in the gym and not here. She didn't dare leave, though. After all, the Reapings would be the day before she went on air, and that was exactly what the upcoming meeting would be about.
Irma waved to her gym friends as she walked over the soft floor, holding her harness in one hand. Shnur and Laila were about her age, Kim and Claudius were in their fifties or sixties, and old Bob had to be pushing eighty, which didn't stop him from being better than any of them. Irma put down her harness, did her stretches, and lined up for the obstacle course.
The obstacle course was simultaneously her favourite and least favourite part. It was designed to be challenging to everyone no matter their size or shape, which meant that doing it properly was insanely difficult. Irma could do it without falling, but at the cost of going extremely slowly on some parts. When her turn came, she scrambled up the vertical wall easily, using the thin blocks of wood provided as handholds. Someone with large hands would have struggled, but most people with such hands could simply jump, reach the bar jutting out of the platform, and climb up that way.
Irma reached it, hoisted herself up, and got down on her hands and knees to crawl across the monkey bars, which were very wide apart. She'd work on walking across them later, but now, she was focused on not falling. The cold metal soothed her fingertips, which stung from gripping the small holds. She was already breathing heavily, though she wasn't tired.
Irma ended up on a narrow platform, nets three metres below her to catch her if she fell. She took a running leap to reach the next one, savouring the all-too-brief sensation of flight. This was the hardest part. A small person simply couldn't jump as far. Her joy was short-lived, as she botched the next jump and ended up with only her upper body on the platform, stomach aching from the impact. That wasn't too bad, though. If she had ended up dangling by her hands, she would have had to either do the impossible and perform a muscle-up, or jump down and climb back up on a rope ladder it was impossible to stay on. Irma braced her hands against the platform and pushed against it with all her might. It took less effort than last time. Just a second or two later, she was swinging one leg over the platform and standing up.
That was followed by a slackline (it had taken her months to be able to walk across without falling and needing to climb a very difficult boulder up to the next platform), several other platforms that tested her strength and balance, and then finally the last part. Irma walked to the back end of the platform, took a running leap, and grabbed the rope with hands and legs. Cringing at the pain in her palms, Irma climbed up as fast as she could despite her exhaustion, slapped the button on the ceiling, and fell down the six metres onto netting, positioning herself carefully so as to not give herself a concussion with a knee to the jaw. As soon as she hit the ground, the timer stopped. Six minutes, thirty-seven seconds. Not her best time, but not too far off it, either.
"Nice job," Laila said. She could do it thirty seconds faster.
"I messed up that platform," Irma replied as she shook out her hands. Her forearms were feeling slightly tight, and she massaged them with her fingers.
"Maybe next time. Are you going to go again?"
Her midsection still hurt from the collision, and she was breathing heavily. "I'll go get warmed up on the autobelays," Irma said, putting on her harness. "Then, I'll see if I can get that blue one with the overhang." She shook out her hands again so that her forearms didn't stiffen when she climbed.
After getting warmed up on the easier routes, Irma went to the top rope section to try that route. It took her three times, but she finally sent it. She belayed Laila as the younger woman tackled a particularly unpleasant route that had a relatively low grade, but had nasty gaps between holds both women were too short to transverse easily. Shnur, of course, flew up the route like it was a ladder.
Irma and Laila went around trying various routes they hadn't done successfully yet until the clock said she only had half an hour left. Irma went over to the weights section, did some finger work and body weight exercises (accidentally impressing a young man by doing ten pull ups along the way), lifted weights, and finished it off by working on her flexibility.
Irma left the gym rubbing her hands together so that the hand cream would absorb faster. Her gym bag was slung over one shoulder, her work bag - over the other. Trying to squeeze in three long gym sessions per week, as well as her jogging, was a tough task, but she needed it to stay sane among all the news being dumped on her head daily. While most of the gym goers were the sort to watch her program, they either didn't recognize her without her makeup or were willing to leave her alone. Probably the former, given how a few of her colleagues were treated when they tried to go grocery shopping.
She walked to the subway and rode in a different direction than usual. Today was her uncle's birthday, and all the relatives were getting together at his place.
