District 11! I hope you guys haven't been waiting for too long. We've got one more chapter left until we get to the Capitol kids, and then the Gamesssss!
This kiddo was made by TheEngineeringGames! I hope I wrote him right!
11 - Bitter Regret
The look on Constance's face could kill, and Jareth knows he'd be the first to be struck down by it if she wanted.
"What'd they do this time?" she growls.
All three of them are held in place by the Peacekeepers, tight grips on their shoulders keeping them from fleeing at the sight of Constance's cane.
The Peacekeeper holding onto Jareth sighs deeply, shaking her head as she looks down at the trio. "All three of them were stalking around the orchards. Little ones said it was him," she growls as she gives him a light shove, "who told them to take some of the produce."
Heather and Rowan put on their best pitiful expressions, driving the point home to Constance that they aren't the ones at complete fault. It's all bull, of course—Jareth hadn't spoken a word to them since the last time they got in trouble, and they always blame him for their misdeeds.
"I see," is all Constance says. The way she glares at them all leaves Jareth to ponder just what she takes away from them this time as punishment. She won't dare flogging them again, especially since a flogging so soon after the last will leave them incapable of doing the chores she gives them.
"Workers begged us not to punish them," the Peacekeeper goes on. "Said you normally give them something to ponder better than we do."
"Aye," Constance sighs. "I'll take care of them. I'm so sorry for the disturbance they've caused."
The trio is released, held in place by the dull glare Constance keeps on them. She bids the Peacekeepers farewell. Jareth barely even meets Constance's gaze as the door shuts behind them. There's no doubt that he'll get the worst of the punishment thanks to Heather and Rowan's lie; he always gets the short end of the stick thanks to those two, and has long since given up arguing his case and trying to prove to Constance that he's innocent. She'll always believe the word of the majority, especially if they're against Jareth.
Constance lifts her cane a few inches off of the floor before slamming it back down loudly. Heather and Rowan flinch.
"You had better give me a good reason not to—" She doesn't even get to finish, the young duo bursting into tears and dropping to the floor to beg.
Heather's quaking voice is easier to hear than Rowan's sobbing, pleading, "We didn't want to, Miss Grendla! Jareth made us do it—he said he'd break our fingers if we didn't!"
Lies.
"I—I didn't—" Rowan sobs, "I do—don't even—"
"We just wanted to take a walk before we came back," Heather goes on. It's more lies—especially since Jareth was the one who wanted to go for a stroll, while the duo had immediately set to work stuffing peaches under their shirts. "I don't want broken fingers!"
Constance clicks her tongue at the two ten-year-olds. At times Jareth wonders if she sees their lies for what they are. After all, Constance still punishes them severely when caught red-handed.
"This is why no one wants to adopt you," Constance scowls. "Spineless, you are. No one wants a child who won't amount to anything. And you." She turns her glare to Jareth. "I'm not even surprised. It's no wonder your uncle didn't want you—you're nothing but a thorn in everyone's sides."
He knows. She likes to make sure he knows. Uncle Ari had made sure Jareth knew, too. At this point, it's hard to find anyone who doesn't tell him the same thing.
Heather and Rowan cry harder. She slams her cane against the floor again. "Shut up, already!" she bellows. Some of the kids further in the Community Centre pause their chores, peeking around the corner to see what's going on. "Because of this stunt I'm on even more thin ice with the Peacekeepers. Heather, Rowan."
The duo look up at her with tear-stained faces. "For the next week you're cleaning all the shit buckets," she orders, "and you'll be going without dinner tonight."
Jareth flinches at the punishment. He's used to getting something like that—cleaning out the feces soon after a flogging, followed by a lack of food—but he's never gone through something worse before. Rowan and Heather seem to realise this as well, their relieved smiles appearing almost smug for a split second. They wipe their faces and thank Constance for being lenient. Constance just dismisses them, bellowing at the children behind her to continue working once Rowan and Heather join them.
Soon it's just Jareth and Constance. He can't imagine how bad he's going to get it.
Constance's ringed hand slaps him hard against the cheek. He can feel the skin tear, the blood seeping out slowly, but he doesn't dare show any pain. If she knows it hurts him, she'll do it even more. Constance flexes her fingers a few times, probably experiencing an ache from the backhand. Jareth simply turns his head back to face her, expression blank and his face on fire.
