Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and its characters are all property of Suzanne Collins. No profit is being made from this piece of work. No copyright infringement is intended.
3
Caesar Flickerman laughs at my perfectly placed joke as the cameras continue to roll. Part of me has the urge to turn to Camera 5 and admit Plutarch came up with it. But I don't because that's what the Capitol is; a big fake. Whether it is in the acting of the new kinds of TV shows or the interviews with politicians and celebrities, everything about this part of Panem is fake. And that's not even considering the people!
I can't see them now. The audience in the studio are cast in darkness so as not to distract the interviewer or interviewee. But I saw them when I walked on and the contrasts between the people at home and the people here surprises me every time.
You'd think after living in the Capitol for three years I'd be used to seeing the rainbow of people who live and work here. But I'm not. You can spot somebody from the Capitol from a mile off with their eccentric tattoos and make-up. At school we learned about the Capitol, how their vanity never faded after the war. I had thought it was all a joke.
People from the Districts are easy to spot because they look so natural – most of the time. I can tell from the way they dress to how they act that they are not originally from the Capitol. Still, there was that one time when Plutarch had dragged me and the rest of his cast to a publicity party where I had met a fellow District 4 citizen to find they too had joined the season's fashion of blue skin and golden tattoos. I'd ended up having to apologize over and over again for spraying her with my drink in shock.
"So, Fin," Flickerman says in the casual interview way he has had for as long as anybody now can remember. He's getting on a bit now, there have been rumors that this will be his last year in television though – as with many celebrity rumors – you can't believe everything you hear. Like now when he holds up tomorrow's cover of The Capitol News. There's a photo of Britney and I leaving a restaurant yesterday.
My mouth goes dry.
This is not something I'm prepared for. A quick glance to my team tells me they are not prepared either. Well, most of them. For some reason Plutarch looks pleased. I bet he had planned all this.
"Care to enlighten us?" is all Flickerman says as there are collective gasps from the audience. Some start muttering. One person is laughing. No doubt my face looks priceless right now.
The almost-invisible microscopic earpiece that I am wearing crackles into life. It's only to be used in emergencies so I am told – I've never heard my team talk through it before. But now I do. Juxton, my manager – a small, fat, balding guy in his early sixties – comes through, his voice going up ten octaves in his panic.
"She's just a friend, Fin," he hisses into my ear making me almost wince. The line goes dead then and I'm left in the silence of the studio with the audience waiting for my answer – along with thousands sitting at home.
"Leave the boy alone!" Plutarch suddenly shouts, rising from his seat. I look over to him, grateful as I watch him climb the small steps to the interviewing stage in view of the cameras. A tired and surprised woman from the studio crew hurries on with a chair for him before running off quickly. I sit there in stunned silence. Surely there's no point in denying anything now? Even if Britney and I were just friends, the silence has gone on for too long for anybody to be fooled. "Don't you remember your first love, Flickerman?" Plutarch surprises me by saying.
All of a sudden I'm enveloped in a one-armed hug from Plutarch. It's awkward because we are on different seats but, glancing up at the large screen above me, I see the gesture is supposed to be fatherly. Automatically I'm in character, smiling shyly, my face burning.
The audience is a mixture of "awws" and "oohs" at this revelation. I don't know whether it was the front page of the newspaper or Plutarch's entrance onto the stage that has impressed them. Some look disappointed though for whatever reason I cannot fathom.
Flickerman laughs along with us but I can't help but notice he too is surprised by Plutarch's appearance. He gives me a break for which I am thankful and starts firing questions at Plutarch who answers them with ease. I hate how he can do that. Capitol citizens must be born with that skill in their blood.
By the time we get away from the cameras and backstage, the audience is cheering. We walk backstage and straight passed my dressing room. I follow like a lost puppy, unsure where Plutarch is taking me. I think back over the interview. Could it be about me and Britney? Yes, he had kept his calm whilst the cameras were rolling but maybe that had been to save face – and me? He probably knew I would have messed it up anyway.
I'd never been any good at handling the media. I managed to look good and smile and talk to fans but the whole what-to-say-and-what-not-to-say baffles me. I've never wanted the fame and the publicity that comes with my profession. Acting, as Britney had put it, is a way of remembering my mother. And the fact that I star in a show that consists of a series of comedy sketches makes me happy to know I'm making other people happy. I love knowing I am entertaining people in a safe and harmless way.
As Plutarch continues to drag me through a series of corridors and down lifts, I start to fear for my job. On the plus side, I would not need to stay in the Capitol though I would hate to return to District 4 a failure. Nurse Everdeen has such high hopes for me.