"Happy birthday!" Irma said as she walked through the door. Her parents weren't there yet, but Uncle Antonius was. His apartment was much smaller than her, but then again, he couldn't afford anything bigger, as he worked construction in the same firm as Irma's mom, his sister. Offers of a better place had been soundly rejected. Kicking off her shoes, Irma handed her uncle the present she had gotten for him, a generic, though expensive, box of chocolates. She never knew what to get for anyone, and after all, everyone likes chocolate.
"Thank you!" he said, walking into the kitchen to put the package on the table. "You shouldn't have, though. The hot water is present enough." Through her connections, Irma had managed to get the hot water turned back on in the building. It had been scheduled to be off for two weeks due to "repairs", but Irma wasn't going to let Uncle Ant wash out of his cookpots. What was the point of being the successful niece if she couldn't do something as simple as that? "Do you want some tea?"
"Sure!" Irma walked over to the couch and sat down, placing her bags onto the floor. Next to her on a rickety table was a porcelain figurine Irma had stolen at a market and gifted to him at the age of twelve. As always, she winced when she saw it, a part of her still afraid she'd be caught and punished for it. "Also, I have some tea for you," she said, taking a handful of bags out of a pocket of her work bag. There was always free tea for the important people, and Irma always pocketed it.
Her uncle walked over and took the tea bags from her. "Ooh, herbal tea!" he exclaimed. "My friends at work are going to be so jealous." He walked back to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. "And how's your work?"
"Kren's on the verge of a panic attack, but that's Games season for you."
For a few seconds, her uncle stood silently, blinking. Then he shook his head. "I still can't believe the Minister of Information is your direct boss," he said.
"I've had my position for half a year now!"
"Still." He smiled at her. "I just cannot believe that my niece is stealing Kren's tea."
Irma winced at the choice of words. "He doesn't drink tea," she said to cover up her awkwardness. Realizing the comedic potential she added, "It's not quite strong enough for him." Sure enough, her uncle laughed until tears were pouring from his eyes. Irma smiled. She wasn't a very witty person by nature, so making a good quip was always something to be proud of.
"Any fresh gossip?" he asked, wiping his eyes. "How's the evening loudmouth?"
"Same as always," Irma replied with a shrug. "He's stopped complaining to Kren every other day, at least."
"You want to give the program a listen?" Uncle Ant asked.
Irma glared at him. "I'll throw the television out the window if you do."
Before he could reply, her parents walked into the apartment. A flurry of greetings and congratulations followed, and it was a solid five minutes before they were helping Uncle Ant get the food out of the fridge. He wasn't much of a cook, but he could follow a recipe. Irma herself never had the time to make anything more substantial than toast.
"Ant, is that the fancy tea?" Mom asked, noticing the pile of bags.
Uncle Ant smiled. "Courtesy of Irma here."
"It's free," she rushed to explain for the millionth time. "And Uncle likes it."
Dad shrugged. "Free stuff is free stuff," he said, twirling a braid around his finger. Irma had picked up the habit from him.
"Well, if you say so," Mom conceded. She was probably afraid Kren would fire her over the tea, or worse. Irma suspected that deep down, Mom was still afraid that she's do something wrong and end up in prison. Irma didn't have the heart to explain to her that if she actually fell afoul of Kren, prison would be the least of her worries. "Have you talked to him recently?"
Irma nodded, shoving a roll into her mouth. Eating nicely just didn't come naturally to her; work dinners and galas were a time of play-acting for her for that reason as well. "This is the first time I work during the Games in this position," she explained after swallowing a mouthful. "He just wanted to micromanage everything."
"Sounds like my principal," Dad dismissively said. He worked as an elementary school teacher. "Just watch. The slightest thing goes wrong, and he'll look for scapegoats."
"I know," Irma placated him. "My predecessor prepared me." Her predecessor had quit to become a stay-at-home father, so at least she didn't have to deal with the fallout of taking over someone's job amidst some sort of conflict. "And I actually have less things to worry about now that I'm in charge of the District feed. I just need to approve everything."
"But still, this is the Games!" Mom exclaimed.
Irma shook her head. "I won't even be allowed to breathe a word about them. That privilege is restricted to certain individuals."
There was another knock on the door, and Aunts Aemilia and Claudia arrived, their six kids in tow. They both worked in a munitions factory. "Happy birthday, Ant!" Aemilia exclaimed as Claudia handed her brother-in-law a large bag. "Are the others here yet?"
