My gigantic pile of marking is done and I've finally managed to put down the new Pokemon game. Maybe I'll start writing again!
The first thing I notice at our approach to District Eleven is the giant fence, rearing higher even than the one in the last district. And unlike the last one, this one doesn't pretend to be protecting the people from the outside, not with rows of spikes along the top. They don't bother fencing us in at home; the barren and slightly radioactive wastelands spreading for a week's walk in every direction do that just fine.
Again like home and District Twelve, the people of Eleven have a distinctive look to them. Skin tones ranging from the pale brown of today's dress, fawn, according to Juliette, through middling shades all the way to nearly black. As always the flash of fairer hair and skin that marks the merchant class congregate together, well away from the working rabble.
We're permitted a brief tour of a nearby fruit orchard, where the last crops of blueberries and strawberries are nearly done for the year, and then on to some bee-keepers who draw out solid blocks of wire mesh from humming boxes to collect the dripping honey.
After my last run-in with insects I stay well away, though Beetee steps in for a closer look at the smoke-pots they use to keep the bees tamed.
As Carmenius threatened, he refuses to let me wander through the town while we wait for the ceremony, instead confining me with the help of two Peacekeepers to a room to practice my lines as he felt yesterday's performance was insincere.
Beetee's still out somewhere, probably trying do re-design a more efficient smoke system, and I don't really feel like arguing so I do as I'm told until Dido appears to tidy me up again.
This time I pick the corner of a building to stare at while I deliver the words, trying not to let my eyes flit to the front of the crowd where the families will be. I almost make it through before I falter, first spotting Seeder and presumably her sister, a teenage boy and a little girl. All mourning poor Junis, though they don't have hatred in their eyes. I know Seeder killed more tributes in her Games than I did, so she definitely understands. Even so, I feel like I should be apologising.
I force myself to look left, to where whatever remaining family little Sparrow Harper has will undoubtedly be less restrained in their hatred of the girl who could easily have been their little boy standing here instead. A lone woman, gray haired and sharp faced, standing as stiff as the collar of her dress stares back, looking disinterested. There's a pin on her chest, a familiar symbol that crests several buildings back home, the same as in every district.
That the beautiful, charming, gilt-tongued Sparrow was a Community Home child surprises me greatly. Then again, he learned that cold-hearted resilience somewhere, and with his fair coloring he was probably the target of the other children more often than not.
The afternoon is spent in more preparation for tonight's dinner. Once I'm suitably bedecked in a swathe of purple and silver drapes Beetee takes me to a small room to introduce me to the District Eleven victors, though I'm not supposed to be formally meeting them until tonight.
I recognise Seeder and Chaff from my Games, and they both greet me with the easy air of old friends. The older man, whose white hair stands in stark contrast to his near-black skin is introduced as Alko Johnson. I'd put his age around sixty, and he moves with a stiff limp when he steps forward to shake my hand. Scars criss-cross his arms and a particularly savage line traces across his balding skull to the mangled left ear. I guess they cared less about prettying up the victors in the old days of the Games.
The fourth man is vaguely familiar, and introduces himself as Tolby Bartlett. Like Alko and Chaff his skin is a rich, deep brown. I'd put him around Beetee's age and the two seem friendly, immediately striking up a conversation about Beetee's afternoon beekeeping. Alko hobbles over to the side-board and struggles to pour himself a glass of something. This leaves me with the mentors of this district's tributes from my Games. Again, I feel like I should be apologizing for being here, but can't seem to find any suitable words.
Finally Seeder smiles and reaches her hand out slowly to my shoulder. "It's all right. We don't blame you."
I jump when a weight slaps down on the other shoulder. Chaff gives me an apologetic smile and adds, "Believe me girl, we understand. You will too soon enough. "
With that he wanders over to the side-board, reaching out with his one hand to help the older man with his drink. Still at a loss for words I glance around, catching Beetee's eye and he waves us over to their conversation.
