Urk. RL sucks sometimes.
I barricade myself in my room until a Capitol server taps on the door and tells me dinner is ready. The Games trains are mostly so smooth that it's still possible to do fine work, and I put down my tools with a sigh. The others are already seated by the time I reach the dining cart, and I smile gratefully at Beetee and Dido as I take the empty chair between them. Carmenius ignores me, staring out the windows with a sneer as he dunks a bread roll into the steaming orange soup.
I eat in silence, letting the others' conversations wash over my head while we feast on pumpkin soup, a spicy green salad and roasted duck with potatoes in a creamy cheese sauce. I'm savouring the last strawberries from the cream and jelly dessert when Beetee turns to me and says, "We'll be stopping for fuel soon. If you like I can speak to the engineers about having a look at the train's internals."
My smiling acceptance is cut off by Carmenius's scowl and abrupt reply. "She's not allowed off the train. Neither are you, even when stopped. That's the rules."
Beetee waits until Carmenius looks back to his plate before rolling his eyes.
"Yes, of course. That won't be a problem since the parts of interest are internal, and therefore viewable from inside the train."
This surprises me a little; I would've thought the engines at least would be externally accessed. Then I catch his wink and hide a smile behind a gulp of apple juice.
"Would you like to come too?" Beetee asks with a smirk, and I feel the juice catch in the back of my throat as I hold down a laugh. "You might actually learn something worthwhile."
"Like hell."
He stalks off towards his own compartment, drink in hand, and I feel the tension in the room drop a few barr. I choke down the mouthful of drink in time to see Beetee quirk an eyebrow at Dido, whose face shows her usual bland mask, though her eyes glint with suppressed mirth.
"I too shall decline a lecture in locomotive engineering. I doubt you will be bothered now, though I would advise not being too obvious about it. You are, after all, supposed to remain on the train."
With that she leaves us be, and good as his word, as soon as the gentle thrumming changes pitch Beetee leads the way to the front where the two drivers spend the half-hour refuel showing us the pristine engines and, when I ask, the stabilizers. Both drivers are from District Six, as are the three mechanics, and they're somewhat less scrupulous about rules and regulations than those from the Capitol.
When we start moving again, Barin, the off duty driver and two of the mechanics accept the invitation back to the dining cart, and we spend the next few hours discussing engine designs and weight to power rations until finally Beetee sends me to bed with a reminder that I need to practice my lines.
I pull a face, but go as ordered and read through the notes that I memorized a week ago, but still need in front of me to stay fluent. It seems as long as my brain is routing through the visual pathway it skips over whatever connections got destroyed by the dreadful white flowers that nearly killed me in the Arena. I still have regular nightmares about the terrifying paralysis that they caused, the hours of lying sweating and burning in the sun until the ants came. The fiery agony of their bites seeping through my immobilized limbs until Beetee found a way to send me the antidote.
He explained to me why it had taken so long to send that precious bottle not long after we got back, and after hearing his reasons I almost felt bad about mentally cursing him in the Arena. Once I learned that the flowers were only supposed to knock down a tribute for an hour or so, and that my direct inhalation of the pollen was unexpected and unplanned for, his waiting for me to recover on my own made perfect sense. Even after he realized that I wasn't getting better and that I was directly in the path of the ant swarm that killed another tribute only a few days before, it still took him time to calculate a rough necessary dosage and convince the Gamemakers to pour some on the parachute itself immediately before sending it into the Arena.
Even that had required Plutarch Heavensbee's political clout, the young man representing his father, who had been my main sponsor. I had been shocked when I learned the actual sum of money they had provided to keep me alive, but both Heavensbee's had informed me at the victory banquet that they considered it a worthwhile investment to keep my intelligence alive. Where they could use it to further their business where necessary, just as they use Beetee's brilliance. He had initially become indebted to them trying to save his second tribute, who, in another year might have done alright. The Careers often target the tributes from the recent victorious non-Career districts, regardless of their actual potential, and even with a year's gap poor Teac was near the top of their list.
Beetee's victory set another mark of hatred in the Career districts' minds as he was the start of their longest dry streak, six non-Career victors in a row. Even before they started banding together Districts One, Two and Four never went so long between winners as their relative wealth and professions generally provided stronger tributes anyway.
The train jolts me from my meandering thoughts and I run once more through the words I will regurgitate in each district for the next few weeks before slipping off the dress in favour of silk purple pyjamas and crawling into bed, trying not to think of crawling insects while I slowly drift off.
-xXx-
I don't dream of ants swarming my body. Instead I dream of Stuvek, my ill-fated district partner.
