a/n: sorry this took so long guys. writer's block has been kicking my ass lately. i hope the story is starting to get a more even flow; let me know? thanks.
I'm about ready to gouge my eyes out by the time Prometheus joins us in the dining car for breakfast. Iris is trying to teach Pan and me proper table etiquette because apparently we're using the wrong forks for our fruit cups. I didn't know fruit had a particular dishware to use while eating it.
Prometheus is washed and freshly shaven, sitting down next to me and pouring himself a glass of orange juice before taking out a cigarette and lighting it.
"Good morning, Prometheus," Iris chirps, and my worry that she had overheard anything between the two of us last night fades. "How are you?"
In response, Prometheus grunts, blowing a ring out towards Pan, who sits across from him at the table. The little kid blinks, coughing away the smoke. I was right in the assumption that he's only a ways past twelve. A small kid, with gangly limbs and an almost lame step to his movements. His curly hair is brown and his eyes are brown and his skin is tanned from years of working in the fields. A quiet little thing he is, almost afraid of every movement, even his own.
I pick up a muffin from the middle of the table. It has blueberries baked into it, still warm to the touch as I spread butter over the top. Back home, real butter is a bit of a luxury. I've probably eaten an entire stick since I've been here.
Downing his orange juice in one go, Prometheus grabs a few pieces of toast and lathers them in blackberry jelly. He crunches into them and pours himself a cup of coffee, all while managing to finish off his cigarette. You'd think after his Games, he'd be more adverse to smoke, but that doesn't seem the case in the slightest. I gulp down the rest of my muffin and grab a piece of bacon, stuffing it into my mouth.
"Calm down, Kore," Iris says after a moment. "You act as if you've never eaten these things before."
I quickly share a leveled glance with Pan, the only time he's ever looked me fully in the eye. We both know that Iris is correct, even if she's being sarcastic. Though I'm not starved, I never get things like this at home. The bread is made from leftover grain and often molded, and the rest of the time I exist on fruit and nuts and vegetables.
Pan, it looks, gets even less. He's eaten so many donuts I'm afraid his stomach will rip in two. More than likely his parents are just field workers, not having their own garden. They more than likely trade work for food, which I know from before my mother's shop is a hunk of moldy cheese, some stale bread, and the bruised produce from the fields, barely enough for each person.
I toss a piece of bacon to him, which he sniffs and then eats engrossingly.
Prometheus gives me a cross look. He'd said not to get close to Pan, but he's just a little boy after all. And we're not in the Games yet. Why can't I give him something he's probably never tried before? It isn't as if I'm saying hey let's team up and I'll kill myself for you. Shaking my head, I take a drink from my apple juice. It still feels as if none of this is real, anyways.
As if to defy me, Prometheus pops his jaw in and out of place. Just like Plutus always used to do. I sigh, glaring down at the tabletop as my stomach rumbles from how full it is. We're scheduled to arrive in the Capital in exactly two hours, and with my luck I'll probably vomit up everything when we walk onto the station platform.
"Shall we watch the recaps again?" Iris asks once it seems everyone is finished eating.
No one is very apt to say no at this point, but I do notice Prometheus wonder away from the herd as we make our way into the entertainment car. Lucky, I think, having a seat on the plush couch set up in front of the television. The cushions are so soft I sink into them. Iris sits next to me, Pan choosing an overstuffed pillow on the floor as the television turns on. Newsfeed from the Capital streams through, a day show of posh women talking about how cute the tributes are this year.
"And I mean, the twins from Ennéa, how adorable are they? Artemis and Apollo– what an alliteration!" says a woman with blue hair and diamonds making up her eyebrows.
Artemis and Apollo. Allies. Supposedly. What if everything Prometheus said last night was a lie? Maybe even if he is Plutus' father, he still doesn't like me because I'm the kid my mom had with someone else. What if he's in really good with the Capital– they made him a God after all– and because of what Plutus did to get killed, he's scoping out to see if I'm a traitor too? What if I'm being irrationally paranoid and am giving myself a stress headache?
I lean back against the couch cushions, watch as the women on television talk about Republic Déka. The tributes from it seem dead scared once they walk up on the Alter, their knees practically buckling as they shake hands. And then comes the sight of Pan and I, the only commentary being the women think Pan is adorable and they like the curls of my hair.
I'm about ready to go back to my car and sleep for the next two hours when the tributes from Dódeka take screen. I gasp, as the girl is called first. Hestia Prytaneum– looks just like Despoina. I watch as she walks up on stage with chubby legs, at the very cusp of puberty. Her hair is darker than Despoina's, but it has the same fine curl to it and her eyes sparkle just as bright. She's got darker skin though, like a lot of children in her republic do.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I watch as the male tribute is drawn from the sacrificial bowl. Hades Aidon. He's a tall boy, lean and strong with dark eyes and hair and skin. The moment he steps onto stage, Hestia rushes to his side and hugs it. The boy gently pats her back, and the escort of their republic, Asteria, clucks her tongue affectionately when Hades explains the two are cousins.
