Title: Awake and Sing
Author: A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"
Category: Action/Adventure/Drama
Chapter Word Count: 3,331
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: I apologize for the delay in updates. My real life took over briefly. Also, I'm still looking for a beta so there has been very little content editing, just general proofing. If anyone's interested in betaing for me, I'd certainly love the input.
Chapter fun facts: The prep team's names are corruptions of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, the Greek tragedians. Also, Mairead is one of the Gaelic forms of Margaret and Saoirse uses the Irish words for 'hello' (dia duit) and 'girl' (cailín).
Let me know what you think. = )
3 – Prep
Meals with Thom Argon and Minerva Holmes are almost entertaining.
Thom and I may have come to some uneasy truce, but that does not mean he has the same agreement with anyone else. There are still no cameras around so the sniping and snarling between them has increased to a full out hostility. Minerva tries to talk about innocuous things. The schedule. The stylists. All the fancy and exciting things Flynn and I will get to see and do and wear in the Capitol.
Thom makes a point to bring every line of conversation back to the part where Flynn and I have to fight to the death. She can't even mention how wonderful the meal is. And it is wonderful. Rich and piled high. My family could eat for days on just the noodles alone. But then there's Thom reminding us to stuff our faces because in a week it could very well be nothing but what sponsors are generous enough to send. Which of course pulls a sneer out of Minerva. Always accompanied by a particularly nasty jab or two regarding his responsibilities to make sure sponsors are generous.
Flynn looks he might like to punch Thom. If we weren't Tributes and Thom not a Victor, if we were at home, he probably would punch him. But we aren't at home and Thom is technically the only liaison between us and any sponsors we might attract. Quite possibly the difference between our lives or deaths in the Arena. So Flynn controls himself and just glares at him instead. I'm fairly certain I'm not looking overly thrilled with him either.
Capitol attendants look unfazed at the whole meal. In fact, they look perfectly unsurprised all afternoon after the dishes are cleared away and we are left to listen as the fight rages on. Not at all bothered by endless sniping and snarling. As though they completely expected this. Knew Minerva wasn't always the cheery, surprised creature she is on camera. Knew Thom got bitter and mean. That the Tributes would get caught in the middle.
It isn't until nightfall that the horrible contest between Minerva and Thom finally ends. That's only because the attendants wave us off to our sleeping cars.
Only then am I finally alone for the first time since the Lottery. There is no one waiting on me. No one to meet. No Minerva. No Flynn. No Thom. No Capitol attendants. Most importantly, no fighting and no mention of my forthcoming demise. Which, of course, gives me hours without distraction, where my thoughts can be filled with nothing else.
Every possible way I could die of exposure or be brutally executed by twenty-three of my peers. Horrible memories of all the other violent deaths from the last ten years of Hunger Games. All of Panem watching. My family forced to sit on the little platform during the Victory Tour while the Capitol rubs my death in their faces.
I cry myself raw.
I have no illusions regarding my courage. It has always been clear that have little. Not like Gram or Danny. But I can usually stay busy enough to ignore whatever it is that worries me until it passes.
I can't stay busy here.
There are no clothes to wash or fish to dress. No ledgers to do or nets to mend. There is only me. And just the crippling fear of facing death while my family is forced to watch it happen. It's selfish, but I can't help but sob pitifully into the downy blankets. Muffle wails in the feathery pillows. Until there is nothing left and my whole being is just numb. A faint calm even settles over me.
Then I just feel foolish. I suppose I deserve such an indulgence as uncontrollable weeping. I am going to be dead in a week or so. That doesn't make it worthwhile for me to just lie here like some tragic princess in one of Grandfather's fairy stories. Gram would be disappointed. The boys would make fun of me. Fillipa would call me a coward.
I'm not sure how long I've been crying. It's still dark out, no hints of dawn out the windows. It's clear I'll not be sleeping much tonight.
