In the next few days, I will begin a new job that goes until August, when I move cross-country for grad school. I will be very, very busy. Updates will come when there's time. Good news is Chapter 22 is already complete. Just needs a final edit and it's ready to go.

Chapter 21: Dornick

The hovercraft lands in front of the schoolyard. Everyone whines at the sight of it. It's a refurbished standard issue vehicle from the war. Strong and secure, but not the luxury models we're used to. Moaning and groaning, Peacekeepers usher us inside and instruct us to take our seats. All electronic devices are confiscated as they come around to retrieve them. 'No photography or video recording of any kind during your trip.'

It's tradition to wear your favorite district's arena replica uniform to the trip. Most are vermilion or silver, a splash of cerulean, one or two green. I am the only one wearing a purple jersey, '8' stitched across the shiny jersey. People purposely avoid sitting beside me in the double seats. By the time everyone is in, I am the only person without a partner. Good. More elbow space for me.

The massage units turn on as Mr. Trinket wakes the forty of us up with a great big yelp.

"Good morning everyone! So happy to be spending my weekend with you all." There is not a drop of sarcasm in voice. He is as chirpy as ever, bouncing around in his usual plaid suit. "Today is a very, very big day. You know what day it is class?"

Yawns are the only reply. Dawn hasn't even broke yet. "The day you admit to your bliss addiction?" Someone mumbles from the back. Mr. Trinket ignores the chuckles and continues on with his speech.

"No dear child. Today is District Day! As you all know, each senior class from the Vulcan Academy of Science, Technology, and Government takes a day field trip to the winning district of The Hunger Games. This year, we are headed to the industrial lands of District Eight! Please read the pamphlet on the textile district provided and enjoy a complimentary showing of the 21st Annual Hunger Games on the screens embedded into the seats in front of you."

The cheerful man plops down beside me before I can protest. He pops his head up as the hovercraft prepares for takeoff.

"Remember children," he shouts over the motors. "This is an opportunity only Vulcan students receive. Make the most of this experience."

Most are already asleep once the television screens pop on. I take out the shiny pamphlet and give it a quick read.

District Eight

The Textile District

Population: Average

District Color: Purple

Industry: Fabrics, Clothing, Dyes, Upholstery

Climate: Temperate

"From the simple, lovely fabrics of the districts to the beautiful brocades favored in the Capitol, District Eight makes it all."

The rest is bland text about even blander information. Capitol propaganda. I store the pamphlet back in its place and tune in to the screen in front of me.

THE 21ST ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES: THE CASTLE OF PANEM

Victor: Dornick Worthington III

Music plays over the video. It is a montage of the Games, the same one shown during The Victory Tour. The video starts with the Reaping. Dornick walks slowly to the stage. The tall, broad-shouldered blond is shaking at first, getting under control once he grips his tiny district partner's hand. It cuts to the Tribute Parade. He is in a garish getup, waving happily in a tuxedo stitched together of various neon fabrics. His interview outfit is much more sensible. The montage shows Scortese shamelessly flirting with the attractive teen as he winks to the audience. Dornick's no District One, but his suave personality coupled with his knowledge of fashion got a sponsor thrown his way. Minos, the fan favorite from Two, is shown giving big laughs with Scortese. He states himself as his biggest competition. The crowd loves the cockiness.

It cuts to the Games, the music more serious now. The arena is a dark, dank, depressing structure with endless amount of stone. One of the few standing forts left from The Years Before. Seeing the bleak surroundings and packed Cornucopia, all twenty-four risk it. Dornick races to the nearest backpack, right hooks a scrawny bloodbath, and zooms out toward a hallway lit only by torch. Minos gathers his alliance together to count the kills. Thirteen. Whoops and cheers as sponsor gifts rain down in reward.

The Careers continue to be as efficient and deadly. There are no arguments, no egos as they make their path of destruction. The arena is big, but fear of the unknown keeps everyone close together. The Tributes are easy pickings and in just three days it's down to the Careers, the boy from Nine (inspired by his district's new Victor), and Dornick. The blond's time in the arena is rough. One scene zooms in on his backpack: one packet of crackers, switchblade, empty water bottle. Another scene shows him vomiting after drinking from a dirty well discovered behind one of the many steel doors. Two scenes of him running for dear life from bat mutts and derma diggers. His one sponsor takes pity on their wildcard Tribute and sends a clean bottle of water with cheap ointment for the wounds and an encouraging note: 'Don't make me regret this'. Dornick is thirsty, starving, feverish, dirty, and loopy from isolation. But he is alive.