"Wiress, we were just discussing the smokers they use for beekeeping, I was telling Tolby here that an automated system wouldn't be too hard to set up, or at least something with a bit more range and easier to control."
Before I can reply the door bangs open and our impromptu meeting is brought to an end by a series of officials who apparently require two hours to 'organize' our short walk to the dining room. Even worse, I'm side-tracked to a small office, where three reporters are waiting to speak to me about my impressions of the Victory Tour so far, and who are so excited that Carmenius generously provided them this opportunity to speak to me one on one.
I stumble through a few ragged sentences that they seem more than happy to finish for me, all the while thinking up the most painful way imaginable for our Escort to die. I've mentally reached the part where I'm dangling him by the ankles over a pit of acid when a fuming Beetee finds us and rescues me, citing dinner preparations and dragging me out of the room before they can protest.
"Sorry about that. I've had a word to Carmenius. He won't try it again, at least without speaking to you and me first."
"Does that mean I can't…can't…"
"You should probably try not to kill him," A voice says from behind as I trail off. I whirl to see Lorcan, one of my prep team members, all done up in an eye-popping lime green suit.
"You would disappoint so many people who wanted to do it themselves," he adds with a smirk, and I hear Beetee chuckle.
"Yes, well thankfully we're not going to have to deal with him again from next year. Assuming you are coming back?"
Lorcan nods to this and raises an imaginary glass. "Here's to the next Games."
Underneath the Capitol accent I'm pretty sure I can hear a note of sarcasm. The door behind us opens to release the reporters we just escaped. Lorcan glances from them to us, grimaces, and cuts in front of them with a congenial wave.
"Anyway," he says, stepping towards me and offering a hand, "Dido wanted me to fix your hair up so that it's not going to fall into your supper. I said I didn't think that band was enough to hold it up, and look, it's falling out already."
I let him lead me to another dressing room to complete the 'tidy-up' until they are gone.
"Dido's furious with him too, you know," he says as he picks invisible specks off my shoulders. "And she's a bad woman to cross. Not that Carmenius ever had any sense. My brother went to school with him—that's how I got the job actually—though Vander thinks he's an idiot too. A rich idiot, and a popular one now that he has a victor. It won't last once people remember how much of a…well, that's better."
He lightly brushes some more imaginary flecks away, then goes to the door, peering out cautiously.
"All clear," he says with a grin. "If you like I can walk you up to your room in case they jump you again."
I accept the offer and spend the remaining time chatting to Lorcan about the airbrush he uses for fancy designs. He lets me have a play on some scrap paper, and I decide I can probably build one of my own when I get back. A better one, which doesn't clog as easily and switches colors without having to change cartridges.
The dinner is fun, sitting between Beetee and their mayor, far enough away from Carmenius that I don't have to even pretend to be civil. Almost too soon we're back on the train, heading back west to District Ten.
-xXx-
Unlike the other places I've been Ten seems to have a more balanced mix of people spread over a much wider area. There's no tall fences as most people live on huge tracts of land to manage their animals. The main settlement is home to the abbatoirs, tanners, packing factories and a small collection of shops. A friendly man with Ten's typical drawling accent takes us out to one of the nearer farms, where people on horseback use cracking whips and long poles to keep a herd of cattle in line.
Several paddocks over a boy around my age uses high-pitched whistles to control a pair of thin dogs to round up his sheep and force them into a small enclosure. Our guide also offers to show us around the butchery and the leather-makers. I get one waft of the smell and decline.
It gives us time to have a quick peek in the shops, and to my delight the general store has an old, broken radio full of useful components that he cheerfully lets me take off his hands for a decent price. Beetee pretends to roll his eyes and summons an attendant to carry it back to the train, ignoring my protests that I want to play with it now.
Today's outfit is a pants and loose tunic-like shirt in a dusky pink color I despise. Juliette piles my hair up into an elaborate knot for the ceremony, where I again fail to avoid the glares of the tribute families at the front of the crowd. Anton had a mother and older sister, while pretty Starria got her looks from her father's bronzed skin and her mother's dark curls.
