Title: Awake and Sing
Author: A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"
Category: Action/Adventure/Drama
Chapter Word Count: 2,326
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far – you have no idea how much I love seeing the hits tick up. I'd especially like to thank those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece – those lovely little notifications of your support make me deliriously happy. ^.^
Chapter fun facts: The Caribbean monk seal, which Saoirse has based the selkie looks on, was last spotted in 1952 and declared extinct by NOAA in 2008. Saoirse and Dio's outfits are "Through the Looking Glass" themed. Cobb was named for my favorite ruthless killer, Jayne Cobb of Joss Whedon's 'Firefly'. Keepsie's name is the misinterpretation of the name of a city in New York by her post-apocalyptic parents.
Feedback would be most appreciated. = )
4 – Opening Ceremonies
Dees wasn't kidding when he'd called Saoirse an artist.
The selkie costumes are unbelievably beautiful. Both are in a gauzy fabric whose name I don't know. So fine they float in the breeze behind us as we walk. Both are a silvery grey. Expertly frayed at the ends, like we've worn them our whole lives in the open sea. Flynn's costume consists of merely trousers. Mine is more like a nightshift. Short sleeves with loose lace on the collar and the hems of the sleeves. Flynn's hair is carefully disheveled, but left its usual black color. Saoirse has decided the gull's nest my hair was on arrival was perfect for tonight's occasion and has had the prep team recreate a sleeker version of the look for me. Our skin has been paled down to near silver and dusted with a shimmering powder. Our eyes have accentuated so that they look larger. Sadder. Monk seals, Saoirse calls us. Who in ancient times lived in the oceans of District 4.
We stand in the line of chariots on the bottom floor of the prep center before we paraded out onto the streets from the opening ceremonies. Saoirse and Dio, Flynn's stylist, are there to make last minute adjustments to our looks. They're looking just as outrageous as Flynn and I are tonight. Saoirse's got on another pair of absurdly high shoes and a little green waistcoat embroidered with tiny teacups along the edges to go with her flouncy skirt. Dio's wearing a matching waistcoat and tight pants with an enormous top hat labeled 'In this style 10/6'. Surely this is supposed to mean something. Knowing Saoirse, ready to make a dangerous statement in her Tribute costumes, it's surely some sort of commentary. But I can't even begin to hazard a guess what their looks are supposed to mean.
Thom is there too. He looks like he's gotten the same treatment as Flynn and I. His hair is effortlessly tousled. The scruff of his beard expertly placed. His suit neatly pressed and his shoes shined. His manners have improved as well. He's still a bit on the grumpy side, but he's actually deemed to give us proper advice while the stylists touch up the selkie looks.
"Heads up. Above it all." Thom instructs. "Small smiles."
"Sad smiles!" Saoirse puts in.
"Longing smiles!" Dio adds.
"And wave," Thom continues. "Remember we – "
"Look at you, Argon. Mentoring." Thom is interrupted by a snorting giggle. The speaker is a girl. She can't be much older than me, but she's obviously not a Tribute. She wears a shining dress of pink satin, which drapes down one shoulder into an intricate bodice and a skirt like the one Saoirse wore this afternoon. Her hair is a stringy brown. Wispy tendrils, not curling knots like mine. Big brown eyes. Willowy limbs.
Last year's Victor. District 3.
"Keepsie." Thom greets. "Shouldn't you be doing the same?" She snorts another laugh, as though she can't quite refill her lungs after each giggle.
"What's the point? They're goners on Day One." She waves to the chariot beside us. A boy and girl dressed in coils of wire are being fussed over by a pair of stylists. Both of them look terrified. I can't tell if it's because we are minutes away from being paraded before all of Panem in absurd costumes. Or if because they have just spent the last twenty-four hours with Keepsie. "Programmers, both of them. Smart, but no application skills." She snorts again. She's mildly disconcerting, Keepsie. With her caviler sort of attitude. Speaking of her Tributes so coldly. I see immediately how Thom might think her a sociopath.
"They will be if you don't help them out." Thom reminds her. Flynn looks a little surprised that for once Thom Argon is playing the optimistic, supportive part in a conversation. I'm sure I do as well. Saoirse and Dio notice our looks and smirk at each other.