His good fortune comes to an end on the fourth day. The teen is nibbling the last of his crackers when the Careers find District Nine. Even with the sponsor gifts and gusto, the spirited boy is no match. Dornick sits huddled in the corner of his dark room. Terror rips through his body, not just from hearing the long, agonizing ordeal, but six killing machines stand inches away from his room. Fortunately, the dim-witted One girl concludes there are no more Tributes left and happily slits her district partner's throat the moment they walk into the hallway. With the short Games and easy time in the arena, the five Careers are well-rested, strong, and ready to fight. Too ready to fight. It is one of the best alliance breaks yet, but the melee leaves the fan favorite exhausted and badly injured. Minos, who screamed there was one Tribute left during the fight, sits down to heal his wounds, his severed left ear and what's left of his right one first. Back turned right against Dornick's door.

This gives District Eight all the time to ignore his instincts, tiptoe out his room, enter the hallway, see his first Tribute since the Cornucopia, and stab my sponsored Tribute right in the neck.

The screen cuts to black then loops back to the beginning. I put the monitor on mute and look out the windows. Darkness. Who blacks out hovercraft windows? Sighing, I tune in to Mr. Trinket listing all he knows about the textile district, his loud voice echoing through the otherwise silent vehicle. Three minutes in and I give up. To past the time, I shift through my matching District Eight bookbag, the "new" scent fresh on the fabric. Autograph book with every Victor's signature including Gunner Tsalagi's, pens, pencils, highlighters, snacks, notebook. I take out the worn notebook and go over my notes for the umpteenth time, nodding and smiling every few seconds towards Mr. Trinket. The last thing I catch is the specific needle used to make Peacekeeper uniforms before I doze off. Next thing I know, there are a wave of footsteps and a large hand nudging me awake.

"Up, up child!" Mr. Trinket is inches from my face. "We're here."

I quickly pack my things up and join the crowd. I'm the only one with a pep in my step, the rest of the crowd inching forward likes lambs to slaughter.

"Uggggh. Do we have to get out?" a girl in front of me whines.

"Yeeeah. District Eight sucks. Minos was supposed to win. Roman owes me an arm wrestle contest," her friend adds.

I clap both my classmates on the shoulders. Try to lift their spirits. Eyes stare at my hands like I'm from District Twelve. "Relax guys. Can't be as bad as last year. Heard the loner Nine guy and his bitchy sister wouldn't stop talking about some man in the sky. Tragic huh?"

The girl flicks my hand off her and sneers. "Not more tragic than you talking to us."

Her friend joins in. "Yeah, District Eight fanboy. Got a hardon for a rebel district?" Hands tug away my backpack as it flies back and forth between the bullies.

"Hey! Gimme that!" I grab the bookbag mid air and clutch it to me. The commotion has caught the attention of the others, giggling at the stupid scene. A Peacekeeper nudges Mr. Trinket to get his attention.

"Vermilion Sapienti! Behave yourself!" he yells from afar. The snooty boy makes a face and turns around. "Quiet down everyone. Let's make a decent impression for our district friends."

One of the last to exit out the hovercraft, I see why the rest suddenly go quiet. We are standing outside the Justice Building, the exact spot the Reapings are held. But there are no ropes, no stage, no television crews. The grey buildings are quiet. The grey streets are quiet. I look to my left, then to my right, then behind me. Not a citizen, animal, or tree in sight. The only thing visible are the Peacekeepers. There are so many of them, lined up from our hovercraft to the equally gloomy building looming ahead. The early June air, a refreshing warmth in the Capitol, is sticky, muggy, and hot even with the sun-blocking smog. And the smell. The fumes of harsh chemicals start a mighty ache in my temples. Eight looks much more vibrant on television.

Humid wind blows a crumpled piece of paper over my shoes. I pick it up before it gets away. The red ink is stamped with the Capitol emblem.

Capitol visitors will arrive tomorrow. Under no circumstances shall you:

Talk to the visitors.

Approach the visitors.

Interact with the visitors.

Enter the Justice Building or do business around it

Unless otherwise instructed. You are to go to work and/or school only. Curfew is set to 7 PM. FAILURE TO ADHERE TO THESE RULES WILL RESULT IN SEVERE PUNISHMENT. THOSE OUT AFTER CURFEW WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

I quickly shove the paper in my pocket.

This is not what I expected.

Someone breaks the silence. "This sucks! What is this place?"

Vermilion adds to the hype. I really don't like him. "Yeah! Let's go to District Four. They have beaches. And hot girls."