By the time Plutarch throws open a door and leads me into a large office, I am almost certain I am in trouble for my relationship with Britney. The question is: would I desert her for my job? Definitely not. I've been raised by two women; I have more respect for them than that.
"Fin, I'd like you to meet President Paylor," Plutarch announces grandly. I can't help but be reminded of the time a few weeks ago when he had introduced me to Britney. Only this time, instead of the fair-haired blue-eyed girl, I see an aged woman sat behind a large oak desk. Her brown hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail and her expression has hardened overtime. We learned in school that President Paylor used to be a soldier. I remember, when I was really young, wondering whether my father would have become President had he survived.
"Nice to meet you," I say, suddenly nervous. The highest authority I have met has been Plutarch. I don't know how I'm supposed to act. Beside me, I'm aware of Plutarch rolling his eyes at me. Still, if I did something wrong, President Paylor doesn't tell me.
"Sit," she orders indicating to a chair on the other side of her desk. She is serious. Her whole expression and body language screams 'militant'. Once a soldier always a soldier, I guess, and then feel sad about that fact. It's as though she'll never have her life back.
I do as I am told. Plutarch sits in the chair next to me. Behind me I can hear movement. I turn to find two heavily armed and well-built soldiers taking their places in front of the double doors which are my way out. Surprised, I turn to look at President Paylor and then at Plutarch.
"All this just because I am dating Britney?" I ask skeptically. President Paylor breathes in quickly through her nose. It's a harsh sound. I can tell by it that I've already upset her.
"What?" Plutarch asks stupidly before realizing what I mean. "Oh, heavens no!" he cries. I think he is about to laugh but he controls himself and makes his expression neutral. I've never seen him neutral before. Normally he's either grinning madly or pouting for the cameras who wait outside his studio. This expression makes him look serious.
"Finnick Odair Jr.," President Paylor addresses me by my full title. I feel nervous. The last time that happened it had been during my auditions for Plutarch's show. I'd quickly corrected them and asked them to call me Fin. However, I don't feel confident enough to correct the President of all people! "Plutarch Heavensbee has called you here for a special mission."
My eyebrows shoot up. I pinch my arm secretly to check I'm not dreaming. A secret mission? What is that supposed to mean? I'm an actor not a government spy!
President Paylor leans back in her chair as though she is waiting for something. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to wait too or if she's expecting me to break the silence by asking questions. Eventually, I go with the latter.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, finally remembering my manners. As hard as she may look, President Paylor is still a woman and she deserves to be respected, "I'm not sure I understand."
Plutarch jumps to his feet as though she has given him some sort of invisible cue. He spins the seat of my chair around to face a blank wall which springs to life the moment I look at it. I look up and see a projector hanging from the ceiling. Right. So I'm here for some presentation then.
"Fin Odair," Plutarch addresses me, thankfully getting my preferred name right. "You are aware, at present, that the country is becoming over-run with immigrants are you not?" The tone he takes on in front of President Paylor is unnerving. I feel as though I am talking to a stranger so I nod, afraid to open my mouth in case I say the wrong thing.
Plutarch stands in front of the screen, the projector throws a white light over his face, paling his features and making him look eerie. The presentation then begins showing pictures of immigrants found hiding in forestry or being captured as soon as they enter the country. I recognize District 4 in some of the photos along with District 1 who also has the luxury of having a beach though they use it for tourist purposes only.
"Panem can simply not hold all of the people who wish to live here," Plutarch goes on. I cast a sideways glance at President Paylor, surprised that she is not telling me all this. She looks grim as though she is not happy about something.
I turn back to the presentation in time to see the slide change. A picture of a starving woman and her starving children stare back at me, their dark eyes shining dully in their hollowed sockets.
"To let any more people in," Plutarch continues, "Would mean our own people would have to suffer. There is not enough food to go around." For a second, I am relieved to find the picture is an artist's creation and not an actually photograph. Nobody dies of starvation nowadays.
But then his words hit me. Are they really true? Could the people of Panem suffer because of those outside the country trying to get in? I am suddenly angry about it all but then I think of Britney. If people from the remaining Tribes didn't come here then I never would have met her.
Still, Britney's case is different. Her parents had been recruited here to make up for the numbers lost. She isn't one of those who come in on boats, taking up our land and food when they have no right. I feel my hands balling into fists. Plutarch notices and I swear I see a satisfied smile cross his lips before it fades.