Twins and cousins in this year's Games. The Capital must be going wild with it. I wonder what they'd do if they found out my half-brother was the son of a God…
Shaking my head, I watch as Iris flips the channel, a new show, the same news. "Well, I was expecting more formal viewing, but I guess it was a lot to hope for at such an early hour…"
Early hour? The sun's been in the sky for three hours. By this point in time, I would've been headed to the fields for work, done with school already. The eccentrics of the Capital never fail to confuse me. How nice it must be for them to sleep in.
This time I truly do leave the entertainment car, headed back toward the end of the train where a small platform looks on into fresh air. By this point we've reached Republic Októ, which is just right along the lines of the first two republics. The landscape here is full of grassy plains, climate cool in the coming Spring. I take a deep breath as I open the door, the smell of grain and clovers. When I step onto the platform I find Prometheus, once again smoking a cigarette. Of course.
"You stalking me, kid?" he laughs, but it's a bit without humor.
I join him in leaning against the back rail, shaking my head. "I still can't believe last night happened."
"It's a lot to take in," he says.
"Why even tell me?" I ask, twiddling with my hands.
He shrugs. "You needed to know the truth; better sooner than later. I need you to trust me."
"I don't even know you," I whisper.
"No," Prometheus agrees. "But you know your mother. Come on, Kore. Would she really have loved me if I was vile?"
For a moment, I am silent, just looking at him sideways. No, my mother would not have loved him had he been a bad man. Demeter Hagne is an excellent judge of character– she can spot a deceiver a mile away. If Prometheus was a liar, then she would never have loved him for even a second, nor would she have loved his child as much as she did.
Letting out a breath, I say, "No."
"Then you know I'm not a bad guy here."
"No, and neither are the kids trying to kill me," I say, total honesty. "It's not as if they chose this."
"The Demigods did."
The Demigods that Prometheus mentions are the children who grew up in the wealthier republics, having been taught the Games truly are an honor. They've grown their whole lives being trained for the Games, wanting nothing more in the world than to be a God. Most of the time, there isn't even sacrificials chosen from the Demigod republics– they simply volunteer.
"They don't know any better," I tell Prometheus, because they don't.
When we used to watch the Games together on television, Plutus would sigh at the Demigods who volunteered, saying that it couldn't be any easier for the Capital to brainwash them into thinking the Games are a gift to participate in. Plutus would say that Republic Dekatría was right when they rebelled– that the Capital's control which was supposedly so wonderful was just a bunch of bullshit. He said that if the Capital was really as great as they tried to portray, they wouldn't let the outer republics starve, or let the babies and old ones die from disease, or let the people work themselves to death. They wouldn't have let my father die from typhus because he cut himself on a rusted combine engine. They wouldn't have whipped Plutus to death just because he said that the Capital deserved none of his respect, and never would receive it, that he'd rather die first.
"I know," Prometheus says in answer to my comment. "It's why things need to change."
I blink, look to him in astonishment. "Someone will hear."
"Nope," he says, blowing out a curling ring of smoke. "Train isn't rigged back here. No one usually comes outside. Too busy enjoying the luxury."
I scrunch up my nose. "Everything's too…comfy."
Prometheus scoffs. "Say that when you live in the Capital. Feels like you're sleeping on a baby's ass, the sheets are so soft."
I shake my head at him, gripping the rails tighter. "How are things supposed to change anyway?"
"You'll see," he says, tossing his finished cigarette onto the blurring tracks. "But for now, you need to go make yourself pretty for when we get to the Capital."
I stare after him as he goes back inside the train. You'll see. What kind of answer is that? Frowning, I move back inside too. Being left out of the loop has never been my favorite thing. It's kind of infuriating to me, actually. Plutus used to tease me all the time with false secrets. Sometimes I would get so frustrated I'd cry. It's not so much that I'm nosy; it's just more that I don't like not knowing things. Mother always tried to shelter all of us from the bad things in Elláda, tried to keep us innocent minded like flowers bloomed in the dark. What she doesn't get is that we need the truth– flowers need the sun even if it will burn them.
Sighing, I go back to my train car and slowly take off my chiton, setting it on the bed. I'll probably never get to wear the pretty little thing again. The thought depresses me as I go to take a shower in the fancy bathroom, nozzles everywhere. Water sprays from all directions when I touch them, and there's this really nice smelling gel for my hair and body that I can wash with. It leaves my curls soft and my flesh rosy.
I pull open one of the drawers of the dressers after I've dried off, taking out a pretty silk chiton. It's pink, and shiny, and the zone I fasten it with is made of fine leather. Wrinkling my nose, I take the narcissus pin off of my old chiton and fasten it to the new one, slipping on a pair of sandals afterward and mussing with my hair a bit.