The mention of the sunny, oceanfront district stirs up dissent in the group. The Peacekeepers start to get uneasy. Mr. Trinket looks to me, the only one not whining, for support. I shrug my shoulders. 'My classmates are stupid' it says.

The cheery man plays crowd control. "Now, now class. I know it doesn't look like much. But I've been on many District Days and I can assure you will not be disappointed."

"They certainly will not."

A figure stands in front of the Justice Building. We all perk up when we realize who it is.

Dornick Worthington III struts towards us with open arms. Elaborate three-piece suit, in this heat nonetheless, practically glows paisley designs of purples, lavenders, and magentas. Straight from one of the fashion houses. His golden hair is cut identical to most of the boys (save me) in our group. His presence is powerful, comforting, familiar, expensive. His entourage, however, is not. In a gray button up and even greyer slacks, Woof shuffles two steps behind his illustrious new Victor, hands in his pockets. The contempt on his face is barely hidden. An Avox and the meek mayor tiptoe in tandem, awestruck by all the attention their measly district is receiving. The silent servant drags something behind her in a wheeled container. It looks heavy.

Dornick stops. The Avox and mayor come to a halt. Woof's shoulder connects with Dornick's. He gets a halfhearted apology.

"Now," Beaming whites shine toward us. Veneers from The Big City. "District Eight pales in comparison to the Capitol, but this is my home. With some time, I hope you see it as such too."

He starts walking back and forth in front of us. The girls gasps whenever he gets close. "As you may remember, my family has been in the dye industry for three generations. The Worthingtons can thank only the Capitol for their generosity and their support. As a token of our appreciation, each of you will receive a complimentary 'Worthington Dyes' t-shirt and a pint of dye. To start off your tour, we will have a tie-dye party."

Oohs and ahhs. Every single one of us have tie-dyed a t-shirt before, but when Dornick Worthington III says it, it sounds brand new.

We're taken inside the Justice Building. There's a sigh of relief as the air conditioning hits us. Two portraits hang side by side inside the dim foyer. The Victors in their Victory Interview ensembles. Woof, looking straight ahead. Mischievous, rugged. Like a peasant who's snuck into the king's estate. Dornick, side profile staring off into the distance. Regal, poised. As if he is the mayor.

Walking through the quiet halls, we enter through double doors and arrive in the dining hall. Small by our standards, but luxury in Eight. Canvases are already spread out on the floors, helpers beside each. We put on the smocks and await the next move.

"Woof," Dornick smiles towards his mentor. "Please pass out the materials."

The Victor, older by only three years, snaps his head toward his mentee, Eight accent thick. "I ain't your damn Avox. Get her to do it."

The blond's smile doesn't falter. "Woof, please. Not in front of our guests."

A silent standoff. We, mayor included, drink in the drama. A full ten seconds later, Woof huffs, snatches the container away from the compliant Avox, and gruffly throws the supplies by each station. He returns to Dornick's side even grumpier than before.

"Lover's quarrel," Dornick chuckles towards us.

The tie-dye is a quick process. The helpers do most of the work, taking our lead as we stand back and watch. I catch mine glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. Looks about my age, but short and frail. A poor kid looking to make an extra mica or two. I wonder why he doesn't outright talk to me until I remember the crumbled paper in my pocket. Shaking the thought away, I continue my directions and avoid eye contact as well.

As the t-shirts dry, we make our way to the dining tables for "a traditional District Eight breakfast". The room falls silent as Avoxes zoom in and out, sitting small covered dishes in front of each person. We're all a little nervous to see what's in store. Seniors last year told us the district breakfast is an initiation of sorts. Victors get a kick out of seeing us adjust to their old way of life. They warned us food out in the districts is pretty bad. When our meal is revealed, we realize they were being modest. Oatmeal with just water, fruit medley from a can, one meat square (Woof shrugged his shoulders in genuine confusion when asked what kind of meat it was), crispbread made from tesserae grain, flat club soda. No sugar, no butter, no spread.

A girl slowly raises her hand. Her Capitol accent is so strong even I have trouble understanding her. "Um, sorry to be a bother, but do you have the ingredient list to each of these products? You see, my diet is very strict. I cannot consume any animal or animal by-products. I'm sure you understand."

Before Dornick can open his mouth, Woof is on the ready. "You're in Eight. This all you're getting."

The girl slowly puts her hand down and we attempt to eat. The food is as horrible as it looks. I mix the fruit and oatmeal for taste. The others quickly follow suit. It's pathetic, I know, but everyone following my lead makes me feel for once in my life somewhat cool. I cherish the moment. Meanwhile, Woof grumbles in the corner about our platters (his words) being more than what he got growing up. Dornick tries to soothe our discomfort, good-naturedly munching on a crispbread. Each swallow goes down hard.