"What are they going to do? Code District 2's Herculean offerings to death?" Keepsie snorts. "Even your little water nymph here could take them down." She waves at me.
"You won," Thom reminds her. "You sure aren't much to look at." There's more of Thom's usual sneer in his voice this time. Keepsie doesn't notice or doesn't care.
"But I'm a builder," She tells us. "I think outside the ones and the zeros. Coding can't get you out of the Arena with a bang." She snorts another giggle
"Mentor your own District, 3!" The order comes from the other side of us, down the row to where the District 7 Tributes are stuck in unfortunate leafy headdresses and skimpy bark tunics. This time the speaker is a man. I vaguely remember him from the early days of the Games. When I was very small. Second or Third Annual Hunger Games maybe. Older than both Thom and Keepsie, that's for sure. He stalks down the line. Past the Capitol Rep with the Victor-less District 5 and the mildly inebriated 6 Victor.
The District 7 Victor is enormous. Broad with a snarl on his face worthy of a Thom and Minerva off-camera showdown. He's in a suit too, starched and perfect. Short hair like autumn leaves, his goatee neatly groomed. He might even be called handsome, but there's something cold in his sharp face. Something harsh, wronged almost, in his scowl.
"What are you going to do about it, 7?" Keepsie smiles. Like she knows she's safe.
"Tributes can't fight each other, but there ain't nothing in the rule books about Mentors." 7 hisses. He towers over Keepsie. There's a funny look in his eyes too. Like he might just damn it all, toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to her own Tributes.
"Cobb, please." Thom sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He sounds tired of this little spectacle. Like he can't believe he has to be the responsible one. The proper adult. Saoirse hears it too because she giggles and winks at me as she touches up the paint job around my eyes. The rest of us can't believe it either.
"Oh, please, Cobb." Keepsie smiles another confident smile. It's devious and taunting. The 7 Victor, Cobb, scowls even more deeply. "We both know you'd win where brute strength is involved. However, if you'd ever like to confidently eat anything but broth ever again, I'd suggest scuttling back to your little shrubs." She waves back down the the District 7 Tributes. "You never know what sort of things can get into that imported stuff. Vermin. Pests. Incendiary devices." Cobb frowns at the warning.
"Back to your Tributes, Poughkeepsie." Cobb hisses through his teeth. Keepsie looks mildly offended at the use of her complete first name. "Argon, your Tribs are looking scared. I'd see to that, boy."
"I'll do what I can, Cobb." Thom assures him. He sounds almost tired. Like he just can't wait for this whole thing to be over. Keepsie looks about to say something dreadful when a scream rings down the line of chariots.
It's a terrible scream. Like something from a nightmare or the Arena. It's coming from a Victor.
"Never stop! Won't wake up!" There is a crash as the District 11's stylist kit is thrown back into the staging area behind us. It lands with a crash and an explosion of make up and sewing tools. There's another shriek. A woman in yellow, the District's only Victor lashes out at the stylists. Her poor Tributes, both dressed like cereal grains shrink back into their chariot. "Wake up! Wake up!" She shrieks. From beside Thom, Keepsie snorts again.
"Crazy Daisy." She sighs as if this is completely normal. "Best make sure she doesn't take a pair of those scissors to her stylists, Cobb. Again." Cobb sighs too and shakes his head. His quarrel with Keepsie is forgotten as the woman, Daisy screams again and clutches at her head.
"See to your Tribs." Cobb orders one last time. The anger has gone from his voice. Like Keepsie and Thom's conversation is no longer a critical topic of discussion. He moves back down the row to where the District 12 Victor, a dark haired man with sad eyes tries to calm the now hysterical 11 Victor.
"Ten credits says they don't allow Mentors in the staging area next year." Keepsie pokes Thom's shoulder. Sighs and glances wistfully down the line of chariots. "Now, doesn't that just inspire you to win?" Keepsie asks us. She shakes her head. Returns to her Tributes, who if possible, look more horrified than before as the shrieking continues.
"Don't listen to Keepsie." Thom orders us. He seems to be back on his mentoring track, but his voice is sharp. The snarl is creeping back into his face.