"I had enough trouble without you here," she says lowly. She lifts her cane again, this time flinging it in the direction of Jareth's face. It doesn't make contact. Instead, it comes to a startling halt just inches away from the cut on his cheek. "I always knew you'd be a problem child. Makes me wonder if Daria and Korin had intended to be caught on purpose so you'd be someone else's problem."
He clenches his fists tightly by his sides. For all the physical pain she can inflict on him, insulting the memory of his parents will always tempt him to fight back against her. He may be severely underfed and shorter than most, but he'll be damned if this poor excuse of a guardian will get away with mocking his parents. One of these days he's going to give her a taste of her own medicine; one of these days he won't sit idly by while she runs down the two single kindest people he's ever known.
"Then again," she goes on, prodding at his cheek with the cane, "filth breeds filth. I should've seen your poor behaviour coming after what they pulled."
Shut up, he wants to scream. Their intentions were pure. Daria and Korin had tried their best to keep Jareth out of the Reapings, had done their best to keep their only child safe after he'd taken tesserae. What was wrong with wanting that?
Constance lowers the cane calmly. She takes a step closer to Jareth, lowering her voice further. "I hope you enjoyed your last meal, Mr. Vilna."
Jareth blinks. "Wha—"
"You won't be getting another one for a long, long time."
The words stay fresh in his mind even as he joins the other kids and picks up the ragged mop to clean the floor. He doesn't hear the other kids as they amble about and do their own chores, his mind too far away to even register that he's scrubbed the same spot ten times over. Constance couldn't possibly be planning on starving him for too long, could she? She's abusive and proud, but she won't leave him on death's doorstep, right?
Jareth clutches the mop tighter as he tries to recall his last meal. It had to have been yesterday, right? The scraps he'd pulled from a compost bin near the orchards? He can't even remember what it tasted like, only that it had gotten rid of the pain in his stomach. Jareth doesn't know if he can suffer through that again, especially if Constance gives what little food he normally gets to someone else. Worse still, what if she keeps giving everyone else his food instead of lifting his punishment?
The mop slides against the floor with a harsh squelch. What if she tries to starve him so she doesn't have to take care of him? She's certainly the type to do it if scornful enough. But she'd lose the bread and grains he brings in with his tesserae. Then again with how much she forces every child in her care to claim, losing Jareth's benefits won't leave her in a struggle. She'll just take in more orphans and make them claim even more.
Someone bumps into him—the small girl apologises immediately, struggling to hold all of the tattered clothes in her arms—and Jareth is quick to force himself out of his thoughts. He'll worry about Constance's punishment later. For now, he can survive on scraps like he had before.
Even with dirtied water and a tattered mop, he manages to make the floor shine like it'S never seen a day of mess in its life. Jareth leans against the mop handle and huffs out a proud breath. It's a small accomplishment, but an accomplishment nonetheless.
And then Heather moves to his side, rancid bucket in her hands as she grins down at the clean floor.
"Don't you dare," Jareth warns her. Heather just looks up to him with that same grin. It sends a shiver down his spine. It's the kind of grin that only the most cold-hearted, manipulative kids in the Hunger Games make.
"Cheater," she whispers. And then Heather leans forward, her whole body crashing to the floor as the bucket flies from her hands. It lands in the middle of the room, feces and urine spilling everywhere, as Heather shrieks in what Jareth expects to be shock.
Kids come running into the room immediately, as does Constance. Heather doesn't say anything, her face pressed to the floor as she screeches out her sobs and drags her arms against the floor. Jareth can only stare at the mess she's made—that she'll blame on him. A single strike against the face and an undetermined time without food isn't all he's getting. His stomach drops as he carefully, warily meets Constance's eyes.
She's inhaling deeply through her nose, eyes wide and lips pursed together tightly. Her knuckles pale as she grips the cane painfully.
"Jareth Vilna—"
"M—Miss Grendla?"
Constance jumps. All rage disappears from her expression. Heather ceases her fake sobbing, scowling up at Constance as the woman whirls around on the heels of her feet.
Behind her is someone Jareth vaguely knows of, knows that Constance will always be kind to no matter what. He used to live in the Community Centre with everyone else after all, set free from her tyranny after securing a victory in a past Hunger Games. Jareth had still been with his parents when it'd happened, but the farewell after Barley Tanton's victory tour had happened in the days following Jareth's arrival.
No one had heard Barley enter the room. Every time he visits he seems to go unnoticed until he speaks up. Unlike all the malnourished, bruised children surrounding him and Constance, Barley has some meat on his bones and faded scars along his arms and hands. He looks like winning the unwinnable game has left him better off than everyone else—which isn't far from the truth, given the rewards the Capitol granted him upon returning.