Once they've had enough of us pushing the mush around, Dornick calls for the helpers to retrieve our plates and states they are free to take the leftovers home. They nearly bolt from the dining hall after that. We put on our dried tie-dyes over our arena uniforms and together we're one big colorful crowd. Surviving the "initiation" and seeing our completed work, our spirits are a little better. Dornick takes note and leads us out of the dining hall. In a few minutes, it's back to the fumes, Peacekeepers, and grey scenery of the outside. We're taken inside a large bus, the motor loud and spewing exhaust.

"Friends," Dornick speaks over the noise. "Time for the real fun."

The rest of District Eight is as dreadful as we imagined. With the windows all the way down, we wheel along to Plaid, the sector where Dornick's factory is located. This place makes the Justice Building area look like paradise. It is cramped, dirty, and even grayer than before. People trudge along in frumpy purple jumpsuits with the District Eight seal stitched on their chest, the misery on their faces matching the surroundings. We make our way through the crumbling asphalt and enter inside the factory. 'Worthington Dyes' is a massive open warehouse. Assembly lines of workers swamp the place, completing their tasks in silence.

The masks we're given barely stave off the powerful chemicals wafting through the air. Dornick takes us through his factory, talking at length about everything we see. It's hard to keep up with his talking. The boy knows his stuff and he genuinely enjoys it. Purple uniforms move all around us, eyes behind the breathing masks void of emotion. Again, no eye contact or even a lift of the head to acknowledge us. Faces down, hands steady, machinery the only thing heard throughout the factory. When I asks about the workers, he states they are treated very well. Bathroom breaks, one day off, decent pay. Best in Eight.

We stop at a wide waist-level vat where bright blue dye is being spun by an older worker. Dornick whispers something in his ear and the man scurries away, nodding briefly at Woof as he passes. With a camera in hand, Mr. Trinket tells us that we are each allowed one photo posed with the two Victors. My classmates, thinking of all the attention that'll get them back home, ignore the heavy fumes and quickly remove their masks. Dornick is a natural in front of the camera, his new set of teeth gleaming with the flash. Woof is not but he plays nice, exchanging the frown he's held for a tight smirk.

When it's my turn, I try to connect with the grumpy Victor. "No need to smile in mine, man. That stuff's for gentleman." I point my eyebrows towards Dornick. The blond's too busy flirting with one of the girls to notice.

A gruff chuckle escapes his mouth. "Tell me about it."

Night has fallen by the time we exit the factory. Since it's getting late, we forgo touring Woof's old factory (no one, Mr. Trinket included, tries to fight this) and head straight to The Victors Village in Velvet. Making our way uphill to the upper-class sector, factories turn into shops, tenements into estates, fumes into fresh air. We all, literally, breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, a suitable place in District Eight.

Cleared by the Peacekeepers guarding the gates, we exit in front of the main courtyard of the village. Twelve identical brick houses lay in a curved row. Two are lit in the night sky, one more elaborate than its neighbor. The other ten are dark.

"Welcome to The Victors Village. Our home." Dornick beams with pride. At one point, I think he's going to cry. "Woof and I adore this neighborhood. We couldn't think of a more beautiful place."

"Uh, try the Capitol," Vermilion snorts from the back. Dornick stammers for a reply as even Mr. Trinket laughs at the comment.

With a quick recovery, Dornick ushers us inside his place. The interior is much more impressive than the exterior. Rows of expensive pieces line the place, from the hallway to the dining hall we're led to for dinner. Plates and plates of beautiful, actual food are placed in front of us. The whole place erupts in chatter as the forty of us enjoy the first proper meal since arriving here. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington are natural hosts. The proud parents bask in the reality of their dining room being filled to the brim with Capitolites. Dornick's younger siblings are as suave and sophisticated as he is, chatting away with us like old friends. Even Woof relaxes a bit, most likely to the glass of wine that stays full and spending most of the night cuddling the Worthingtons' many cats.

Once the dinner is complete, the Worthingtons bid us goodnight and Woof wobbles his way back to his place. Dornick goes to his study and we follow, waiting in a straight line outside the closed wooden door. Filled with good food and spirits, this is the moment we've been waiting for: the one-on-ones.

Each of us are given two minutes to talk with the new Victor alone, with a few Peacekeepers around for safe measure. Nothing's off-limits, Mr. Trinket encourages us while we wait our turn.. From what I can here, most of the conversations are predictable. The boys drill him about the Games and the Victors. How it felt stabbing Minos, surviving the derma diggers, if he scored with Essence or Crys yet. Vermilion arm wrestles him. He claims he won. The girls are even more vapid. What's his favorite fashion house, his favorite food, his favorite color, a lot of squealing.

