I am begging you, do not expect this update speed from me ever again. I don't know how I did it, but Quatra and Morganite came really easy to me while writing this chapter.
So! These kids belong to goldie031 and TheEngineeringGames respectively! Hope I did them okay!
17 - The Unorthodox Patriot and the Glamourous Rebel
Quatra X, 14, C-District 5
Well, it's official. Quatra X is going into the Hunger Games this year. She's not quite sure how to feel about that—especially when everything else people expect her to have an opinion on leaves her conflicted enough as it is.
Her name hasn't been drawn yet, but Quatra knows she's going. She won't volunteer, lest she bring suspicion to the spectators and tributes who know of her family; but she's going. She's going to be a tribute this year. Octavia Faye's name being called out today was as much confirmation as her parents needed for their next step.
Tres helps her with preparing while their parents communicate with the Capitol. He snips at her hair, taking it back to its once familiar shoulder length, while Quatra mixes the swirls the bottle of dye in her hands. District Ten is right outside their window, slowly fading into the distance as its residents assume only award-winning meat is being transported to the heart of Panem. They don't know that one of their own—even if having never been born there—is leaving.
"Do you want to take out the contacts now?" Tres asks her. He sets down the scissors and picks up the mirror that had been lying flat on the table. He places it in front of her, showing how much closer she is to being good old Quatra again.
"Might as well," Quatra agrees. She hands him the bottle of dye and carefully removes the brown contacts. She blinks a few times; it's been a while since she's taken them off without having to have to sleep soon after. Another step has been taken to returning to Quatra—the grey eyes she'd been born with are free, no longer hiding behind a false identity.
It feels nice. She'll miss her old life, but it still feels nice to be Quatra again.
As Tres starts to apply the dye to her chestnut hair, the door to the hover plane's engine room opens in front of them. Quatra heaves a sigh as Una strides in with a folder tucked under her arm; it's hard dealing with her older siblings, and she'd sincerely hoped that no one would find her getting ready in the engine room.
Una leans against the table beside her younger siblings. She gives Quatra a once-over, before sighing wistfully.
"What?" Quatra snaps. Tres is quick to pat her on the head, hoping to calm her. On any other day it'd work, but the conflicting feelings Quatra experiences with changes like this always leaves her particularly volatile.
"I still think Dos would be better suited for this," Una says. "You haven't even changed your clothes yet. Someone is going to recognise you."
"Una," Tres warns, "you know Mom and Dad had a good reason to pick Quatra for this. You're too old, Cinca's still in training, and Dos and I are already busy with our own investigations."
Una just rolls her eyes. She grabs the file and flicks it open, barely even giving Quatra a chance to ask about it. She declares, "Anari agreed to say your name, no matter who she drew from the bowl. It took some time to convince her that we're serious about the ramifications of ignoring the order, but just in case we've included Ambert in the plan as well."
"Which District is Anari reaping for?" Quatra tries to peek over the top of the folder, but the position Tres's got her kept in stops her from seeing past the paperclip.
Una ignores her. Quatra's anger just stacks higher and higher. "Thankfully the mentor for Anari's section has memory issues, so he won't recognise you or even register why you're there," she goes on. "Our only concern is the mentor for Twelve, but I doubt he'll be able to say anything to anyone."
"You have poor taste in humour." Tres parts the hair at Quatra's neck and applies more dye to it.
"Cinca found it hilarious. But whatever." Una looks down at Quatra then. "Octavia won't see you for a long time yet, but you'd better have a good explanation for why you've got the same face and tattoo as one of her customers."
At the mention of her tattoo, Quatra's wrist feels almost like it's been lit on fire. It'd been too difficult to keep applying foundation in a place like Ten, the dirt and dust constantly peeling it away and the grass sticking to it like a magnet. It had been easier to write off as a stick poke tattoo that'd been done over a long period of time.