"I'm n—not interrupting an—anything, am I?" he stutters. His wide brown eyes jump between Jareth and Constance, then to the mess coating the floor.
Constance shakes her head and lovingly pats him on the shoulder. "Of course not, dear! I always have time for your visits; you know that!"
"A—Are you—"
"No need to be so shy, Mr. Tanton. Come in, come in."
She guides him around the mess, leading the way to her office with an excited smile. Constance only ever looks this happy when she knows Barley is going to donate some of his allowance to the Centre. All the other kids disperse without hesitation, taking time to themselves now that Constance isn't about to have a meltdown.
Barley meets Jareth's gaze shortly before he enters the next room. Jareth feels like he might be mistaken when the older boy nods his head to the front door, feels he might be imagining things as it registers as a signal to run while she's distracted. But then Barley does it again, a pleading look in his eye—he wants Jareth to avoid whatever punishment Heather tried to throw at him.
Jareth doesn't hesitate. He drops the mop right on top of Heather, letting the damp tendrils land flat on her neck, and hurriedly walks in the direction of the front door.
"Sh—She never goes easy with that d—damned thing." Barley presses the leaf to Jareth's cheek, hands moving too delicately for someone whose hands are so calloused and scars. "I'm lucky I can s—still walk after one inci—" He seems to choke on his words. Jareth wonders if he's forcing himself not to stutter. "—dent."
Jareth grunts in acknowledgement.
The boy just clears his throat nervously. After letting the leaf sit on Jareth's wound, Barley shuffles over to another chair tucked into the table. He's put three seats between himself and Jareth. "C—" he tries, only to cringe and scrunch up his face with a choke. "—stance never did like kids. She only likes the t—ssera they bring in."
Old news to Jareth, old enough that he doesn't bother with a grunt this time. Barley watches him with a cautious expression, almost as though he's uncertain of how Jareth will react.
He'd probably get right up and walk out of the house in normal circumstances. No one in this area of District 11 has good intentions towards him or his family. But something about Barley feels different. Is it the fact that he escaped Constance? That he's one of the only victors still alive here? Is it because he has the stability and safety that Jareth would kill to have?
Jareth heaves a sigh. He sinks into the seat and looks around the room. It's made from wood all around, a strong pine smell filling the room and wafting from the furniture. A lot of this must have been imported from 7, especially the handmade dining table and chairs.
"Did you need something?" Jareth asks as he observes the nearby fireplace.
Barely waves a hand, laughing nervously at the question. He probably hadn't expected to be asked that. He's probably been expecting silence this entire time. "N—No, nothing. I just—" He chokes again, shaking his head. "—know what her punishments are like. That wasn't the first time the— bucket was spilt somewhere."
Jareth thinks back to all the times he's had to eat on the floor, had his face pressed to the floor, had to scrub it furiously to get rid of the day's mess. His stomach churns—if he had any food in there, it'd most definitely be threatening to come up and say hello.
"I j—just wanted to help—p," Barley adds.
So he's a nice guy. Whatever. Jareth knows they can exist. He just never expected to find one so close to home. Barley clears his throat again. He tries to say something, only to cut himself off when he starts to stutter again.
Jareth looks right at him as he struggles. "Why do you keep forcing yourself not to stutter?" he mumbles.
Barley covers his face with his hands. Is he embarrassed? Upset that Jareth had pointed it out? "I—I'm so sorry," Barley fusses. "She always s—said that no one likes a st—st—stutter and I—I—"
"Calm down!" The panic in Barley's voice feels infectious. If he doesn't stop him from having a full blown breakdown, Jareth is going to stress as well. "I don't care about why you do stutter—I just wanted to know why you force yourself not to."
Wide brown eyes look down at him hopefully. It's sort of off-putting to see—this sixteen-year-old boy, who's seen the horrors of the Hunger Games firsthand and came back, is looking at Jareth like his approval means the world to him. Jareth shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to meet Barley's gaze. What in the world did Constance do to him mentally?
"I d—didn't always do it," Barley explains. "My br—brother did. Does. Con—Constance would beat us b—both to make sure I n—never picked it up—p."
"But you did?"
He nods. "My—My psychologist after the G—Games tried to f—fix it. Can't have a—a nervous victor. Turned out Constance's p—punishments made me too aware of whether or not I did it. Knowing I sh—shouldn't stutter made me p—prone to it more."
