A/N: I've been spending a lot of time planning and researching. My mind is clear and the inspiration is coming back, yay :) I'm fixing to start the next chapter, so that should be up within a couple of days!
Time is short. It may be able to drag on in the dullest moments, but then you blink an eye and it is gone. When time really matters, it gallops by at a dizzying speed. Just this once, I plead it will slow down.
There is too much to do in the next week. Finnick will be in the arena in less than seven days. He may think he's ready, but no one ever is. Seven days is not enough time to physically and mentally prepare him for the arena and go through all the dirty details I spared him as he grew up. Subtract from that time the hours of prep work and other events that sacrifice precious time for the sake of presenting the Hunger Games as a glamorous show.
I mentally add to the list of hours I will lose: Time spent in the sponsorship hall, sleep, my responsibilities to the rebellion. I don't see when I'm going to fit the last one in, but visiting Plutarch is a must.
If only the clock hanging in the District Four suite would move a little slower. The tributes have been whisked away to prepare for the opening ceremonies tonight, and each minute that passes makes me feel like I should be doing something more productive with my time.
I decide that now might be my best bet to go talk to Plutarch. Without a moment's hesitation, I pull myself up and make a trek to the front door. My hand is already on the cool metal of the knob when Sabina Folli pops up at my side and makes me jump.
"When did you get there?" I ask.
She just stares at me with wide, color-framed eyes. "Where are going?" she asks, sounding completely confused and a little hurt.
"I'm going take a walk while the kids are getting ready," I explain.
"But…but what if you aren't back in time? It's my first day as an escort. I can't show up to the opening ceremonies missing a member of my team!" she exclaims. Her voice is shaky and her bright hair flops as her body trembles.
"There's no need to be so nervous," I assure her. "Victors are always allowed to go as we please and we always make it back in time."
I'll give her some leeway since she's new. Still, it's difficult not to automatically label Sabina as a perfectionist based off of what I have seen so far today. She was inexplicably upset by Raini's decision to not participate in the little icebreaker game she had planned for us earlier, and it seems that my leaving now worries her because it doesn't align with her schedule.
She isn't convinced, but time isn't pausing for her to warm up to the idea. "I'll be back in two hours," I say brusquely and make my exit.
The different buildings of the Capitol are all familiar scenes to me. As always, I take a right at the lime green bakery that fills the street with the scent of fresh bread. A left past the curb that holds the shiny silver fountain that children toss coins into. Ten minutes of walking down the only road with a crooked street sign. Dodge the men and women who are so preoccupied that they carelessly bump into others as they walk along the sidewalk.
Plutarch has moved to a bigger house and has plenty of responsibilities, but he spends virtually all of his time at the little bookstore where I first met him. It's almost a guarantee that I can find him there, going through the rows of books and satiating his hunger for knowledge.
"Mags," he says in acknowledgment when he notices me. "I saw the reapings. That was the boy you were trying to look out for, wasn't it?" he asks, wincing.
"Yep. I'm sure my reaction gave it away." We had watched the recap on the train ride here. Though the camera didn't focus on me, my agape expression could be seen in the background.
"Only because I was looking for it. Most probably didn't notice," Plutarch says. "How are you handling things? There's so much to be done. I hope you're up to it this year."
I know he is talking about rebellion business. I look at the plump man hunched over the bookshelf. He's in his forties now, but something about him suggests youth. My setback is not going to stop him from gathering information and laying foundations. I'm surprised he has any time on his hands with his job as a gamemaker.
I would give anything to be young and full of energy right now, because it looks like that's what it takes to double task efficiently.
"There's a lot on my plate right now. I'm more worried about Finnick. I'll try to do what I can, but he has to be my priority. I'm sorry. I would die for this cause in a heartbeat, and that's my decision to make, but Finnick was never asked. I can't let him take the fall if we dragged him into it," I say.
"You think we did?" he asks, brushing off his suit.
"We can't be so careless with the letters," I tell him. I don't want to place blame or start an argument, but it has to be addressed.
"Oh! The letters!" he pipes up. I half expect him to follow up with an apology or at least an agreement that it was a bad idea. Then a gleam appears in his eyes and he goes off on a different tangent. "I had to give you the news about finding Snow's daughter. She goes by a different name now, so locating her was difficult to say the least. I wanted your opinion before taking further action."
"What do you have in mind?" I ask, curious now. I'm not sure what part she plays in any of this besides being biologically linked to our enemy.
He starts speaking in quick, excited tones that are difficult to keep up with. "Well, I'm not sure yet. But I do know she goes by Cora Cort these days. Her birth name is Roslyn Cora Snow. I'm assuming Cora is a nod to Coriolanus. She's an illegitimate child and grew up with her mother, and, from what I can tell, she has a bad relationship with her father. The point is, she is the only living biological link we have to the president. That has to help us somehow."