"You're not even fifteen minutes late," Uncle Ant replied as the kids started running around. "We'll wait another half hour."
With a sigh, Irma flopped down on a couch. She really should have been used to it by now, but it always drove her insane when her relatives just couldn't arrive on time for anything.
"I'm glad I don't have to deal with this," Irma told Joy in a rare moment of relaxation. They were sitting in her office, Joy scrolling through his phone. The television was showing the Games, of course. To do otherwise would have been unpatriotic.
"I don't like that rule change," Joy said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Looks bad. You change one thing, and then they all pile in asking for more favours."
Irma thought along similar lines. She looked at the screen, where the girl from Five was walking around aimlessly. "I hope the boy dies. That way, there won't be any fallout to clean up." She swung her feet onto the table and picked up her own coffee mug.
"The viewers won't like it."
"And Kren won't like it if he has to explain why there's two Victors all of a sudden." She gulped the bitter drink, wishing that it still had the power to wake her up. "Neither will the Games bunch. I don't know what Crane was thinking."
The girl from Five looked up to the sky, and the image switched to the boy from Two, who was eating. Irma wondered what she had been about to say. The feed was officially live, but everyone knew that it was actually five minutes delayed, so that the editors had time to remove shots of the Tributes talking treason. "He should be happy, too," Joy said. "Doesn't this mean that they can also both come home?"
"They didn't show that part to us on purpose," Irma speculated, twirling a braid around a finger. "Draws away from the love story."
"Fuck the love story with a pitchfork," Joy snapped, drinking more coffee. "Who knows what the Districts will do in response? Certainly not whatever genius cooked up this scheme. This will backfire. I can feel it."
"Maybe one or both of them will still lose." It made sense that they'd stack the deck against them to prevent an actual double victory from happening.
"Maybe. And if they don't?"
"Then we will have two Victors, and next year is the Quarter Quell, and hopefully everyone will forget about it by the time the Seventy-Sixth rolls around." Irma checked her phone. Nothing. She put it back into her pocket and looked at the television, which was now showing the boy from Ten. "Why aren't they showing the lovebirds?" she complained, even though she knew the answer herself. "This is boring as hell."
"Because-"
"I know it's because they'll want to edit it down and show it during mandatory," Irma sighed. "You don't have to tell me. I'm just stressed."
Joy sighed as well, tapping his screen with a thumb. "Do you want to see a funny photo of Templesmith with Lark?" he asked.
In response, Irma started humming Evening Loudmouth. Joy giggled and passed her his phone.
Inwardly grinning at how frantic Kren was about that near-brush with having no Victors at all and the resulting mini-upheaval, Irma gave the command to keep anything even tangentially related to unrest from appearing on the District feed. Of course, the most potentially dangerous people didn't have access to anything other than the mandatory viewings, but the sort of people to plan rebellion were also the sort to have access to information.
"But what if they think this is a deliberate attempt to suppress information? They'll be able to look out the window and see what's going on, after all," one of her coworkers pointed out.
"It's too late for those Districts," Irma retorted, twirling a braid around a finger. "The Peacekeepers can take care of them. We need to stop still-unaffected areas from exploding."
Next to her, Joy was scrolling through something on his phone at a frantic pace. "Lark is calling for tougher measures," he suddenly looked around at the handful of people sitting around the table. Nobody looked surprised at the news.
"My assistant brings up an important point," she said. "In light of this, I believe we should wait for the Minister's press briefing and see what he wants." Every day, Kren had a conference where he told journalists what to write.
They continued discussing the District feed, and Irma wondered who would be promoted to Head Gamemaker to replace Crane. An assistant Gamemaker had already been promoted to fill the empty spot, a rather young man by the name of Hryb who owed his new post to his familial connections with several experienced Gamemakers, the most influential of those being Heavensbee. Perhaps that was a sign?
The conversation soon switched to speculating about what the twist for the upcoming Quarter Quell would be. This was completely off-topic, but Irma still had fifteen minutes until she had another meeting to go to, so she stayed. When the conversation shifted to conspiracy theories about Thirteen and its alleged influence, though, Irma decided it was more prudent to leave. About these sorts of matters, it was wiser to know nothing.