The attendants presented me with another overly luxurious dress for sleeping as I was bundled off to my car and I find a matching dressing gown hanging in the closet. There are slippers too. Fuzzy and warm. I ignore them and pull on my rubber boots instead. Like I'm a little girl again, sneaking out to watch the stars. They are absurd, the thick black rubber next to the silk and lace of the nightgown. I don't care. Instead, I test the doorknob. It doesn't resist and I am able to slip out into the corridor.
The train is long and dark. Car after car of extravagance I can see even in the gloom. It's almost obscene. Once, when Hilly Vincour turned ten, she invited all the girls from our class to her birthday party. It was supposed to be on the beach, but the Man-of-Wars were swarming. We ended up at her father's house instead. I had never seen anything like it. Everything was so new. So grand and unnecessary. The train puts the Mayor's house to shame.
In the very last car, it's still plush chairs and squishy carpet. But the back end of the car is gone. The roof and back wall and a bit of the sides have pulled away. Slotted in a row on the remaining ceiling and walls so you can see the stars.
It's not empty either.
Thom is sitting out in the open space as the wind howls into the car. The rain has stopped. The moon peeks out from breaks in the clouds but the stars are veiled. He sits in one of the squashy chairs. Smoking.
"What do you want?" He asks me harshly. Loudly, to be heard over the roar of the wind. I can't tell if he thinks I'm Minerva or an attendant or if he actually recognizes me. I don't answer the question. Just creep out to the open end of the car where he sits.
"Oh." He snorts when I'm nearer. "It's you." He hadn't recognized me. "What do you want?" Thom asks again.
"I-I couldn't sleep." I admit. I'm proud my voice doesn't waver, but I'm surprised at how small and quiet I sound.
"Finished crying like a baby?" He asks me with a sneer. It's meant to be a taunt. To be mean and nasty. But I shrug.
"Y-Yes." I say. "What are you doing here?" I ask. My voice is cooperating again. The numb calm that came with my uncontrollable weeping seems to have left me relaxed enough to speak almost normally again. Thom holds up his cigarette.
"Only place I can air out." He says. "Still had to disable the force field." He waves at the end of the car.
"Force field?" I echo.
"Supposed to run around the end of the car." He nods at an open seat and I take it. The wind still howls around us, whipping my hair into more of a tangle than it all ready is. "So we can see out but not throw ourselves off." Thom explains. "Keepsie showed me how."
"Who?" I ask.
"Keepsie – Victor from District 3." Thom answers with a drag on his cigarette. "Won last year."
"The girl with the landmines?" I recall. Last years Games had been particularly ugly. Brutal and long. Terribly bloody. In the end, it came down to a massively strong girl from 1, a stone-faced boy from 2 plus a vicious boy from 7 and the girl from 3. 3 had gotten one of the lowest scores in Games History, a two. She had only barely escaped the first bloodbath. Hidden herself first in the woods, then in the Cornucopia, digging up the landmines from the start disks and repurposing them into something no one had understood. At least until the end. One of the few food sources in the Arena had been a fruit tree. Everyone had been using it as a primary source. When it came down to the end, she'd hidden her newly repaired and miniaturized mines in the ripest fruit. All of the other remaining Tributes made the mistake of picking the freshest fruits. District 3 was crowned the winner.
"That's the one." Thom says with a drag on his cigarette. "She's a damned genius and I'm pretty sure she might actually be a sociopath, but she's a whole lot of fun." He admits. This admission surprises me. First, because in the last three years, since he and his father moved out of their shack, I only ever see Thom alone, either on television or out in town. He doesn't really talk to anyone for anything other than business or to answer questions. The idea of him having a friend, especially a mad one who quite literally blew away her competition, is curious. Second, of course, because it was offered freely and without any sort of mention of my imminent death or a cheap shot.
"I see." I say, not entirely sure how to respond.
"You'll meet her, I'm sure. She's mentoring this year." Thom continues. "I guarantee she'll show up at some point to say hello."
"Isn't that against the rules?" I ask. The actual Games have few rules. When you're in the Arena. But there are pages and pages of procedure governing preliminary events for Tributes, Mentors, chaperones, everyone that have been perfected in the last ten years.
