AUTHOR'S NOTE: I set myself a personal goal: to publish this chapter within three weeks of starting it. I am starting on the day that I published Chapter 8, which is July 5. The outcome (written the day I publish this) was July 10. Five days—not bad. I would also ask you to review, follow, and favorite, except that I actually want this to be enjoyable to read. So I am consciously refraining from asking you. Also, this takes story place on a new day (finally!) There are no tribute POVs. Enjoy!
Chapter 9: Outsiders Just Gazing In
Number Of POVs: 3
REYNA'S POV (GAMEMAKER)
The audience is going to be sated. Three deaths in one day! Better than even I could possibly have imagined. But of course, Seneca has to go and ruin it all, and just when this year's Hunger Games is a bigger success than ever. Well, "ruined" is per-haps the wrong word the use. He definitely stirred things up, and made the Games more enjoyable this year, but he also didn't give the audience time to remake their bets and get hooked up on suspense. It isn't what I'd do, but that really doesn't make a difference.
Right off, without giving anyone in the audience the time to recover from, in one day, getting to see three deaths, he asks me, as the person in charge of designing the mutts, to make one that will add profound excitement. "They couldn't have made new bets!" I replied automatically. That wasn't the way things were usually done. The previous Head Gamemaker had always left a gap of a few days between deaths before Gamemaker interference, especially when someone like the boy from Three is on the edge of dying from natural causes.
"I want to keep the air of constant action going, not relying on suspense that turns into boredom for entertainment. There's no action in watching a boy die very slowly and bloodlessly from hypothermia. The girl from Eleven hasn't seen much action. Unleash a mutt meant to kill."
I knew that it was no use arguing; when Seneca got an idea in his head to do something, he did it. Or got me to do it, at least. I typed commands into the computer that would alter the genetic material of a chosen animal automatically. When I was finished, I marveled at the sight of my beauty. Or, to some, my beast. It was meant to kill—not to injure, not to scare, but to kill.
THE FINAL EIGHT INTERVIEWS—OPTHALMIUS'S PARENTS (CAESAR' FLICKERMAN'S POV)
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Walsh. How did the two of you feel when you discovered that Opthalmius is in the final eight?" I ask, trying to ease them into being on stage with a natural question that has on obvious answer.
Mr. Walsh shuffles his feet nervously while Mrs. Walsh glares into the camera defiantly and spits her words. "Of course we were thrilled!" she begins, looking like the exact opposite. "Did you think we'd be distraught that he was still alive? If so, you really are an idiot!"
I try to save her and the show from failure with a deeper, personal question that she can't insult me for asking. "What does Opthalmius do at home that has con-tributed to his survival in the arena, and what does he do that hasn't?"
This simple question seems to wake up Mr. Walsh, who jumps in immediately with a surprisingly well-thought-out answer. "Well, he always goes to the gym after school and works out, which is clearly a key contributor to his survival, as he has the brute force that many tributes lack when they need it most, which he clearly does at the moment. But as for what he does that could hurt his survival, well, he has tried his best to smother this impulse, and I was surprised at how well he did it, but back in District Four, he would teach the littlest kids, the two-year-olds, how to swim, and I was always surprised and touched by the gentle compassion he exhibited when doing this."
A bit of an awkward end, but one that I salvage by directing the conversation away from Opthalmius's weaknesses and towards his strengths. "You mentioned he would always go to the gym. Was this because of a desire to be the strongest and the most powerful?" In Mr. Walsh's eyes is a glimmer of thankfulness, but Mrs. Walsh picks up on none of that. "No, it was because he knew that he could volunteer for the Hunger Games and wanted to be ready!"
"So… he wanted to always be prepared for what the future could bring, is that right?" I ask, trying to make sense of what she has said.
"Yes, it's right, you old fool! Are you deaf or something? It's what I told you!" she screams. I realize that the couple is grieving for their son already and that they just have different ways of showing it. Before I can express this to the audience without offending the Walsh family, they walk off the stage.
I turn to face the audience, knowing that the two of them committed suicide when they left the stage without being dismissed in the rudest way possible, but I don't share this knowledge with anyone. "Ladies and gentleman, that was Mr. and Mrs. Walsh! Let's give them a hand!" The applause overwhelms me from all sides, and I forget all about the mourning couple with a death sentence on their heads. It wouldn't be the first time that being on my show has cost someone their lives, and it won't be the last.
ALLYSA GROGGS (CAPITOL HAIRDRESSER, NOT A PROMINENT CITIZEN)
My hair shop may just be a place on the corner of Caesar Place and Julius Street, both named after President Snow's role models, but I hear all of the gossip, and I hear it all the time. While people get haircuts, they can watch either past or current Hunger Games, depending on the time of year.
Miriam White, the lady who lives down the street and comes in every other Friday, marches in today with a look on her face that tells me I will get to hear some juicy tidbit of gossip.
She plops herself down into a chair without checking in, and I rush over to fulfill her ever-changing need for a trending haircut. "So," I ask while preparing the adjustable RinseDome for her specific head dimensions, "What news has you in such a good mood?"
"Oh, Allysa, you naïve hair angel, I can't believe you haven't heard it! The only tribute from District Four still standing, its parents were being interviewed today and they stalked off the stage without dismissal! Have you ever even imagined such a thing? So President Snow, angel that he is, made a speech that they will be publicly executed. Serves them right, I say. You need to put those District citizens in rightful their place, remind them who the first-class citizens are in Panem. They made that decision in the Dark Days, wouldn't you say so, Allysa?"
Usually when she calls me "a naïve hair angel," it makes me roll my eyes. But I almost agree with her today. How could I have missed such big news? I smile and say to Miriam, "Not enough to just kill them. Better not let the boy be victor, either." I affix the RinseDome to her head and turn it on for a few seconds. I can hear the soap and water gushing out of it and into her hair, the soft whirr of hot, dry air, and then it is done. I remove it and run my hands through her soft, smooth, clean hair.
"The 'boy'? It isn't a boy, you naïve hair angel! It's just there to entertain and to make the fish that I'm having for my birthday party, as it is from Four and all. Oh, my birthday party! I forgot to invite you last time, Allysa, but consider it my invite to you now."
She goes on and on about the party, but I'm tuning her out. I can't believe that I made such an obvious and stupid mistake. Maybe I am more of a naïve hair angel than I realized. I can't believe I said "the boy" instead of "it." I might as well have just told her that I was once a District Four citizen myself who stowed away on one of the seafood delivery trains. When President Snow couldn't find me he erased my existence, discreetly killing my family and closest friends. No-body remembers me, and I want to keep it that way. Revealing my secret is the same as certain death.
I smile at Miriam and thank her for the invitation. Before long, she leaves the shop with a hairstyle that I call in my head "The Pink-And-Green Beehive" and I go on with my new life, still feeling like an outsider just gazing in to this marvelous life of luxury in the Capitol of Panem.