Three of the previous Victors from Ten are at the dinner, but they're seated on the other end of the table, past the mayor and his people, and I don't get a chance to speak to them before Carmenius hustles us back to the train. Beetee names them for me as Annibel Blake, Pelline Smith and Abram Talbot. The youngest is Pelline, who won over twenty years ago, though I think they've had one more since.
The main town of Nine is as drab and dreary as home, rows and rows of gray concrete factories and store-houses manned by distinctly featured people. Their District processes a lot of the food from Eleven, Ten and Four, as well as growing their own grain to supplement that of Eleven. Fields and fields of golden-brown grasses spread in all directions, and there's a decent sized river that runs through the middle of the District and alongside the town, dotted along the line with flour mills.
We're only here for the day, and when I step out onto the stage to give my memorized speech I notice a distinct splitting of the ethnic groups. The field workers are mostly fair skinned, with red or brown hair. They're all grouped on the left-hand side of the square. In the middle stands the shop-keepers and millers, the overseers of factories and fields. Fair skinned, mostly lighter haired, as usual. To the right stand the factory workers themselves, all brown skinned, dark haired and hook-nosed. A three-way split instead of two.
Tarragon's family are clearly part of the field-workers group. Morris had the dark features of the factory people. Both families glare at one-another as much as they do at me. I briefly get to meet the four Victors from Nine before we leave. The two older women Breeana and Lindsey are quiet but friendly. It takes me a few minutes to recognize Breeana as the only other thirteen-year-old victor, who won her Games by falling half-way down a crevasse and outlasting the remaining tributes, though she was dehydrated and fever-delirious from infected wounds when they dragged her up.
Robin Miller is their only male victor, one of a run of non-Careers around the same time as Beetee. The last girl, Whisper Stalk, is my age, sly and silent. She strangled six tributes including both Career girls to claim her throne two years ago, smiling all the while.
I barricade myself in my room on the train, taking apart the radio and re-wiring the little speaker to make an alarm. I don't have a timer to attach to it, but it's a start.
-xXx-
District Eight is quite reminiscent of home; rows and rows of factories, sitting lower in a dip so that the smog layer doesn't quite cover the shops, town square and Victors Village. The ethnic split appears to be as unpronounced here as in District Ten. Everyone looks equally miserable and underfed, and they all share the similar grayed skin tone to our district, a mark of the smog we breathe day in and out.
Eight has only ever had two Victors, both of whom get horribly drunk at the dinner. Boyd looks to be in his thirties, with dark hair and fat stomach that protrudes from under his styled suit. Wilfram is older, mousey hair and scraggly beard going gray where it's not stained by bits of jelly or custard. Boyd keeps refilling my glass with the sweet, nutty-flavored drink and I take it at first because he's telling me all about Felton's wonderful drawings. I keep drinking to drown out the memories of Felton's sticky blood on my hands and soon I'm giggling at his outrageous stories of monsters made of fabric scraps hidden under the bed.
I don't come close to matching their number of drinks, but by the end of the night I've had enough to feel giddy and my head swirls when I try to stand. Beetee, who was seated four places down on their far side shoots the pair a glower as he helps me keep my feet for the walk to the car. I think I tell him he's amazing and that his glasses are sparkly. I'm not sure what else happens between then and waking up with a pounding headache and the desire to empty my stomach into the conveniently placed bucket by my bed.
The train gives a slight lurch and my stomach heaves again. A pair of hands reaches down for the bucket as I finish retching and I jerk backwards, nearly dropping it on myself. The Avox is more dexterous and carries it away, passing a ruefully smiling Beetee in the doorway.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like….like…." I can't even think of a word to describe it.
The train lurches again and I clap a hand over my mouth. Nothing comes out but the pounding in my head doubles and I'm suddenly desperately thirsty. I fumble for the water bottle that I usually keep by my bedside and find it waving in front of my face, a pair of concerned dark eyes with silver-rimmed glasses right behind it.