I'm lost in the maze, only instead of thorny green hedges the walls are made of gigantic gravestones, each one bearing the names and faces of the dead. I can't find my way, but he appears and promises to lead me out. No, to lead me home and I take his hand and follow, trying to ignore the flashes of color as we pass. Jasper, spewing blood from his mouth, and from the gaping wound I made in his neck. Little Sparrow, mouthing his sing-song rhymes as he drags the spear out of his chest and waves it above his head. Francis, hobbling about on the leg I broke with my traps; Junis, the knife-hilt standing out the back of her head while her torso morphs into a giant spider.
We're running now, down the white stone corridors, past the twists and turns full of monsters. On my left I see three girls torturing Janey Wallace to death. Further on the right Stata Wash's bloodless visage stares at me, holding back a sob. Little Wiran coughs and screams for me to help him, but we're swept away by a river of blood, drowning, choking to a dead end. The stone marker has my name on it, my face, the spear buried in my chest while Jasper leans over me, pinning me down. I'm trapped, I can't move, can't breathe, CAN'T-
I hit the floor hard, the sheets that restrained my movement slithering down to cover me while I regain my breath. When I finally force myself upright a wave of pain washes across my face and I wipe my hand across my mouth and nose. They come away damp and sticky, just like Felton's blood that first night in the Arena. I bite down on my lip to stop myself shrieking and cry out anyway when the blood trickles into my mouth and down my throat.
Luckily I must pass out because the next thing I know Beetee is peering into my face. My aching, throbbing face. I groan and feel a slight pressure on my arms.
"Wiress, can you hear me? Wiress?"
It's fuzzy and distant and suddenly the world swims into focus again.
"Beetee? I ….blood….river….maze…"
His face relaxes and the pressure on my arms tightens briefly and releases.
"Bad dreams?"
I nod and wince as the throbbing doubles. A hand appears beside me holding two white pills and a glass of water. I follow the outstretched hand up a white sleeve to a bland, expressionless face.
"Painkillers," Beetee confirms. I reach out and take them. The man helps hold the glass up to my lips so I can drink without spilling it. My hands are shaking again, from the shock and the dose of my own medication that I forgot to take last night after dinner.
Belatedly I remember that my meds are supposed to help with sleeping too. I glance over to the table where the box rests. Beetee shoots me a reproving look when he follows my eye-line and hauls himself up from the crouch beside my bed to fetch them.
"They don't do you any good in the packaging you know."
I do know. I just "forget sometimes."
I grimace at the bitter taste as I swallow my morning dose and he pulls a face back.
"When we get home I'll make you an alarm to remind you. String it around your neck like that ring, where you won't lose it."
I pretend to glare at him. "I could…could…make…one….if….if I..."
He looks pointedly at the toolkit and components strewn across the bench top, then steps outside when the all-too-familiar nasal whine announces Carmenius' presence.
I jump when the door shuts without warning and belatedly remember the Capitol attendant when he steps forwards again, this time with a cloth and bowl. He waves the cloth at me and tilts his head and I stare at him for a few seconds before I realise he's an Avox. He mimes a rubbing motion and I smile and wave him forward to clean the blood off my face, forcing myself not to flinch when his fingers brush against my cheek.
My stomach rumbles as he finishes up, but I don't really want to deal with Carmenius this morning. The Avox looks at me and mimes eating. I start to shake my head but he taps my table then his own chest and hurries out the door. Through the brief opening I can hear Beetee's nervous commentary being overridden by Carmenius' pronounced whingeing.
"…an embarrassment if she doesn't…
"…can't help it and you…"
"…I won't be held responsible…"
"…actions aren't improving the situation…"
The door snicks shut and I release the breath I was unconsciously holding. Of course Carmenius blames me for…everything. As though he did me the biggest favour in the world by being our Escort and I barely paid it back by winning the Games and promoting him to pre-eminence. If only the new escort had taken over now rather than waiting for the next Games. There's no guarantee the new man or woman will be any better but I'm fairly sure they can't be worse.
In an attempt to distract myself I move over to the bench and start sorting through my box of components, picking out the bits I would need to make a small timer. I've realized that I don't have anything I could use for a speaker when the door slides back open to reveal the Avox with a tray of cereal, pancakes and syrup, a bowl of fruit and a large pitcher of apple juice all for me.
"Thank…you."
He smiles in return and steps back out, leaving me to my breakfast and my work. I sketch out several ideas in my notebook while I eat, grimacing every time I manage to drip juice or syrup on the crisp white pages. I've barely finished when a brief rap on my door is followed by Lorcan, who tells me that we're only two hours out from District Twelve and that I'd better start getting ready. Or prepare myself to be got ready, as Juliette bounds in after him, gives a muffled shriek of horror when she sees blotches of blood and syrup on my face and pen ink on my hands where I started doodling.