"Probably. Keepsie likes to make her chaperone cry." He says. "She's very good at it. Usually makes Minnie turn a few shades of purple too."
"I see why you get along then," I say. We fall silent for a spell while Thom finishes off his cigarette.
"You know you're going to die, don't you?" He says suddenly.
"Y-yes," I admit. Because really, no matter how certain Fillipa is, how badly the twins want me to win, the odds are not in my favor. A 96% chance of a grisly death. "Doesn't mean I won't try though." I admit.
"Good." Thom says. He stubs out his cigarette on the arm of his chair. It smolders into the upholstery. "That's not the Mags I remember." I glance up at the use of this variation on my name. Thom is the only one to ever have called me this. I have always been Maggie to everyone else. Margaret, if I'm in trouble.
"No?" I say. I can't read his face. There's only just enough moonlight to see it at all, much less his expression.
"Stammer's better." He observes. He's ignored my question.
"I've had some time to pull myself together." I explain.
"Might help you out – to have it." He muses.
"What?"
"Make you memorable." Thom continues. "Approachable. Human. Got to make them love you."
Make them love you. This is apparently some sort of mantra among Tribute entourages, because my prep team says these exact words the next morning when we arrive in the Capitol.
Our train had arrived to much fanfare just after breakfast. Once we'd cleared a long tunnel, the train had rolled into the Capitol's shining city where the citizenry was all ready out in the streets, cheering. It wasn't a friendly cheering. More like victorious cheering. The sort you hear at the execution of a particularly dastardly and hated criminal. But Flynn and I were instructed to pretend we didn't notice. To pretend they actually love us and aren't ready to watch us rip out each other's throats as a punishment for challenging them. To smile. Wave. We'd done so obediently from the windows until the train rolled to a stop on a guarded platform where cameras and Peacekeepers waited. That's when Minerva and Thom made themselves scarce and Flynn and I were shuttled into prep.
Prep takes place in sterile, almost medical sort of facility not far from the train platform. I have been assigned a trio of absurd looking people to clean me up. Make me presentable for my stylist. Introduced as Aeschy, Sophee and Dees, even though they're all dressed in flat white coats, they are all obviously Capitol citizens.
They've all gone with a theme. Oceans. For District 4.
Aeschy's hair, his full beard included, is in tight curls, and dyed a deep blue like the open sea. Little wooden sailing ships act as pins to keep stray curls out of his overly pale face. Sophee has her hair dyed a pinky purple with tendrils of translucent blues, falling into the flawless dark skin of her face. Like a jellyfish, she explains, however, it is clear she has never actually seen a real jellyfish because her whole look appears a bit solid. Dees has gone the farthest with the nautical theme. He's dyed his skin blue with painted elaborate depictions of marine life. Fish. Dolphins. Sharks. His head is shaved to his skin, but he sports a tight beard, dyed white and shaved down to look like tidal waves.
They look absurd.
But they are all actually quite kind, my prep team. They gush over me as I am dunked into bath after bath of sickly sweet smelling concoctions. Ooh and ah about all the wonderful things I'll get to see and wear in great detail as they scrub the salt from hair and file my nails to neat even squared ends. Tell me about the important people I'll get to meet as they forcibly remove every follicle of unwanted hair from my body. Titter about how jealous they are of the texture of my hair and the delicate bone structure of my face.
"We're going make them love you!" Aeschy tells me while he paints a clear coat of polish on my freshly sculpted fingernails. "They won't forget this pretty face!"
"Sponsors will be falling over themselves to get you home." Dees agrees, patting the top of my head. He's been working a comb through the tangle that my hair has become after the many washes. I get the feeling that they say this sort of thing every year. To all their Tributes. To make us feel better. But they're just so earnest. All of them actually believe it and I can't help but like them.
"Saoirse is a genius!" Sophee continues. She's giving my toes a coat of the same stuff Aeschy's put on my fingers. I haven't the faintest idea who 'Saoirse' might be, but they plow on like I'm on the same page.
"There's no one better than Saoirse at the Games." Dees explains as they finish the final touches to my look. It doesn't feel like much. Just a thin, shapeless robe. I get the feeling that despite the garment, I'm looking less like myself and more like the Capitol's idea of lovely. "She's an artist."