But it's like Una said. Octavia won't see her until after the Parade. Knowing how both she and Octavia operate, as well, it's more than likely they won't even see each other up close until the interviews start.
"I'll have my stylists cover it up," she decides. "The training uniforms come with longer sleeves, as well. It'll be no problem to hide until the arena."
Una grunts. "Not the way I'd go, but whatever," she mutters. Without another word, she waves to her siblings and pushes away from the table. The folder is left behind in her place before she walks out of the engine room to call for their parents.
Just as Una leaves, Tres declares that Quatra's hair is ready to sit for twenty minutes. He wipes his hands down the towel draped around her shoulders. "Ready to be blonde again?" he asks excitedly.
Quatra smiles at him, the expression feeling almost forced after the anger she'd built up with Una in the room. "Bit late to ask, isn't it?"
He shrugs, laughing. "Better late than never. Are you nervous?"
"A little." Quatra's gaze drops to the floor. It's hard admitting these things out loud when she's from a family that holds their roots in espionage, but at least Tres is more understanding than the others. "I was hoping it'd be a different trainee going into the Games. We haven't had anyone with rebel ties reaped in years, y'know?" And with a mumble, she adds, "It's not like the spies who go in get to leave with a heartbeat, either."
An almost sympathetic look passes over Tres's face. He can probably understand the displeasure over having their family chosen to keep an eye on the tributes this year, but Quatra can only assume he's looking to the bright side with this. Tres always sees a bright side.
"This is a Quell," he tells her. "The Districts can only win with a Capitolite by their side. When you win, it'll make sense after your identity is made clear—you've got training, you're from a family of spies. It's just as expected as a Career victory."
She scrunches up her face. Now it just sounds like he's reminding her of how much attention and expectations will be on her. Not the most reassuring thought. Quatra likes it better when everyone knows her name, but never her face. It's one of the reasons why she hates this condition of a spy following a potential means to a rebellion into the arena—it exposes them too much, leaves people with a clear image where there should only be a mystery.
But maybe it will work in their favour. Like Tres said, Quatra's probably got more training than all the Capitol kids combined; it'd make sense if she wins alongside her District partner. Or whoever she allies with, she's quick to correct herself.
"Who's Anari reaping for?" she asks softly. Tres looks almost confused for a second before he remembers the folder on the table. He picks it up and reads over it silently, before finally he lets out a short huff.
"Five. Your partner's the same age as you. Apparently he might have gotten into a fight just before the reaping," Tres reports. Quatra raises a brow at him, which prompts him to continue, "Black eye."
A rambunctious person, probably. Not the kind of person Quatra would like to spend all hours of the day with in an arena. "So Ambert is doing Six?"
Tres nods. "Her tribute fainted, and the mentor isn't as useful as Five's. More like to question us and keep an eye on you."
Quatra sighs. Either way, she'll end up with someone in her District team that won't be pleasant to work with. Does she go with the rambunctious boy and his forgetful mentor, or does she hope for the boy who fainted and his unpleasant mentor? Hoping probably won't do much to change who she winds up with, but at the very least she wants a chance to weigh each team's pros and cons.
She doesn't get much time to stay on that particular train of thought. Tres shuts the folder and hands it to her, and then he makes his way to the engine room door. "I'll keep the others away so you can have some peace and quiet," he says. "Meet me in the pilot's quarters and we'll rinse out the dye later."
Quatra nods and watches him leave. For the first time in what feels like years, she's been granted the peace and quiet she loves so dear.
...
"Name and age?"
"Quatra X, fourteen."
He looks down at her in shock—the first of countless stunned gazes that will be on her today. Quatra reaches up and fiddles with her hair nervously. "That'll be three slips," she tells the official.
With a surprised squeak he punches her name and age into the device, and three slips with her name on it are printed out. They're dropped into the ever-mixing bowl of names, tumbled around and becoming lost within. She's granted entrance, left to her own devices inside the courthouse as the rows fill and fill.