Damn. Maybe Barley hasn't totally escaped Constance's abuse. He may look physically healthy and his scars may be healing, but the fear of punishment for just speaking wrong doesn't seem to have gone away. "Did your psych treat you?"
Barley nods happily. "I'm m—much better than last year!"
Much better. Jareth hopes he never finds out how "worse" had sounded.
"How's your cheek?" Barley adds. "Does it still h—hurt?"
Jareth shrugs. As Barley stands up and moves back into the kitchen, he brings a hand up to the leaf and prods at it lightly. There's a little bit of pain leftover, but it's not unbearable. If Constance had gotten her way—if Barley hadn't arrived—there's no doubt she would've rubbed his race in the spilt excrement. An infection like that would've killed him, too. For all his bad luck today, Barley's doing a good job of balancing it out with good.
He shouldn't get used to this, though. Barley's come by the Community Centre plenty of times before, and today was the only day he payed Jareth attention. They may never speak again after today. There's no point in getting comfortable with being treated nicely when it'll end before the day does.
Barley comes back into the room, a tall blonde woman following him with a steaming plate of something. In his own hands are two plates, a small tube of something tucked under his arm.
"I a—assume she'll take your food for a while," Barley says. He looks almost guilty, but still sympathetic. Jareth can see Constance taking his food for stuttering in the past. "Eat your f—fill before you go back. Please."
The woman sets the plate down on the middle of the table, and and unfamiliar scent hits Jareth right in the face. It's warm, wholesome… It smells like a calm night with his parents; like all hug from someone he's missed for so long.
And when the woman cuts into it the pastry cover of the dish, the smell just intensifies. Jareth can feel his mouth watering as he watches her pull a slice of the golden food onto his plate. Barley hovers over the dish with the tube, tapping it every so often—and soft, white powder sprinkles out, lightly dusting the slice and giving it that extra sweet appeal.
It can't be what he thinks it is. They never have it here—they never have the pastry for it, let alone the power to bake them. But that has to be what he's looking at. It has to be an apple pie. It looks just like the pictures he sees in pamphlets.
Barley slides the plate over to Jareth. A silver spoon soon follows.
"M—Meredith used to make this for her k—kids in the Capitol. It's h—heavenly."
Jareth pauses before he can even dig his spoon into the pie. A Capitolite in 11? That doesn't make a lot of sense. Well, not if she was an Avox.
Barley and Meredith seem to have noticed Jareth's pause, suddenly wary and unable to meet his eye. So Meredith must be an Avox, he thinks; the bright blonde hair, the pale skin so unusual to District 11, and the healthy look to her despite not being related to Barley or being a victor herself. All that'd be missing from her would be the tongue.
Of course they're wary now. Everyone hates the idea of Avoxes running around and reminding everyone that ten people died for just one Avox to replace them all. If Jareth wasn't treated like an Avox on a daily basis for a simple mistake, a simple regret, he'd see Meredith the same way.
He smiles up at her. Meredith keeps her face a mask, refusing to react. "Thank you for sharing it with me," he says. "I've always wanted to try it."
It tastes as heavenly as Barley claims it is. The rich flavour of the apples and the syrup, the sweetness of the powder and the soft crumble of the pastry. Everything he's suffered through today—everything—is worth this one moment. He doesn't care if Constance takes his food away from months, even a year; he'll never forget the taste of apple pie until the day he dies. He's officially one of the few people in District 11 fortunate enough to taste it.
He'll never let them take that from him.
When he looks up at Meredith again, already halfway through with his first slice, he spots a small smile on her face. She nods, almost thanking him, and promptly retreats back into the kitchen.
Barley's smiling at him, too; it's the biggest one he's seen yet, even as he smiles around his spoon. "Not everyone l—likes Meredith being here," he says.
Jareth shrugs. "Not everyone likes me, either."
And the smile vanishes. Jareth inhales deeply, preparing himself for some kind of probing. His parents' infamy always follows him, always leave people making assumptions. Constance and the other kids don't help much, either.
"I heard about that." Barley sets down his spoon and stares tiredly down at his slice. "I was front row at the ex—" He chokes on the word. Jareth looks at him with interest. That doesn't sound like a struggle to pronounce something; it sounds like reluctance. "At the end."
It'd happened a week before the Games had begun even the Reapings. It shouldn't be a surprise to Jareth that Barley was there at Korin and Daria's execution.
"D—Did they really do it? Break into the Justice B—Building?"