An hour and eighteen minutes later, I'm the last one standing outside his door.

"Come in," he speaks behind it.

I dig inside my bookbag and look over my questions one last time. With a gulp, I enter inside. Dornick is sitting in a grand arm chair. The blond's face is weary as he pours a full glass of red wine.

"Forgive me friend," he speaks without looking up, turning the bottle vertical. "It's been a long day."

I sit on the edge of the chair opposite him. Dornick takes a long sip, closes his eyes, then looks my way with a smile.

"What have you been itching to ask the newest Victor of Panem? By the way, I noticed you were the only one wearing a District Eight arena shirt. I was no one's first choice this year, so I appreciate that." He sees my nervousness and grins. "Go on friend. Don't be shy. The rest of your classmates were not."

I pull my notebook out and flip to my questions. "My stuff's a little radical. I hope you don't mind," I say to him, and the Peacekeepers. The two men stand silent in the corner. "And yeah, I sponsored Minos. Sorry."

Dornick waves it off. "I won the Games. That's all that matters. Shoot."

"Okay," I inhale, exhale, and start. "How do you feel about being a Victor?"

Dornick smiles. Easy question. "Being a Victor has been the best thing that has happened to me, and I had a pretty great life before. The mercy of the Capitol granted me life and prosperity in the face of death. I can't thank them enough."

"Are there any struggles being a Victor? Woof doesn't seem very happy."

The blond shrugs his shoulders. "This past year has been hard on my mentor. Getting a Tribute out of the arena is no easy feat. Everyone has their bad days, but you can't have sunshine without a little smog. A District Eight saying," he says when he sees my confusion.

"Woof is happy, but he is tired. He just lacks the experience being around such esteemed guests, with his humble background and all."

We share a chuckle and I continue. "Do you feel that The Hunger Games is fair? One, Two, and Four seem to have an upper hand every year. And really, killing kids as punishment is kinda harsh."

A sip of wine. "The Hunger Games exists for a reason. It's not my place to question it."

"Is that the same way you feel about the Capitol? About Capitolites?"

"I give my gratitude to the Capitol. As I said earlier, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for The Big City."

"How about The Dark Days? Your side didn't win the war. Are you angry about that?"

One of the Peacekeepers cough. The new Victor jerks his head back in confusion. Elbows touch his knees as a finger taps away at his chin. Friendly eyes lose their flicker as he looks me up and down. District Eight slips into his tone. "You're a real inquisitive guy, you know that? I mean, really. The Dark Days. That was over twenty-one years ago. What are you trying to get at with all these questions, friend?"

The harsh way he says 'friend' makes me squirm in my chair. "I just-I'm sorry. I just wanted to get to know you. The real you. I thought you were just putting on for the cameras. Wanted to see if it was true."

"I'm not putting on anything for the cameras," his voice rises. There's fear in it. "What you see is what you get."

I put my hands up over my head. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I should go." I rise up from my chair and head for the door. I avoid eye contact with the three of them as Dornick gives a halfhearted goodbye. My hand is to the doorknob when I remember the crumpled up paper in my pocket. I debate mentioning it, but I turn around and sit back down in front of the Victor. Already made a fool of myself, can't do any worse.

"Victor Worthington III," I dig in my pocket. The Peacekeepers' stare is intense. So is Dornick's. "I found this outside the Justice Building. I didn't like what it said."

The wad of paper falls into the blond's lap. Slowly, he straightens it out and reads it over. His posture goes rigid. His face goes blank. As slow as he opened it, he balls the paper back up again and hands it to me. The entire glass of wine is finished once he puts it down. He fishes for a flask inside his blazer, takes a swig, and puts it back inside. Dornick places both hands on the armrests. His back is completely stiff. Scared brown eyes stare me down. For the first time, I realize Dornick and I are the same age.

I stammer out an apology. "I-I'm sorry if I upsetted you. I was just, you know-"

Barely above a whisper, he speaks. "What's your name?"

"Plutarch," I blurt out. "Plutarch Heavensbee. My family does business with yours. My mother loves your dyes."

He jumps from his seat. I do the same. A firm hand is pushed against my back as he shows me to the door. "Thank you for your time Plutarch. That was an enlightening conversation."

I extend out my hand expecting a handshake but the taller boy grips me into a hug. Dornick's mouth touches my ear, the scene hidden behind hair and collar.

"I don't like what's on that paper either."