"We need to find a way of stopping these people getting in," Plutarch says, the slide changing to show a picture of a burning home. I don't know what that has to do with anything nor do I know whether or not it is showing the consequences of immigration. He already got me with the image of the starving family. I know what they are talking about now. They want me to help come up with a solution.
But why me?
"We have a solution," Plutarch says as if reading my mind. My eyebrows shoot up again and I lean back in my chair, ready to support whatever idea they have come up with. I will do anything to make sure that image of poverty does not become a reality.
"What is it?" I ask, finding my voice for the first time. I see President Paylor look at me from the corner of my eye though I do not turn to see her expression. I can only imagine she is pleased I am taking an interest.
Suddenly I look back at the door. The men are still stood there. They are the only thing that is making me nervous now that I know my job is still in good standing.
"We want to bring back the Hunger Games," Plutarch finishes.
My blood runs cold, I choke slightly on the air that has clogged my throat when I stopped breathing in shock. I look at President Paylor. She doesn't look any happier than I am about it but her expression tells me she's heard it before.
"We plan to select a boy and a girl from each of the ten remaining Tribes scattered around the world," Plutarch goes on. His voice has hardened to a tone I have never heard him use before.
But, wait, did he really say they were bringing back the Hunger Games? The very same Games that destroyed hundreds of lives in the past?
A slide comes up of a blue background with green shapes scattered across. I realize Plutarch is numbering the Tribes as to what distance they are from Panem. I can't help but feel impressed that this is a world map. I've never seen one before. I'm surprised by how much water there is and when Plutarch is finished numbering the Tribes, I notice there is a lot of land left. No doubt it is probably unsafe due to radiation from the bombs in the Big War. We learned that much in school at least.
"Are you seriously suggesting this?" I ask, finding my feet. A guard from the door rushes over and holds my arms behind my back. Ah, so this is why they are here. It all makes sense now.
"We have no choice," Plutarch tells me. The desperation in his voice almost makes me believe him. Almost. "It's different from last time," he continues. "The children must be between sixteen and twenty; they will have military training from the army before going into the arena; and nobody can volunteer meaning there shall be no Career…Tribes." He caught himself at the last minute but I knew he almost said 'Districts'.
"The winner will earn a place for their family to live in Panem," Plutarch finishes. He softens his voice when he sees I am still being restrained by the guard. "Most of these Tribes don't even speak our words," Plutarch explains to me. "And they are not from Panem. This is different."
"They're still children," I spit.
"But they are not ours," Plutarch presses. "They probably won't even know what's going on. Their education systems are practically non-existent."
"And how would you know?" I ask. "Have you been there?"
An odd emotion flickers across Plutarch's face before he composes himself again. "As a matter of fact, I have," he says. "And you will too."
I don't even reply to that. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me interested in his little scheme.
"We want you to be the face of the Games," Plutarch says, at last getting to the reason I am here.
"What?" I cry, struggling against the guard. Despite spending my teenage years hauling heavy net loads of fish around, I am no match for the military-trained man who holds me still without even breaking a sweat.
"You're the son of two victors from the previous Hunger Games," Plutarch explains calmly. "And you're so well known and liked that you will definitely win the public round. Especially the women," he adds offering me a smile, "Although, after the whole Britney revelation I'm not too sure about that."
"Is that why you're doing this?" I demand, "Because you're angry with me for being with Britney?"
Plutarch frowns as though he is considering something. "No, I am not angry at all," he says. "What you do in your free time is none of my business."
"Then you won't mind me turning this down then," I say.
"Of course not," Plutarch tells me. "We'll just have to find somebody else won't we? I'm sure we can hold out long enough until Rosie is ready."
I don't know who he means and I'm too caught up in my anger to even ask. Instead I turn as much of my body as I can to face Paylor. She doesn't deserve respect anymore, I decide.
"This is all your fault," I tell her.
"I know," she agrees, surprising me. Her eyes look pained but I refuse to pity her for whatever reason that might be. "And that is why I am fixing it. Like Plutarch says this time it is different. They are not really even children."
Something hard hits me on the back of my head and I see black spots before I pass out but not before I spit directing into Paylor's face.
(*)
Somebody is pressing an ice pack gently at the back of my head whilst running their fingers through my hair. For a moment I'm reminded of my mother and consider the fact I may have died. Attempting to get up, however, sends a white hot shoot of pain running from head, down my back and I groan aloud in agony.
Surely, the afterlife isn't supposed to hurt this much?