District Five and Six get the smallest pool of Capitolites to choose from. The area surrounding the courthouse is filled with mostly stores and restaurants, the residential area being a good mile or so away. All of the girls attending today know each other, quite possibly all being from the same school altogether. Quatra will stand out even without her name being called out—and that's without taking her reserved appearance into account.
Groups of friends form as more and more enter the courthouse. Colourful hairs, skins and eyes that make Quatra feel more and more like an outsider. Conversations about homework and plans for after the reapings. All but one of them will be lucky enough to get to live those plans out today.
She takes a seat towards the back, back straight and her eyes trained on the large stand the judge would normally stand at. This will probably be the smallest reaping in the Capitol today, less than two hundred young women taking their seats and filling all of the rows—even filling the jury box over capacity.
A couple of girls sit on either side of her. One with pink her sits closest, seemingly unaware of the fact that someone else is in her personal space. Maybe she doesn't have a concept of it, Quatra thinks with a glance to her. She looks to be the same age as Quatra, hair obviously straightened and reaching just above her shoulders. Her outfit, reminiscent of the party girls Quatra would hear about from Una's own investigations, definitely says a lot about the girl's personality.
The girl's friend scoots closer to her, a small vial in her hand. "Trust me, Nite," she whispers. "Karenlo was right—I took some this morning and my hangover vanished."
Nite sighs heavily. She rubs the bridge of her nose as she scrunches up her face. "Didn't you say his Mom kept it near the ipecac?"
"Maybe he got them mixed up? He doesn't drink ipecac, but he said he tested one of them before he gave them to me." The friend smiles teasingly and waves the vial in front of Nite's face. "If you don't want it, I'm sure Janine can—"
Nite snatches it. She glares at her friend tiredly. "Janine damn well deserves her hangover," she hisses. "No one drinks that much wine without facing some kind of consequences."
The doors are shut and the escorts walk down the aisle, silencing all of the girls. Nite is quick to hide the vial between her thighs, hands folded neatly over the spot for extra measure. Quatra wonders if what she'll drink from the vial really will turn out to be morphling—her friend hasn't really made a good case for this Karenlo person that supplied it.
Anari is the first escort to announce herself, looking just a tad frazzled as she greets everyone. Ambert follows soon after, and Quatra swears she looks as though she's been crying. Her stomach sinks at the sight of the two women, at what kind of things Una would've had to hold over them to convince them to call out Quatra's name. If they'd just listened and done what the Capitol told them to, kept their feelings out of the Games entirely, they wouldn't be in such states.
"Now," Anari says, and her voice cracks as she tries to continue like nothing is wrong, "I'd like to introduce you all to Tooru Ikeda and his mentor, Adam Jackson."
The person who walks out with the middle-aged mentor isn't the rambunctious fighter Quatra expected. She sees the bruise around his eye and the cut along his lip, but his face is soft—kind. The kind of face that only a peaceful person would wear, even if life pushed them into the mud. Tooru Ikeda looks every bit the nice young man she'd hoped for in a partner, and suddenly everything in Quatra is hoping for Anari to call out her name.
Please, she thinks desperately, give her a quiet partner and a forgetful mentor. Please, just humour her.
Anari looks almost like she's scanning the crowd as everyone claps at the introduction for Tooru and Adam. She passes over Quatra and Nite, then moves on to the middle row; she's trying to figure out who Quatra X will be in the crowd, but she'll know soon enough.
Ambert goes next, calling out the names Finnegan Styx and Barbara Thisbe. Quatra cringes at the name of the mentor, recalling the Games she'd won in her youth. Not a lot of people try to win through romance anymore thanks to the colossal failure that followed Barbara, with the Gamemakers going so far as to target the lovebirds just as much as the mentally unstable. Ratings are great and all, but at the end of the day someone will start a riot with their love story. That's the last thing the President wants or needs.