A knock on my door sounds, and Iris calls through it that we're reaching the Capital. I take a deep breath and go to the main car of the train, where Pan is sitting on one of the benches staring out at the platform ahead. I resist the urge to tell him to stop fidgeting like I would Despoina, instead sitting next to him and looking outward. The moment the train begins to slow and the people of the Capital can see us, they start cheering.
I feel a heat move up behind me. "Smile and wave," Prometheus says in passing.
I do as I'm told, stretching my lips full and giving them the brightest grin I can achieve. My wave is overly exaggerated, a child's wave. Nothing regal, but no one cares. The train comes to an abrupt stop and Iris ninnies at Pan and I to move to the doors that let us off.
Once in the air of the Capital, camera lights begin flashing and reporters call mine and Pan's names. Iris tells us to keep going, giving a little snip of, "No comment," here and there to the crowd.
We're moved into a car, which drives us to a building on the edge of the city– the building we'll spend the next six days in before being thrown into the arena. It's tall, made of metal and glass with the Divinity Games emblem of an owl perched on a cypress branch etched into the front doors. Iris drags Pan and I inside, Prometheus following after us and telling the bellhop to fuck off when he tries to tell Prometheus that he can't smoke in here.
The elevator we have to take is shiny; Iris pushes the button for the eleventh floor and we move up, up, up at an alarming rate. I've never been in an elevator before, so it's only now I find out that I'm scared of them. The rising sensation makes my stomach bottom out and I start to gasp for air, pressing back against the wall. I need earth, solid ground and soil.
"I…don't like that," I say when we come to a stop, the doors sliding open with a crisp ding.
Pan shakes his head in accompaniment. I begin to wonder if the boy isn't just mute. He hasn't spoken a single word since his name was drawn.
With a shake of my head, I follow Iris out into the grand room we're to stay in. It's almost so lush I want to turn tail and run, afraid that if I touch anything then it'll break. Half the space is made of windows anyways, glass figures adorning all other surfaces. The furniture is modern and bright in color, so different from the wooden structures covered in cushions back home.
"Make yourselves at home!" Iris calls, disappearing into the hall. A door slams shut to what I guess is her room or something.
"Yours is down the hall, bud," Prometheus says, nodding Pan off.
The boy responds without protest, rushing off. I watch after him, looking back to the room once he's gone from sight. It's then I notice the lone figure standing by the elevator doors. She's dressed in a dark red chiton that covers every inch of her. Chestnut curls pile atop her head, held in place by flowered pins. I blink at her and she blinks at me, mouth set in a straight line.
"She can't speak," Prometheus says, snapping me out of my stupor.
"Oh," I say. And I'm smart enough to put two and two together, realizing she's wearing servants' robes and that the reason she can't speak is that her tongue has been cut out. It's actually one of the less harsh punishments inflicted by the Capital. If you commit a crime against them, you can have your tongue cut off and be sent to work in the Capital, never to speak freely again. "Sorry," I say, more to the girl than anyone in the room.
Prometheus nods, moving over to a bar in the middle of the room and grabbing a glass. He sloshes amber liquid into it, taking a long sip before addressing me. "I know what your stick is gonna be, kid."
"And what's that?" I ask, touching the back of one of the couches in the room. It's made from a fabric I've never felt.
"We're gonna work the little maiden angle."
"What?"
"That girly grin and wave you gave the media made them wild. You're short and cute and like I said, big eyes. Your momma's eyes. With the right make-up and clothes you can be Elláda's favorite sweetheart. We'll make the sponsors wanna nurture you." He drinks the rest of the contents of the glass. "Let the competitors think you're weak."
I sigh, sitting on the edge of the couch and shaking my head. "There's girls way younger than me this year," I say, thinking of little Hestia from Dódeka.
"Doesn't matter. She's little, yeah, but you have sex appeal. Innocent sex appeal, but it's still there. Nothing makes good television like a little virgin girl from a poor home. Besides, maybe we can keep you alive that much longer if you get bidders."
"Bidders?" I ask. "Bidders for what?"
"Virginity," Prometheus says simply. "Listen, Kore. I'm determined to get you through these games and back your ma, but there's a lot of shit you're gonna have to get used to even after the Games are won. First off being, the Capital will own you. Doesn't matter if you're a God– they own you. You do what they want. So the better we get you in with them now, the better chances you'll have of making it through this thing.
"If I can get you some old perverts who want a night with you bad enough, then the presents will be flowing in. Hell, sometimes they'll drop hints to help you avoid catastrophe during the Offering."
The only thing I can do at this point is stare at Prometheus. "This is too much."
Chuckling, Prometheus pours himself another glass of the amber liquid, and then takes out a second glass to fill. "That's why you drink," he says, walking over to me and handing the glass off. "Bottoms up kid, 'cause you better get used to this quick if you wanna live."
Taking the glass from him, I stare at it for a moment before bringing it to my lips, tipping it back and letting it burn at the back of my throat. I sputter and cough, almost dropping the glass as Prometheus begins to clap me on the back.
Definitely should've just choked on the scone yesterday; dying like that would have been much easier.