The light catches on them, glinting in my eyes and I wince.
"They're still…sparkly," I tell him as I take the water, remembering only to take small swallows.
He frowns, so I lean forward and tap the bridge of his glasses. He laughs.
"You remember saying that? I didn't think you would." He frowns again. "What else do you remember?"
What else do I remember?
"I wasn't as..as…bad as…as…"
"Boyd and Wilf? If you'd drunk that much I'd be worried that you wouldn't wake up before we reached District Seven."
It's a full day and a half train ride to District Seven. I wonder now if it's the morning after or the morning after that. Beetee catches my look towards the clock and says, "Half-past twelve. Lunchtime, if I thought you were likely to want to eat anything. We still have another night yet."
Good. I don't think I feel up to getting out of bed today.
"Well," he says as he rises from the crouch beside my bed, pushing the silver rims back up his short nose. "It had to happen sometime I guess. Better in one of the Districts than in the Capitol. If you're not up by dinner I'll send someone. Drink water. Lots of water. If you need me I'll be in my room."
He reaches the door still smiling and shaking his head, and I have to ask, "Beetee? Did I say….you…you were…a…amazing?"
The smile turns serious as he straightens his glasses again. "You remember that too? What else do you remember?"
"Nothing," I say honestly. Now I'm worried. What else did I say?
I drift back asleep trying to remember, but all I can find is flashing lights, the car lights maybe, and an arm around my shoulders. When I wake I'm even thirstier than before. I roll back towards the table to find a row of water bottles beside my alarm clock and sketch-pad. Nice to know someone cares.
The clock reads half-past five, and after finishing the second bottle my body gives me another reason to get up. Once I'm on my feet I decide to attempt dinner and find something comfortable to wear in the drawers.
Dido and Lorcan are huddled over the table discussing pictures when I enter. They both look up when the door clicks and I know from my stylist's face I'm in trouble.
"Wiress. Will you join us?"
It's not a question. I take the seat beside her. On her left Lorcan turns his head and gives a suspiciously false sounding cough.
I try to take the lecture about overindulgence in good grace; I know I won't be letting myself do this again anytime soon, so it's no problem to promise to limit my intake to one or two glasses in future.
I manage dinner without feeling queasy and turn in for an early night. When I wake the headache is gone, and I practically spring from the bed until I remember. Another day, another speech, another pair of families glaring at me while I speak empty words at whatever feature I can fix my eyes on in the distance.
The boy from Seven had been a real contender until he pushed his luck at the Cornucopia. He was big, strong and determined, but no match for District Two. Five boys ranging in age from around twelve to twenty all glower while applauding their mayor's presentation of a pinecone-shaped plaque. Seven's girl stood as much chance as my own district partner, and her family only look sad not angry.
I do enjoy being back around living things, the smell of trees on the wind, though many of them are dead-looking and coated in snow. Dido has me wrapped up in a puffy-sleeved jacket, fur-lined pants and an awful fluorescent orange fleecy head wrap that I ditch as soon as I get the chance.
Instead of just the dinner, District Seven put on something of a carnival for our visit, with loggers vying alone or in teams in wood-cutting races, wielding long saws or axes with vicious intent. Stalls and stands ring the square, offering carved trinkets of all sizes and shapes. I buy a butterfly-shaped one for Balia, and a little pinecone for Malcy, and take them out of my pocket to sniff the wonderful fresh smell until Carmenius snidely laughs at me.
At the dinner we sit outside ringed by coal braziers and feast on roast boar and fresh fish from the river, collected by special permit according to the man next to me as I devour the offering. He turns out to be the mayor's nephew and rises with an apology to me after the main course to join in the axe-throwing dance that starts up in the middle of the square.
I don't mind as it gives me a chance to meet the two victors. Hans Mayer is white-haired, mostly deaf, and mutters strange words under his breath. Olivia Campbell looks around my mother's age and seems friendly enough, though her reactions betray her when a stray axe flies near us from the dancers. She snatches it from the air and whirls, weapon raised high to defend against her attacker. After a few seconds a sheepish boy comes to collect it and she gives it back with a clip on the ear. When the waiters come past she grabs a glass of champagne and downs it, clenching the fine glass cup until her hands stop shaking. I guess we never really get over it.