He keeps his lips sealed. Talk of a simple mistake will not ruin his apple pie. His parents had their reasons. No one else needs to be privy to them after all these years of ignoring the idea.
Barley watches him for a few minutes. The silence is filled only by the sound of Meredith flitting about in the kitchen, doing her own jobs and cleaning every time she comes within sight. Jareth just continues to eat his pie, eventually asking for more once he finishes.
"Eat your fill," Barley reminds him. He pulls another slice of pie onto the plate, and the silence resumes for the rest of Jareth's visit.
It's quite possibly the first time he's never felt hungry after a meal. Jareth sighs dreamily and rubs his belly. Apple pie is now his absolute favourite food, and he'll be damned if he can't find a way to have it again.
The line moves forward, leaving Jareth to hobble further along with his full stomach. He's about two kids away from the official. Pretty soon he'll be able to cross off another Reaping from his list and wait with bated breaths for the next one.
How many times is his name in the bowl this year? He's only fourteen, normally only having two—plus the extra three he'd taken when he was twelve. Five. But with Constance forcing the kids to take tesserae? Well, two years of living with Constance keeps it at five, but when he's taken enough for almost all of the kids in the Centre—twenty-six, including himself—and Constance, he's at…
Fifty-nine.
When did it get so high? Where in the world did all the food to come from that number go? It's absolutely baffling and disappointing. The high number is probably how Barley got Reaped for his Games, too. Constance may as well be sending every child in her care to their deaths because of her greed.
The two kids in front of him move off to their lines. The official blinks up at Jareth slowly.
"Jareth Vilna?" he sighs once the name appears on his screen. Jareth nods mutely. "Fourteens section, on the left."
He wiggles his way through the crowded section—everyone else from the Centre looks to be here, Jareth arriving last. All he has left to do is wait patiently for the escort to get this over with. What's he going to do once he's done, he wonders? Going back to the Centre will definitely land him some trouble with Constance and the other kids. Going to pick up a shift at the orchard for someone will probably be out of the question after the Peacekeepers were fed that lie today. Maybe he can try sneak back to Barley's house and ask for more apple pie. No, for all he knows Barley will turn him away.
Jareth supposes it's just a simple night walk tonight. At least then he can be with his thoughts in peace.
The mayor enters the stage, tapping the microphone once before speaking into it. Jareth stands up a little straighter, trying to see over the heads of the older kids.
"I'm afraid our escort is running a tad behind," he sighs. The man looks tired, like he just wants this over with as much as everyone else. "We'll be reading the Treaty of Treasons without her, followed by a speech from this year's mentor to fill the time. I apologise for the inconvenience."
And so begins the stalling. They must know how far away the escort is, judging by the need for a speech and the Treaty of Treason to pass time. Jareth shifts on his feet as the mayor reads from the cue cards, doing his best not to sound disgruntled as the words pour out of his mouth. Everyone starts to chatter, no one bothering to silence the children, and time seems to drag on and on by the time the mayor reaches the halfway point.
Finally he finishes, clearing his throat and thanking everyone for their time. From there they wait for the mentor to come onstage, to say their piece. It's not hard to figure out who it might be—there's only five victors in District 11: Seeder, Chaff, Barley, Teff, and Flax. Two females, three males.
It takes a while for someone to even come onstage. There's bickering behind the scenes, pleading, before finally someone stumbles up and grabs the microphone. He's tall and aging, a lilt to his voice that suggests a mischievous side to him. Jareth recognises him immediately once the stump hand waves to everyone. It's Chaff.
"Just want to clarify," Chaff starts, "I'm not the mentor this year. The boy's still getting a bit of stagefright, so I'm delivering the speech for him."
A victor with stagefright—male—called "boy" almost affectionately. Either Flax or Barley. Jareth shifts on his feet. It's most likely Barley; Flax is nearing thirty, if he recalls correctly.
Chaff licks his lips as he gazes out at the crowd, bracing himself to stall for the escort.
"You're all still children," he says. "Someone's daughter, son, child—what have you. You're someone who will always be missed."
Jareth huffs. Two years ago that would've been true.
"It may feel like this lot you've been dealt is difficult. Impossible to live with, even. I'm not going to lie and say that it's easier once this obstacle passes. It's not." He looks to the eighteens section. "You live knowing someone else may have taken your place." He looks back to the twelves section. "You grow up knowing only fear and despair."