Finnegan looks to be a fairly nice person—not as withdrawn as Tooru, but still kinder than what she'd expected. He doesn't look like he'd fainted recently, either; no, the first thing that Quatra thinks when she looks at him is that he's probably the type of person to apologise for apologising too much.
Anari's reaching into the bowl between the two escorts, and immediately Quatra sends a myriad of mental pleas to the escort. Anari looks the slip over for a second, once again scanning the crowd—and then the name slips easily out of her mouth.
"Quatra X?"
A wave of murmurs breaks out among the girls—"X? Like the spy family?"—and it soon becomes loud enough that Nite actually pops open the vial her friend had given her. Just as Quatra stands up sheepishly, heart racing as her eyes lock with Anari's, she hears Nite whisper, "Shit, it's not morphling."
She hurries down to the stage, nodding in greeting to Anari. There's nothing but malice in Anari's gaze, but thankfully Quatra doesn't have to keep her eyes on the escort for long. She turns to the microphone that waits for her announcement, ready to say her public farewells.
"I'll do my best," she says simply, looking over the crowd. They're all staring at her in shock and horror, probably stunned to see such a plain girl is a member of one of the Capitol's best spy families. Now they have a face to the name, and Quatra suddenly finds herself wishing that Cinca had been asked to do this instead.
Tooru squirms nervously next to her as she steps back from the microphone. Ambert wastes no time announcing her own tribute, skipping gleefully over to the bowl now that she's free of her ultimatum. She yanks out a slip of paper in record time, spilling dozens of others onto the floor around the bowl.
"Morganite Gardierre!" she cheers.
Everyone's holding their breaths—even Quatra—as Nite stands up with her face looking as white as a ghost's. She inches out of the row, breathing deeply and with a look of absolute horror in her magenta eyes. If she's really just drunk ipecac, then these girls are in for one hell of a surprise by the time Morganite gets up onstage.
Morganite barely makes it past the middle row before her chest convulses, and the unfortunate teens in the splash zone shriek in terror. Vomit flies across the floor and seats, landing on sparkly dresses and sticking to tattooed faces. Quatra's hand flies to her mouth, mostly in amazement than anything. She'd expected Morganite to hurl chunks, but not to that degree.
When she's finally, finally able to stop herself, Morganite is left with a messy face that stares in horror at what she's just done. She whimpers once, twice, and then she's running over to Ambert with a mortified sob. Poor girl, Quatra thinks. Lola Amos is never going to let her live that down.
Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6
"I want to die!"
"Lucky you're going into the Hunger Games then." Barbara cleans her glasses without even looking over at Morganite.
"I—It wasn't that bad," Finn tries, but it's so useless to even bother saying that! She's a laughing stock now—you don't throw up all over people on national TV without turning into a joke!
"I'm ruined." Morganite sobs harder into her cushion. "Even if I win they'll never let me be an escort!"
He scoots closer, patting her shoulder. "That's not true—"
"They'll call me the the Human Hose!" She sobs even harder, the cushion damp with tears. "Geiser Girl! THE BLOWHOLE!"
Finn lets out a rather helpless sound. She hears him move away from her, his footsteps carrying him over to the table Barbara sits at. Softly, he demands of the woman, "Can't you say something to help her?"
Barbara doesn't bother lowering her voice. "Girl wants to die, let her die. Either way she's going to be a joke for the rest of her life."
She screams into the cushion in agony. Finn hisses at Barbara that she isn't helping. Barbara carelessly announces she doesn't want to help anyway.
Great. Not only has Morganite vomited on national TV, wound up in the Hunger Games, and ruined her favourite vest and pants, she's stuck with a mentor who doesn't give a damn about her. This is the worst day ever.
Her goodbyes hadn't been any better than the announcement itself. The way her mother had scolded her for being so disobedient all the time made it sound like this literal draw of luck was punishment for sneaking out last night. It's not Morganite's fault that Jourisme has a perpetual stick up her butt or that the university students held a party in honour of the kids leaving today. It may be Morganite's fault that she came to the reaping with a hangover, but it sure as hell wasn't her fault that she hurled chunks all over her classmates like some kind of fire hose.