"What's wrong with her?" Flynn asks, nodding down the line of chariots. The District 11 Victor is still howling about waking up. Cobb has tackled her, pinned her body against his. They're both on their knees as District 12's Victor tries to wrest a pair of scissors from District 11's fingers. Capitol attendants have rushed forward with a med kit. A syringe is produced.
"Daisy's never been terribly stable." Thom answers stiffly. The sneer is back in his voice. The one from the train. But he keeps going with his instructions. "Isn't any of your business, Moses." He says. "Focus on the ceremonies. Smiles – sad or longing or whatever they've told you." Thom's flustered. Distracted by his fellow Victors. He waves at Saoirse and Dio. Saoirse smiles again.
"Wave," Saoirse instructs, repeating Thom's earlier command. She pats at my hair to make sure it bounces the way it ought to. "Gently. They'll eat it up."
"But longingly." Dio stresses. He gives Flynn's hair a final tousle. "Sheer-she!" Dio mangles the pronunciation of Saoirse's name, but it seems to have done so on purpose. He claps once as he inspects us. "Baby doll, we are fierce!" Dio giggles. Links his arm with Saoirse's and they step down from the chariot. I can hear the anthem of Panem playing out in the street and the District 1's chariot begins to move for the exit.
"Be brave," Saoirse tells us.
"Don't muck it up." Thom grumbles. His manners have slipped back to the abysmal place they were on the train. District 2's chariot has gone. Everyone backs away from ours. "And don't embarrass us." Thom orders before he leaves us to see to Daisy. The attendants have gotten the syringe into her neck, but she's still fighting Cobb as the sedative kicks in. Saoirse and Dio wave as our chariot follows the District 3's out onto the streets.
"You afraid?" Flynn asks. I must look terrified because he looks mildly concerned for me.
"Aren't you?" I ask him but if he gives an answer, I don't get to hear it. We crash into a wall of sound as we pass out of the prep center. Screams. Cheers. Shouts. The voice Julius Flickerman, the master of ceremonies for every Games since they began, echoes out over the din calling, "District 4!"
Another deafening roar goes up from the crowds packed along the streets. There are if possible, even more people than there were when we arrived this morning packed along the parade route. I spot my face on at least half a dozen screens along one side of the street and Flynn's on the opposite.
We look incredible.
Tragically beautiful. Lonesome and sad, like we've only just been torn from our beloved ocean homes. The lights and flashbulbs glitter off the shimmering dust on our skin. The fabric of our costumes trails out almost ethereally behind us.
Flynn waves next to me. I'm proud I can remember and can hold Dio's longing smile. The crowd loves us. Or rather they love our looks and can't wait until we slaughter each other. I can't imagine they recognize the significance of our costumes, but I can't blame them. We're stunning.
Our faces follow us to the City Circle. The lights have gotten so bright I can scarcely see the buildings or the crowd. There are more flashbulbs than ever. I have to force myself not to squint.
"Happy Hunger Games!" I hear the President's voice cut over the roar of the crowd's like Julius Flickerman's. I can't see them, nor do I hazard a look to check, but I assume the other Tributes have filed in behind us. The President continues his speech. It's much like the one from the propo reel at the Lottery. Thanking us for our courage. Our sacrifice for the peace of all Panem. I can just see the President in the shadow of his mansion. High above us on a platform. His face is blown up on a screen behind him. Like ours were on the ride from the prep center.
It's terrifying.
We aren't waving anymore, but I make sure my face is still the sad selkie face Saoirse wanted. A hint of Dio's longing smile. I can't let them see anything but the tragically lovely mask Saoirse has worked so hard to build for me. I know they're all watching. Back in District 4. Gram and Grandfather. Danny. Willie and Jackie. Even Fillipa. She may not actually see it, but I can't let her hear a broadcaster's announcement of my cowardice. She'd be ashamed. They'd all be ashamed.
But it's so dreadfully difficult. We stand before the man who has ordered our deaths. Look up at the man who devised the Games ten years ago at the end of the Rebellion and the Dark Days. When he was just an official responsible for drawing up the Treaty of Treason. This man is responsible for the brutal death of 207 children in peacetime Panem. Soon to be 230.
And I am very well going to be one of them.