Saoirse, it turns out, is my stylist.
She is also like no one I have ever met before.
"Dia duit!" Saoirse trills when she flounces into the room. She waves to the prep team who wave back with big grins before leaving me alone with Saoirse. "Ah! There you are, my cailín!" She uses words I don't recognize. It occurs to me they are old words, in a language from Before. Like Grandfather uses. Except that they are clearly not in the same language as Grandfather's.
Saoirse is not sea-themed like the prep team. Her hair is the color of shined copper and it hasn't been obviously dyed so. It falls in sleek little bob to her chin. Her face isn't overly pale and freckled. She isn't limited to the same white coats as the prep team either. Instead, she wears a blue dress, the color of the sky, not the sea. It falls in fluffed layers to her knees. Hundreds of tiny buttons fasten down her back and the sleeves stop just over her shoulders in a layer of delicate lace Gram would love. Her shoes are just a shade darker than the pale of her skin but are impossibly high. She's so short this makes her only just my height. Strange because usually no one over the age of twelve is my height and Saoirse has to be at least in her mid-twenties. Of course, given the Capitol, she could very well be older. She looks like a proper person, not a caricature. Even though she is so perfectly polished she has to have been raised in the Capitol.
But there's something about her that's just so different from anyone else I know. Something besides her appearance. Something devious and clever in the green of her eyes. Something just . . . Saoirse.
"I've got grand plans for you, Miss Mairead!" She says my name in the same roll as her greeting as she drops down into the rolling chair Aeschy abandoned. "Tonight's the opening ceremonies and you are going to make a statement."
"Make them love me?" I supply.
"That too. The crowds do love shiny things and most of them will be too dense to get the metaphor." She shrugs and snorts a giggle. Like she loves the idea of a joke no one gets. "All that matters is that they remember you." Saoirse continues.
"Memorable means sponsors." I echo dutifully.
"Means you might come home." She's serious now. Her smiles and giggles are gone and there's something matter-of-fact about her. "The odds aren't in your favor, so to speak. But I want to bring you home." She tells me. There's something sad in her eyes. Like she knows this isn't all the fun the prep team and Minerva seem to think it is. That this whole event very likely culminates in my violent death. Like she knows it's her job to dress me up to send me there. She's not bitter about it like Thom. Not throwing it my face.
I can't help but adore her for it.
"Now!" Saoirse's grin is back. Mischief is glittering in her eyes. "The opening ceremonies!" Since the beginning of the Games, the Capitol has focused heavily on the main industry of each District. The costumes for the opening ceremonies of the Games always highlight these. District 4 is fishing which of course means more sea creatures. I'm not looking forward to being a fish.
"I've been working it over with Dio – Flynn's stylist." Saoirse says. "Tell me, darling. Do you know what a selkie is?" She asks me.
"No." I answer honestly.
"Shame." She says, but carries on. "They come from the old legends of the North. Old fishermen's tales from across the sea." Saoirse explains. "Selkies were seals who could shed their skins and walk as humans. Most selkie stories are of humans falling in love with beautiful selkies. The humans hide away the sealskins so that the selkies are forever trapped on land, never to be free again. Very romantic."
"So we're going as selkies?" I clarify. I can only imagine what this will look like as a costume.
"Caught forever as humans." Saoirse confirms. "Tragic and beautiful since the Capitol stole away your skins. Do you see?" She asks. I have to think a moment before I realize what exactly Saoirse is saying. The missing skins are not really skins, they are our lives. Our freedoms. A little reminder of what the Games actually mean to the rest of Panem.
That sounds dangerously sympathetic to the old rebel cause.
I must look mildly horrified because Saoirse smiles conspiratorially. "Tragic and beautiful." She repeats. There's a note of glee in her voice that tells me she remembers the world before the Games far better than I can. That she doesn't agree with this particular method of maintaining a society. But she doesn't go into detail. Instead, her smile gets bigger and she giggles again. "You're going to look fantastic!"