I let myself drift away as they begin the now-familiar routines of scrubbing me down in the modified shower, brushing out my hair, and bundling me into whatever outfit has been deemed worthy for the poorest of the Districts, poorer even than my own.
Marius arrives to apply 'minimal' makeup, by which he only takes half an hour to properly accent my pointed, dull face. I can feel the train starting to slow as he tidies up his powders and brushes, chattering away all the while about this fashion icon and that magazine article and did I hear about the dramatic season ending of Swept Away?
It's not until I'm released that I realize Dido hasn't made her usual appearance, nor is she waiting with Beetee and Carmenius near the doors, ready to make our dramatic exit.
Beetee notices my confused glance around and reaches out to steady my arm, murmuring "Interview. The Capitol fashionistas have been at her for the last four hours by video conference. She'll be here soon."
"And if not, she can always catch up later," Carmenius adds with a sniff. "It's not like she's the important one here."
I don't take the bait.
The train rolls to a stop at a dreary platform filled with dark-haired people, and for a moment when we step out to faint cheers and applause I think I'm back home already. Then the smell hits me, the smell of fresh living things that I knew from the arena, mingled with something tantalizingly similar to the smog back home, but somehow different. Fresher, though still unpleasant.
The small crowd moves in slightly to get a better look at the reigning Victor, and my familiarity is shattered. Most of them are my height or taller, the men noticeably taller than the women. In our district there's little difference in height and build between the genders, both topping out around 5'4"-5'6". Here more than half the men are pushing towards six feet tall, and while the dark hair remains, their skin tone is more a motor oil brown than our sickly gray-gold. Towards the centre of the group, the people become substantially taller and more rounded, lighter haired and lighter skinned. Wherever we go there is always the merchant class it seems, wealthy in comparison to the mere workers.
The mayor, a gray-haired woman with a too-wide smile, and her eldest son greet us formally, welcoming us to their humble district. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to reply, but it doesn't matter as we're packed off into cars to take us first on a tour of the coal mines and town, then to the Justice Building, where I'll have to force out the speech I've spent the last few days thoroughly memorizing.
The drive to the town centre is a short one, this district being much more compact and centralized. On both sides, in the gaps between houses I can see a great metal fence running, twice the height of a person with bright yellow signs to warn of the voltage. Beyond that is green. Green and brown and orange and red, falling leaves in heaps of color. Color that spreads under the fence, in-between the houses and into a wide open field. So much green, so much life. How different it must be for these people to spend their days surrounded by living things.
The tour of the mines takes all of an hour. The man who steers us around has a craggy face and hands stained black by coal dust. The words have a practiced tone to them; maybe he teaches the school kids like the shift overseers who take groups around the factories.
The only color in the mines comes in the form of a row of bird-cages, each bearing a bright yellow bird that chirps away sweetly.
"Canaries," our guide says with a twisted smile. "Good for telling when there's gas leaks in the shafts."
"Do they start…"
"Start singing if they smell gas?" Beetee finishes for me, and sounding curious in his own right. This earns another grizzled smirk as the man replies.
"Nah, it's when they stop singing that we know. Gas kills 'em, see. When the chirping stops it's time to get out. These birds save lives every year."
Saving lives at the cost of their own. That sounds familiar. Suddenly the walls seem very close and the darkness begins looming in. Apparently this isn't an uncommon reaction to being underground and our guide quickly takes us back up to the surface.
The ceremony isn't scheduled to start until one in the afternoon when the day's mine shifts are finished early. Apparently school is out for the day so that the whole district can be here. As a result I have a little time to wander in the shops with Beetee and a pair of Peacekeepers a few paces back to keep the small crowds of shop-keepers and their children from bothering us.
It seems strange not to find anywhere selling electronic bits and pieces, and my hope at finding the components for the alarm I was going to make fades as we wander through a clothes shop, shoe-makers and a small hardware store that has nothing more advanced than pliers and saws.
The enticing smells of the bakery lure us both, and Beetee purchases a stack of cookies filled with dried fruit and nuts that are fresh baked and taste so much better than the packaged rolls of dough we occasionally had at home.
Two of the cookies go to the baker's sons when he isn't looking, both boys old enough to be working on their day off school, but young enough to show delight at the unexpected treat. The next shop down sells writing and drawing materials, cheap, simple jewellery and glassware all bundled together. When I ask, the old man out the back lets me watch him blowing a bottle while a boy around my age hefts a box full of them and slips out the back door.