"Yes, but what do you suppose we do?" I ask, still lost. "She may have problems with her father, but that won't make her turn against the Capitol to help us."
"I know, but if there is anyone in this world Snow cares enough about to reveal a weakness, his daughter would be the best bet. What else are we going to use against him?"
I feel uneasy at the thought of using Snow's child against him. It's not that I would feel bad for him; I would feel too much like him. Using loved ones for control is his game.
Regardless of their relationship now, if Snow ever looked into the eyes of a newborn baby girl and felt nothing but joy and love and a need to protect…I gulp involuntarily. If he ever felt even a smidge of the emotions that ran through me when I held my little boy for the first time, taking advantage of him in that way would be inexcusable. I refuse to sink as low as him.
"We can't do that. This has nothing to do with Roslyn Snow," I say adamantly. Then I sigh. "We can't let ourselves become like him, Plutarch. It's wrong and all we would accomplish is provoking him. That's probably why poor Finnick is here in the Capitol right now, and I have to take the blame for it."
For once, Plutarch appears unsure of what to say. His words come in hushed breaths a minute later. "Expect dense fog in the arena. The further away from the Cornucopia, the more dangerous things get. His best bet is to stay near a river in the center. The river is safe, but there are two large waterfalls, so I don't recommend swimming down the current while the fog obstructs vision."
I try to take in as much of that as possible. "Fog, stay in center, waterfalls. Got it. Thank you so much." I let a small but honest smile grace my face.
"It's the least I can do," he says.
"Can you do anything to watch out for him in the arena, too? It would mean the world to me."
"I can try, but Seneca Crane makes the final calls. I'll do my best," he promises.
I thank him again. We both turn when a loud advertisement for this year's Games comes on over the TV, complete with blaring action music and a compilation of scenes from the past.
"One thing I do like about being a gamemaker is the show we get to put on. I'm telling you, if I could use that editing equipment for my own purposes, I could make propaganda that would convince the entire nation," he says passionately. "What this country needs is some education. If everyone could see that the gap between rich and poor is the root of all problems, maybe people would be open to change. I don't understand why some of the districts seem so resistant."
"They have to worry about survival before they can worry about the good of humanity," I add sadly.
We're quiet again as the screen shows a replay of the burning ruins of District Thirteen. "It's such a shame that it's been in that same condition for sixty-five years," Plutarch sighs.
"That's one of my earliest memories," I say. Plutarch looks at me questioningly and I clarify. "The announcement of the first Hunger Games. I was too young to really experience the rebellion, but that footage of Thirteen was enough to scare me. They've been showing that same clip since I was five years old."
"It's not always the same, though. Every so often they'll have a reporter out there for an update," Plutarch insists.
I shake my head. "It's always the same. Same smoke in the same places and there's always a piece of debris blowing in the same spot. I'm sure the broadcasts are just using technology to save themselves from having to travel way out there. The air may still be unhealthy."
Plutarch brings his hand to his chin and stares off in deep thought. "I never noticed that. I wonder if there's a reason behind it. Thirteen had all the nuclear weapons. Hmm, if we could get our hands on those we would actually have a fair shot in a war…"
"I wouldn't read too much into it. We have other priorities," I remind him.
He still seems distant. After a few failed attempts at conversation on the other victors we are grandfathering into our rebel group, I give up and reluctantly feed into his speculation. "If you are as good at editing as you say you are, you can offer to fly out there with a crew and film footage for a new commercial. If they come up with an excuse, then we have reason to be suspicious. If not, nothing changes."
He only nods. I glance at the old wall clock on the side of the room and decide that it's time I get back to Finnick.
I come back to see he has finished with his styling session. When Lilith worked as a stylist, it was pretty much a guarantee that tributes would be dressed as either mer-folk or fish, so long as scales were in style for the year. The current stylist is a little more adventurous. It looks like this year, we will have a duo of sailors.
They've left Finnick barefoot and bare-chested, which doesn't surprise me at all. The only clothes he has on are a pair of white pants and a captain's hat. Underneath the cap, I can see that they have cut Finn's boyish bronze locks into a shorter, more mature style. It is clearly meant to make him look older, so the women can feel less guilty about ogling over a child.
"I told you you'd look so much better with your hair short," I say jokingly.
Finnick leans over and tries to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the shiny refrigerator. "Well I can't argue with that. I do look pretty good," he says, taking off his hat to run a hand through his new hair.
We both turn at the sound of our escort coming into the room. Raini trails behind her with crossed arms and an agitated expression.