District Six is just a short seven hours south of here, and I wake to find the train already stopped. According to my prep team, this means it's time to have another major scrub-down. Juliette tells me all about the whole collection of wooden carvings she bought and how jealous all her friends are going to be as she washes out my hair and rubs in some flower-scented oil.
Marius helps me into the copper and blue dress, then does my makeup for our tour around the transport district. I give my speech to a distant antenna, very deliberately not looking at Aleksander's younger brother and father. Wenda was another Community Home child, and as in Eleven, the woman who stands for her family looks bored by the whole affair. As though she's done it all before. Probably has. I know in Three they make the home children take out maximum tesserae to keep their food costs down.
We're on towards District Five by nightfall as it's all the way on the west coast. I spend the ride tinkering with my toys and snacking on whatever the Avox who makes up my room decides to bring me. Beetee checks in twice, staying the second time to chat about what I'm working on and our next destination.
"I think you'll like Five," he says with a nod that causes his glasses to slip down his nose. "The different power stations are all interesting in their own way, though we're going to the town so we won't get to see any of the coal-fired or solar ones. But they have wind, tidal, and of course nuclear power right by the main town as they require the most people to maintain."
He sounds like a schoolboy all excited about the annual assignment presentations in our senior science classes, though I have to agree they do sound interesting.
We arrive just after breakfast and step out into an absolute downpour at the station. Marius and two Capitol attendants hurry over with a large waterproof canvas that they spread over our heads until we reach the safety of the cars.
We're greeted at the Justice Building by a long-faced man who tells us that he'd planned to give us a tour of the various power stations, but because of the weather…
Beetee cuts him off by pointing out that the nuclear station is all inside, so we could go see that one at least. Carmenius steps in and says no, we're not going anywhere. For once Beetee tells him to shove it and directs the guide to take us back out in the cars. I listen to them chatting like old friends and try to forget the dangerous cold glimmer that danced in Beetee's eyes when he rounded on Carmenius. It's so easy to forget that every one of us is a killer at heart.
The tour of the nearest power station successfully distracts me. Our guide won't allow me to see the full schematics, but does sit down and draw out the basic process of fuel activation to fission for me. We get to see the glowing blue pool, and the great turbines which are turned by the steam from boiling water. All just one big kettle really.
We get a glimpse at one of the tidal stations as well on the drive back, and our guide assures us that the people who work or live near there swim as well as anyone in District Four.
"Better even," he adds with a grin as we roll past the great tubes lining the cliff and bay.
"Our lot do all their swimming by the cliffs, have to be more careful they're not washed into the rocks or the…"
He trails off at my wince at the imagery of death by some turbine blade. We do the usual routine with the speech and dinner. The stage where I give my victor's address is sheltered from the pouring rain. The square is not, and I bet being forced to stand dripping, cold and miserable while I stutter through my words doesn't make the people of Five like me any more than they might otherwise.
I spend the dinner seated between Five's two most recent victors, and quickly give up trying to interact with surly Warrick James, intent only on his wine and food in favour of the much friendlier Diya Patel. She won her games ten years ago by smarts as well, and it quickly becomes obvious just how intelligent she is. Beetee's seated on her other side and we spend the entire dinner discussing the workings of the power stations and some of our own projects of interest.
When we chance a break in the weather to get back to the trains she shakes my hand warmly and promises to see me at the Games in six months time. I try not to let my smile falter; she's just being friendly, but I'd managed to push away the knowledge that I was mentoring some poor girl to her death to the back of my mind.
The storm picks up again as we roll out south and I spend the night awake, listening to the pinging patter of water falling on the roof of the carriage and the gentle snicker-snack of us rolling over the tracks, trying to get the image of some brute running Balia through out of my head.