The small ground of officials behind Chaff moves about—Jareth can just barely spot Barley hiding behind them. "The Hunger Games have become as much a sport as a game of tag or lifting weights. Some thrive for it. Some despise it. Some of us victors call it the unwinnable games; even when you come back, the last survivor of twenty-four, you don't ever truly leave the arena. You don't ever truly escape the other Tributes.
"Even with all the horror around every corner, we still have hope. District Eleven still has hope. We may not have as many survivors as the other Districts, but we still survive. We live in the elements. We face death every day."
Chaff heaves out a breath shakily. This can't possibly be a Capitol-approved speech; he's bringing attention to how horrible the Games can be, how tough District 11 has it.
"You're not just children of District Eleven," Chaff says. "You're the children of the land. The children of the trees and the elements. You coexist with your surroundings better than anyone else—and no sponsorship or victory will ever take that away from you.
"May the odds be ever in your favour, kiddos. I can only hope that this Quell is kind to all of us."
There's a stretch of silence for only a few fleeting seconds. Jareth entirely expects Chaff to be pulled offstage kicking and screaming, but soon the sound of clapping erupts from the adults. All around the children is applause and approval. Chaff bows curtly, turns on his heel and retreats to the officials—and Barley. The two exchange a hug just as the escort sprints onstage with a screech.
"So sorry I'm late!" she wheezes. Her assistants are following at the same speed, approaching the staircase at an alarming speed with the Reaping bowl held between them.
Jareth squeezes his eyes shut just before the bowl goes flying. He hears a few alarmed shouts, a deafening crash from the stage. When he opens them again, he's faced with one of the biggest blunders in the Games yet.
There's now a giant crater in the stage, glass strewn about the escort's feet along with countless slips of paper.
She stares down at her feet in horror. It doesn't take long for her to break down into tears, crouching down on the floor and sweeping the papers frantically. Jareth almost pities her. As she cries out in pain, having clearly cut her hands, Barley breaks away from the officials and kneels beside her. Jareth watches carefully as the boy removes shards from her hands and presses leaves to her palms. Chaff joins him, helping the woman to her feet as she continues to sob.
Faintly, Jareth can hear Chaff say, "It's okay, Carlina. We all make mistakes."
As they enter the Justice Building, Carlina screeches, "I'm a failure! Why do I even try keep this job?"
Sheesh. Now he really feels bad for her. Escorts never really need to do much outside of coach Tributes with interviews and appealing to sponsors. But the pressure of just pulling out a name and sending someone to the Games? Maybe it shakes them as much as it does the children.
Barley flounders about onstage for a moment, panicking once realisation sets in. He looks up and down, to the adults and to the officials, before finally he clears his throat and looks to the assistants still crumpled on the ground.
He whispers something, gets a curt reply that makes him panic further. It takes Jareth a moment to realise that Barley will now be picking a name in Carlina's place. The hesitance to lean down and pick up a slip, the shaking of his hands as he pops it open.
"J—J—J—" Barley glances up frantically at the crowd. He looks ready to faint. "Ja—reth V—Vilna."
All of the air in Jareth's lungs just rushes out of him. He's escorted roughly to the stage by—what a surprise—the same Peacekeeper who'd brought him to Constance earlier today. Jareth rips his arm away once he reaches the stairs; it hurts, probably close to the point of bruising thanks to her grip. He stands by Barley's side and nods in greeting to the boy. Barley just stares down at him in horror, all of the colour draining from his face.
He supposes he should say something as a farewell. There's not really anything he has to say to everyone gathered in front of him. They've all shunned him, treated him like dirt and walked over even his most basic rights. If there's one thing he could send himself off with, it's spite.
Jareth searches for Constance in the sea of faces; she's close to the twelves section, overseeing the new additions to the annual lottery. She's smiling smugly up at him, more than likely pleased to see him in a position of suffering greater than she could ever deal out.
"Constance," Jareth says sweetly into the microphone. Her smile immediately falls, replaced by a blank mask. He can't wait to throw her punishment back in her face. "I'm definitely going to enjoy my next meal."
He doesn't get time to see her explode, but he certainly hears it. Constance screeches and throws her cane against the ground, calling him all manner of names as the doors shut behind him. At his side, now free of the anxiety that such a large crowd had brought, Barley hides a sheepish smile behind his hand.
And that's District 11! What'd you all think? You excited for the pre-Games events now that we're closer?
While you wait for the next update, here's a Quell Question to ponder!
QQ #6: If you were a Tribute, what food would you eat first from the Capitol during the train ride?
With that, I'll see you all again in District 12!