"Thank heavens you're back. We're having an in-fest-tation!" Sabina cries. She literally looks like tears are threatening to stream down her face at any second. Finnick and I exchange a glance.
"There was one bug. It was a silverfish in the bathroom," Raini says unenthusiastically.
Finnick bursts into laughter behind me and the escort shoots him a death glare from behind thick eyelashes.
"What's going on?" a girl's voice asks from behind.
Kelsie stands in the doorway in her own sailor costume. For her, the get-up includes a white top that just covers her chest and a blue miniskirt. She has a red tie around her neck and a matching captain hat with an anchor print. It's painfully clear that the stylists felt she had some "flaws" that needed to be fixed, because her make up makes her almost unrecognizable.
"Better stand behind me, Kels. We're having a full-out infestation and it seems pretty dangerous," Finnick says.
Sabina's lip is quivering now, and as tempting as it is to poke fun at silly people such as herself, I can see she really is as fragile as she appears. It's better to stop now before we have a sobbing escort on our hands.
"We'd better get going. The parade starts in just under an hour and it never hurts to be early," I suggest. Truthfully, I want us to have some extra time out in the noise and commotion of City Circle, where cameras won't be listening to my every word.
I wait for the escort to insist I change into nicer clothes than the casual outfit from home that I'm currently wearing, but she seems to be in too sour a mood to notice. I smile to myself. The things they try to dress me in these days look ridiculous on anyone over forty, and I'm grateful no one is badgering me about my appearance.
On our way out, I grab a little notebook I had started writing in during the reapings. Each page contains information on a different tribute. I jotted down notes on things I could not trust myself to remember. I especially focused on the careers from One and Two. Tonight I plan on adding to the notes if I see anything interesting about the body language of the tributes as they pass on chariots.
The tribute parade is not like the interviews. The latter is carefully planned, and though you get a lot more information on each tribute, it is not guaranteed to be true. Here, the tributes don't have to put up facades. If you study them closely, body language can separate the shy, scared tributes from those who are convinced they have a shot at winning.
I tuck the notebook under my arm when we get there. All the horses are chained to the chariots already, and they stand in a line that bends around City Circle. Daylight still streams through and casts the sun in our eyes. The only other district here already is Eight. A young victor named Cecelia helps her female tribute as she struggles against a tight corset that flares out into a quilt of fabric.
"I'm glad I didn't have their stylists," Finnick notes. "The boy's costume looks like it's going to swallow him."
I start nodding to agree with him before I remember that there are more important things to discuss than District Eight's outfits. "Listen, Finn," I begin, turning just slightly to hold onto his arm. I keep my voice low to be on the safe side. "The training center is bugged. This is one of the few places we can speak in privacy, and I have a few things to say."
"I'm listening," Finnick says.
"First off, I'm sorry you're in this situation." I look up at him and let my guard down enough to show the guilt and pain I'm feeling. "I never wanted this for you. I should've known it was too dangerous-"
"No," Finnick cuts me off. "I don't want you to feel bad, Mags. It is what it is. All we can change is how we deal with it. Now let's get to the important stuff."
"But are you really okay with all of this?" I ask, knowing that any answer he gives won't put my worries at ease.
"I think so," he answers honestly. Here he isn't worried about impressing others. "I'll admit I am nervous for the arena, but I really think it will be okay. I have a decent shot at winning. Don't you think so?" he asks.
"I do think you have a shot. It just scares me to think of you in that situation with all those older careers. Six years of training and I never really thought you would have to use them. I need you to do everything you can to be the one who comes out, you hear? I have some information on the arena, so you will know what to expect."
His expression perks up and his green eyes shine with interest. "How did you manage to get that?" he asks incredulously.
"Don't worry about that for now. This has to stay between us. Not even Kelsie can know," I say.
"Okay," he agrees reluctantly.
"There will be a lot of fog. You're going to want to stay as close to the center of the arena as possible because it gets more and more dangerous the further you go out. There will be a river and two large waterfalls, so be careful to look where you swim. We'll figure out alliances later this week," I say in one big breath.
"Things are going to be different from now on, even if you win," I add on. "We'll work through it together. All I know is I can't lose you to the Capitol, Finnick. I can't."
"You won't," he says confidently. He rests his head on my shoulder for a split second, just like he used to do when he was little. But there are people here, and he's a teenage boy who cares a lot about his image, so the moment doesn't last long.
He looks up at something and I follow his gaze to see President Snow walk out onto the balcony of his mansion. He's aged as much as I have. The once young president's hair is now a powdery white that is true to his name. He still has a frail gait and icy eyes that have been in far too many of my nightmares. Even the single white rose upon his lapel has stayed the same.
"Are we supposed to go talk to him before or after?" Finnick asks.