At least her father was nicer about it all, giving her a ring with the stone he was named after on display atop it. Alexandrite always knew how to make Morganite feel better, even if what he was doing made Jourisme squawk louder about Morganite needing to be ladylike and proper.
She lifts her head from the pillow just as Finn slams his head onto the table, having already given up on Barbara for support. She sniffs loudly—ugh, she'll need to take out her nose ring and clean it later—and wipes at her eyes. Her head is pounding, now suffering from a combination of dehydration and a hangover, but it's the least of her problems now.
Morganite was reaped for the Hunger Games. How is that only just now sinking in? How is that just now hitting her when she'd been so quick to stand up when her name was called? Maybe she'd been too worried about throwing up when it happened, or maybe she was still too focused on the fact that a spy—a spy sitting right next to her—was reaped as well.
She slides off of the couch cautiously. Her legs wobble, her heels not helping her keep her balance. It takes her a while, her efforts getting Finn's attention again, but she manages to slink over to the table and flop onto a chair. With another long, powerful sniff, Morganite reaches for the jug of water in the middle of the table.
"You okay?" Finn asks, and he's so close and so loud and it hurts. Morganite chokes on some of the water, coughing wildly—headache getting worse, why, why, why—
"Fine," she chokes. She points to her head and shakily brings the jug to her lips again.
Finn must not know what she'd meant by the gesture, because suddenly Barbara is saying, "She's hungover, idiot."
A pair of clear blue eyes stare down at her in horror. "You're fourteen," he gasps.
When Morganite lowers the jug, she gives him a strained smile. She's well aware of how old she is, and she's well aware of how uncommon it is for girls her age to get drunk. "Amazing observation," she says sweetly. "Now, do you know how old you are?"
The horror isn't gone, but there's definitely a bit of a defensive shrink to his expression. He glances at her a few times before moving down to the next seat over, putting himself closer to Barbara as Morganite resumes chugging the water.
At the very least, she had a spectacular final hurrah with her friends. Karenlo had helped them all sneak in and out, his parents none the wiser as to why his private driver was needed last night. Daaria actually let her hair down for once and had some fun, singing along with Morganite once the karaoke machine was brought out. Sandira even got a few people's numbers and made some connections with the students going into the entertainment business, which was a win for them more than anyone. As much as Morganite wants to become an escort, it's always Sandira who shoots for the wider connections and job opportunities. Morganite hopes one day they get to appear on TV or in the movies, even if for a little while.
She sighs wistfully at the events of last night. At least she'll have the Wine Song to remember them all by.
By the time she finishes the jug off, Ambert has arrived back into the cart with a stack of papers in her hands. She's smiling and bouncing around with each step, heels clacking against the floor of the carriage annoyingly. Morganite still can't figure out why the walking pumpkin was so happy to call out her name. She doesn't recall meeting Ambert anywhere, and it's not like Morganite's made much of a name for herself yet in the aspiring escort scene.
So when Ambert slides the papers and a pen over to Morganite with a cheerful, "For you, sweetie!" it's pretty understandable in Nite's eyes that she acts just a little miffed.
"What's this?" she growls. Ambert continues to beam at her, picking up a biscuit from the snack tray and nibbling it delicately.
"Information for the—"
"Don't care." Morganite calls for the nearest Peacekeeper to get her more water. One of them leaves immediately. "Not filling it out."
Barbara snorts out a laugh, and when Morganite looks over at her she looks genuinely amused. Maybe even a little proud.
"M—Miss Gardierre, please—"
Morganite holds up and hand to silence Anari. The woman's yellow face turns an ugly shade of orange, her cheeks puffing out angrily.