I take the opportunity to purchase a small blank sketch-pad and pens, and draw the blowing tube he used before Beetee nudges me on. We ignore the butchers and fruit and vegetable seller, and I'm debating whether to just sit somewhere and keep sketching until it's time to prepare when a flap of wings catches my attention. Two birds, black and white land on the roof of the next store down, where the boy we just saw leave is handing over the assorted jars to a white-haired man wearing an apron.
On the porch a trio of girls are sitting together with a canary just like the ones in the mines. Rescued, perhaps, from its cruel fate by these merchant kids who can afford it. The bird certainly seems happy enough, whistling out trills of notes which are soon picked up by the larger birds on the roof-top. The two men look up as we approach and the older man smiles when he recognizes us.
"Alder Keyton, if you're wanting any herbs or the sort. 'Course I can't blame you if you're just here to hear our mockingjays sing."
He points up to the birds who are still trilling the canary's whistle over and over.
"Aye, they'll sing anything back at you if they think it's pretty enough," he adds with a smile at the girls.
"Just ask Ruthie," the boy adds, nodding to the smallest of the girls, who looks around Balia's age. "She's got a friend down in the Seam who gets flocks singing right back at him. Ain't that right Ruthie?"
He winks and the girl blushes. Alder scowls at him. "That's enough of that Jordie Connell. Back to your father with you, boy. I've enough glass bottles to see me through to next week."
He turns back to us, still looking unhappy, but before we can continue the conversation a loud, nasal and all-too-familiar voice rings from the central town square a short distance back.
"There you are. Honestly, I don't see why you had to go off wandering around this sty. Your stylist wants you back now to clean up whatever mess you've made of yourself this time. Well come on, we don't have all day."
Carmenius looks less than pleased to be dirtying his magenta leather boots with mud. I turn back to say goodbye to the friendly shop-keeper, but Carmenius' holler interrupts again.
"Now Wiress. I mean it, no skulking around fiddling with this or that or we'll never get anything done."
I smile at Alder, share a sympathetic glance of disgust with Beetee and make my way across the square, letting my shoes sink a little into the soft earth. This earns me another sniff of disapproval as I draw near. I force myself to remember that this trip is the last time I'll ever have to deal with Carmenius, and don't retort.
Dido does want to tidy me up, and also gives me a disapproving stare when she spots the muddy splotches on my boots and the hem of my dress. This actually does make me feel a little guilty and I take the silent remonstration with a nod, reminding myself to watch out for puddles in future.
I'm kept indoors until it's time for the presentation, reading and re-reading the cards that contain my speech, even though I know it by heart. As long as I can trick my brain into thinking I'm reading, it won't mess up my words. Finally the call comes, and I step out onto the platform facing a sea of dark heads and the reaping comes rushing back. I panic for a moment when I can't see Balia's tear-stained face in the front row, can't see the gray concrete buildings chunking up the skyline as far as the eye can see.
When I see the man standing closest to the stage is an adult not some child waiting to be called to their death, and his wife beside him, and two younger children near Malcy's age I relax. It's not the reaping, it's the Victory Tour. This is the audience, I'm speak….reading to the audience.
It takes me two tries to get the first word out, but once I start talking I spot a tall tree in the distance, keep my eyes fixed on it and let the words flow. The sound of applause wakes me from my semi-reverie, and I assume I've managed a suitable job based on Beetee's smile and nod.
Again I glance down to the front of the crowd, where that family of four catches my eye. A few steps closer to the stage than the rest of the audience, huddled together, all sharing the same mousey-brown hair as they stare up at me with resigned expressions. To the right a similar group huddles, though their looks are less sad and more angry. Two women and four children, dark haired and brown skinned. The oldest boy can't be more than twelve, but I see the resemblance to Tobias already. Of course I should have remembered the families of the tributes. We see them every year in our own district, forced to the front so they can be seen cheering for the person who quite possibly killed their loved ones. Or maybe it's a reminder to the Victors. Probably both.
If I wasn't already dreading District One I am now.
Thankfully my sudden shakiness and garbled words aren't an issue for the rest of the afternoon. I smile for the cameras as the Mayor presents me with a plaque, shake her hand and scurry inside back to the cool safety of an empty room.
There's no dinner function in Twelve; we're heading straight back to the train and on to District Eleven, where we will stay the night. I'm not looking forward to seeing the families there either, but at least I didn't kill their children.
The brief journey back to the station is a blur of colors and sounds and the fading stink of coal, where green and brown flashes of color and life continue all the way to District Eleven.