"Don't move." It's a gentle voice. Not my mother's but then again, it's not my mother's accent either. It's Britney and she's speaking like she would with her parents. She only does it with me and only because it means she's comfortable with me. I like it. I like how she can feel so secure when it's just us two.
"What happened?" I whisper because even that echoes loudly in my head and springs tears to my eyes. I dread to think what actual talking would be like.
"Plutarch dropped you off home," Britney explains. "I was waiting here like you told me to. You said you were going to take me out to dinner tonight after your interview, do you remember?"
"Sort of," I say, somewhere between a groan and a whisper.
"I cancelled our table," she tells me. "Plutarch says you assaulted the President but he wouldn't tell me anything more."
At the second mention of Plutarch's name, everything comes racing back to me and I sit up quickly in shock. My scream of pain echoes around my apartment. Britney gently pulls me back down. I realize I'm lying on my leather sofa with my head in Britney's lap. She resumes her motion of stroking my hair.
"Just relax," she soothes. "You can tell me everything later." I notice her voice is a little choked up. Is she worried about me? It hurts to open my eyes for too long so I can't check whether or not she is crying.
"Can I sleep?" I whisper, feeling the warm blanket of unconsciousness threatening to take me again.
"Yes," she tells me, removing the ice pack so I am more comfortable. "The doctor's already given you the tablets so there's no harm in sleeping." I try to remember ever swallowing tablets but it hurts too much to think so I don't worry about it and instead fall into a restless sleep.
I dream I am in an arena. The trees tower over me, and heavy bucketfuls of water fall down on me from where the rain has collected on the large leaves. It's hard to breathe and I fear I may drown until I reach an opening and fall onto the soft grass of a meadow. There is no rain here and the sun beats down gently. I feel safe until a figure comes into view. Britney. She is staring down at me; the sun illuminating her blonde curls and making her look like she has a halo. I smile up at her.
She drives a spear through my heart.
I wake up screaming to find Britney still with me on the couch. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me to her until I calm down. My head is throbbing slightly but it's a lot better than it was before.
"Ssh," she soothes, gently rocking me, "It's okay." I'm reminded of my mother again and choke back a sob. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.
"Nightmare," is all I get out.
"I meant about how you got knocked out for assaulting the President," Britney says, a smile in her tone. I can tell she's trying to make light of it all. But I'm too upset to smile back.
I slowly tell her everything over the next hour, needing to break at times when it all gets too much or the pressure in my head increases. She listens, holding me when I cry but never saying anything.
By the time I'm finished I'm exhausted again and she helps me to bed. As I crawl under the covers, sobbing again like a baby, Britney kisses me and tells me she needs to get home tonight. I don't want her to leave me but I feel she has already done too much.
I quickly drift off to sleep with Britney's last words echoing in my mind, "I'm sorry, Fin."
(*)
I don't go to work over the next few weeks. I mope around my apartment, only eating when Britney visits. She tells me Plutarch has told everyone I've quit the show because I want to concentrate on my relationship with her.
"He's cornering you into this, Fin," she tells me one day whilst combing my hair. I rub a hand over my face, feeling how long my stubble has gotten.
"What am I going to do?" I ask her, almost begging. I'd never in a million years ever expected to be put into this sort of situation.
"What are you afraid of?" Britney asks me.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I protest. "I don't want to be the one who is cheering on all those children as they fight to the death. Didn't you learn about the Hunger Games?"
"Of course I did," she tells me, her voice quiet.
"And it will be teenagers from the Tribes, Britney," I say. "There will be a boy and a girl from your Tribe."
She stops combing my hair. I expect her to remind me again that she was born in the Capitol and is therefore from here. But instead she says, "My parents told me about Tribe 3 and, from what I've heard, I bet a lot of people would even volunteer to do these Games should it mean their family gets a better life."
"Really?" I ask, shocked. I'd expected her to be set against them like me.
"Really," she says definitely. "Sometimes it's worth the risk to escape the poverty."
I've never known poverty before. I've never felt the snarling pains of hunger or the chill from an unheated home. I don't know how desperate people in those situations can be.
"Then we should help them," I say, "Not let them kill each other."
"Maybe if you agree then you could work from the inside and help them that way," she suggests. "They're going to find somebody to do it anyway, Fin. At least if it's you, there's still hope that they won't be here to stay."
"What are you saying?" I ask, pulling away from her soothing hands and looking into her face.
She stares back at me with honesty as she says in the Capitol accent, "I think you should become the face of the Hunger Games, Fin."