"It's imperative that you fill out this paperwork, Miss Gardierre!" Ambert tries again. Morganite rolls her eyes and grabs a biscuit. She chomps on it as loudly as possible, which only serves to make Ambert angrier. She really shouldn't be so bitter about the way Morganite is acting—after all, Ambert isn't the one who threw up after her name was called out for a death match. The door to the carriage opens again, the Peacekeeper back with a glass of water for Morganite. "Everyone has to do it, and a young lady like yourself needs to be presentable both on and off the screen—"
Morganite accidentally spills her water all over the paperwork. Ambert shrieks with an almost deafening pitch to her voice. It makes Morganite's headache worse, her stomach churning again as the reminder of her classmates' screams floods through her thoughts.
Whatever Ambert wants to say to Morganite for her carelessness and flippant disregard for procedure, she doesn't get much of a chance to voice it. Almost as soon as Ambert flies out of her seat to save the paperwork, Barbara lifts herself up and slides her sunglasses back over her eyes. She nods to Morganite, a silent gesture to follow, and tells Finn to stay put with Ambert. Morganite follows without hesitation; the quicker she gets away from Ambert and her shrieking, the better.
Barbara leads her to a small compartment that looks almost similar to a bedroom, if not for the actual bed itself being missing. The door slides shut behind them, the curtains closed midway. The shade that falls over Morganite's face is almost blissful.
She flops onto a beanbag in the corner while Barbara walks over to the drawer on the other side of the room. There's some rummaging around for a few seconds, before finally Barbara is back by Morganite's side and kicking her foot to get her attention. When Morganite looks up at her, she sees a small bottle with something clear inside it.
"It's not morphling," Barbara says blandly, "but it does the trick. I use it instead so I don't get drunk trying to ease pain."
Hesitantly Morganite takes it from her. She pops it open—it smells sweet, like strawberries—and throws caution to the wind, taking a quick swig and immediately handing it back to her mentor. It doesn't taste bad like she'd expected it to, instead going down smoothly like a syrup and leaving an aftertaste that's just as pleasant. Barbara takes a swig as well, and then she's putting it back in the drawer for safekeeping.
Morganite watches Barbara move over to another beanbag in the room, before finally she asks, "Why do you need it?"
The woman just points to her eye, and immediately Morganite recalls the scar on her face. She didn't think it'd hurt after all these years, but clearly the wound will never leave Barbara alone. Barbara sinks into her beanbag with a long sigh.
"Listen," the woman says, "I really didn't want to mentor this year. I was forced into it by the other victors. I really don't like my District kid, and I really don't like your attitude and 'end-of-the-world' freak outs."
Morganite glares at her. "I hope there's a 'but'."
"But." Barbara smirks at her. "I think we can get you home and save either of us the trouble of having to worry about the Games ever again. You're more useful than the hero nobody asked for back in the carriage, and I think someone will find you valuable enough to ally with. Depends on your skillset."
"Skillset?"
"We'll discuss it when we get to the Training Centre. I don't want to mentor, and I don't care if you or Superman die in the arena. I'm taking a chance on you that I really shouldn't be, but I am. Can you promise your best?"
She's definitely curious as to what Barbara has in store for her. Morganite isn't all too sold on the idea of making herself valuable to others, especially with how desperate everyone will be to have a Capitolite by their side before the Games start, but she really doesn't have any other game plans right now. She's got a little under a week to prepare. Maybe Barbara will give her the method to victory that nobody else can.
Morganite nods. She can feel her headache fading away as the train soon begins to slow. "Alright. I'll see if I can get some allies."
Barbara shakes her head. "You won't be looking for allies. You'll be looking for shields."
Forgive me, Lauren :')
Aaaaand that's another one down! I think we're halfway through the Capitol reapings, and then it's pre-games time? Get hype y'all.
QQ #12: Would you rather be all business, or would you rather be all pleasure?
I'll see you all next time with our D7 and 8 partners!