Dalton Boyle
Mentor, District Three
Victor of the 10th Hunger Games
I've never really been one for saying the right thing; I'm sort of abysmally bad at saying anything at all, so I make a show of dusting off Nam's coat backstage. It's black with a high collar, but a gritty District Three wind whips it open, and I see they've lined it with silver – silver arcs of electricity. Sort of not surprised at this point. At least it matches his trousers?
He grabs my hands hard in his when I start fiddling with his silver pocket square.
I look over his left shoulder to the children gathered by age in flimsy wooden pens; they're hip height – chest height or higher for most of them, and someone has taken time to paint them, which is weird. I didn't realise we had any wood to spare. I guess exceptions are made for days like this.
Nam is talking. I only realise because a head of thick black hair replaces my view of the square. I look a little lower. The hair has a face. The face looks tired; Nam's only seventeen though, right?
"They're going to die, Dalton. There's no way they'll let Three win again when I won two years ago. Don't tell me it's going to be ok; don't tell me they have a shot. We can't help them, but in knowing that, maybe we can help each other"
In keeping with tradition, I can't think of a single thing to say in response to that.
"Don't feel bad that I know; I had to figure it out sooner or later, didn't I?"
He brings my hands down by my sides.
"Come on – let's get this over with" and he turns to climb the stairs to the stage. Not a minute ago I was trying to see past him into the crowd, but without Nam here, it's not so easy to face. The eighteens are at the front, but even they are small and thin; a pox swept through the District last spring, and there are fewer children here today than there should be. The ones that made it look as though they didn't quite manage it. Or they did, they have, and are aware now it isn't worthwhile. Flag is somewhere out there, somewhere down the back. I should have said something – something better.
Snippet Heap
Female Tribute, District Three
It's Kit's turn. Roped off in the fourteens, we do the only thing we can to pass the time; we pick off bits of hair and fluff from the sweater of the girl in front of us. The goal is to do it without the hair and fluff wearer noticing. If they catch you, you have to stone cold tell them you love them. No hesitation or humour – you've got to sell it.
I'm reaching for the last easy piece when there's a forced cough, and an elbow in my side; I take a step forward to correct my balance, but my hand is on Rosalind's back before I can withdraw it.
"I – " am so glad our escort taps twice on the microphone before I get a chance to finish.
Kit huffs and shoots me a look that says, 'you still owe her a declaration of love, you know' and we all turn to face the front; so unfair. My cheeks are burning, and I lose the Mayor's brief speech, and the start of Algernon's. He's made up in the typical Capitol interpretation of innovation: tiny blue lights twinkle in the muted sunlight; they run along the seams of his slate grey suit. The blue, it's called is Royal I think, and it matches his hair, which this year is a wig of feathers swept to one side over his right eye. Then again, it might be real. You never know with escorts.
"So let's spice things up a little, shall we?"
Algernon sweeps over to the big grey bowl on his right; I guess we're starting with the boys this year. He pauses for a moment to gaze down, and carefully, delicately, takes a slip of paper from the top-most layer.
"Bezel Keen!"
There's a moment of silence as Algernon leans forward excitedly; he's about to say the name again when a very pissed off boy emerges from the fifteens. His hair is brown, his eyes are brown, and his skin is white – no, not white, grey. He turns to look back into the sea of people roped off behind the twelves. They're either too young, or too old – they're safe.
His face softens for a moment; he looks hurt. He looks scared. But Peacekeepers aren't the patient kind, and he's back to angry when they start making their way over to him in an effort to get him up on the stage. He jerks back and sneers, before stomping up towards the stairs through a path made when they part in surprise. He folds his arms and leans over the microphone by Algernon.
"Wish me luck, District Three; though I can't see myself needing it"
That's – different.
Bezel Keen
Male Tribute, District Three
He didn't come. He said he'd be there, in case – and he didn't come.
That's it then. The last thing he'll ever have said to me stands forever. He can't take it back, and I can't let him. Even if he could, I wouldn't let him.
That makes this a whole lot easier, I suppose. I can go in hurt, and sad, and scared, and lonely, or I can go in mad. I can go in, be mad, and come home; I'll be here till he dies all alone in that little flat behind the Imaging Laboratories. The cold, bare flat I paid for by working fourteen hours a day in a factory instead of going to school. I'll be here, and he'll make the rent, or he'll die. I won't talk to him, I won't see him, and I won't help.
That's if he makes it that far.
If the Peacekeepers making rounds right now find he's not on the edge of death, he's going to the whipping post. I'm not sure if he'll survive if they give him fourty; I'm not sure he could take ten.
This is easy, this is simple, and this is fine.
Both of us are gone today.
Algernon is doing his best to present me as a contender; I'm just present enough to be irritated, and glad at the attempt.
"Well! It's not often we see such a spirited tribute here in District Three! I wonder if I can't pick out an equally impressive female!"
I'm totally stuck with this image now. I guess there's a kernel of truth there; shouldn't be too hard to maintain.
Algernon goes for a different approach this time. He walks over to the girls bowl with an arm already outstretched, and when he's within reach, he squeezes his eyes shut, and plunges in his hand. A thoroughly creepy smile pops up on his thoroughly creepy face as he pulls out a piece of paper he's happy with.
"Snippet Heap!" he booms.
A small pocket of space is somehow created in the girls jammed into the fourteens. Two girls stand at its centre. The one I'm guessing is Snippet is already crying, while her friend whispers something in her ear. After a few moments, she nods, and with a squeeze of her friend's hand, begins her journey to the stage.
Her hair is blonde, but dirty, and limp. It's swept up like a bird's nest on top of her head, and I get the feeling that a little digging could produce treasures even she had been previously unaware of. Might be good for poison, or hiding sponsor messages from the other kids in her alliance.
With shaking hands she smoothens out her crinkled beige dress, and accepting of the truth that she can't fix it now, that none of this can be fixed, she climbs the stairs to stand beside me.
When she turns to shake my hand I notice one eye is a much paler blue than the other – it's almost grey. She smiles, and I smile back, secretly filing this observation away.
I have a train ride to figure out if she can see out of it; if she can't, all the better for me.
Not so great for Snippet Heap.