I shake my head vehemently. "Oh, no. I haven't been within fifty feet of that man in decades. I don't think I could handle being near him again."
Finnick knows that I lost family in the past, and that Snow played a part in it. I spared him the details because I can't handle telling them myself. It seems even my thoughts can't bare reliving the scene because my head gets fuzzy every time; my brain's way of protecting my health by shielding me from things I have proven myself incapable of handling.
"It's his fault you were alone for all those years," Finnick says, echoing my thoughts. He looks out towards the man on the balcony with unconcealed distaste. "I don't blame you for not being on speaking terms."
"The last time I was near him, I had my arms around his throat in a chokehold, so yeah, we're not going to go have any pleasant conversation," I say.
"Hold on, you strangled the president?" Finnick questions, his mouth falling open in surprise. "Are you kidding, or were you really a complete badass when you were young and just never told me?"
I want to laugh at that. I really do, but the memory attached to it is too painful to even fake a smile. Instead I frown. "I wouldn't say that. Anyone would've reacted the same. That's what happens when a person is pushed too far."
"But you strangled the freaking president! The most powerful man in the world! I don't think I can get over that."
I shake my head and look away. My head is already pounding and I don't want to stay on this topic for long.
"Is that what it's like in the arena?" Finnick asks after a minute.
"Possibly. I hope you never have to experience it. The adrenaline rush might give you bravery for a minute, but you still have to live with the consequences of your actions," I tell him. It's true. The only other time I completely lost control of my mind and actions was during my time in the arena, just after Kai was killed. It lead to me killing Osten without a moment of hesitation, and his death is blood on my hands that I still carry over fifty years later.
"All tributes report to your chariots immediately," comes a stern voice over an intercom. I hadn't noticed that the other districts had arrived. Finnick runs off to help Kelsie climb up, and I make my way back over to the District Four group.
Dramatic lighting envelopes the giant circle and chases away the dusk that had been sinking in. An announcer delivers a preliminary speech to welcome everyone while I pull out the notebook and prepare to review my notes.
District One is the first to roll out. Each tribute wears a giant golden headpiece encrusted with sparkling jewels. My notes list their names as Armano and Idalia. Both have light brown hair, a bit darker than the traditional fair color of tributes from One. Armano stands poised as a statue and doesn't bother making eye contact with the crowd. Idalia is all smiles and waves until she sees her partner's posture and does her best to mimic him.
Both are volunteers, and I have a feeling they will be interacting with Finnick before and during the Games.
Wally and Alexandra from Two are also volunteers. Their costumes depict them as war chiefs of some sort, with shields and painted faces. The outfits would match perfectly with the District One tributes' posture.
The boy looks like he doesn't quite take it seriously. He pretends to pound against his armor and his unusually long sandy hair keeps blowing into his face and mouth. Still, his muscles cannot be ignored. Alexandra looks barely tolerant of her partner. She stands as far away from him as the chariot will allow, but I can't discern much more than that.
I pay attention to Three mainly because Plutarch had mentioned that some victors from the district have shown interest in a rebellion. As usual, the tributes look tiny and meek amidst the careers. In these Games, though, brains can count for a lot. The boy has a spark in his eyes behind glasses and looks as if he is evaluating the crowd.
There is a collective shriek from the crowd when Finnick's chariot rolls past. Women in the front hang over the barrier and toss roses in his direction. Finnick may be one of the youngest ones here, but he doesn't really look it. His height and athletic build make him look stronger and older than many of the others, even though he has not matured enough to be presented as an adult.
For Finnick, responding to the crowd is barely acting. It is a natural extension of his personality and I can tell he soaks up the attention. Your grandson has the world wrapped around his finger, I had told Tom. It couldn't be more true now. He has already dazzled the crowd without having to utter a single word.
"They're doing so well!" Sabina squeaks, finally brought out of her bad mood.
Raini and I nod in agreement. I keep my eye on the Four duo as Five takes their place in the spotlight. Kelsie seems thrilled about the attention they are getting. She clings to Finnick's arm and points up to someone in the crowd. Finn waves in the general direction and I hear another round of shrieks.
"I've warned him before not to let himself get cocky, but it looks like it's helping him now," I say. I doubt either of my companions can hear me over the roar of the crowd.
I continue taking notes and try to ignore the exhaustion that is creeping up my bones. My muscles are stiff already and I would love to go back to the suite now and get some rest.
I'll have to ignore it. If I'm feeling this way already on day one, it will be a very long couple of weeks. I'm forced to admit that I'm getting too old for all of this. Mentoring is meant for the young. It is for those who can stay up long hours and get from place to place quickly and with energy to spare.
I'm probably overextending myself, but I have responsibilities to attend to. My body is not weak enough to be debilitating and my mind is still sharp enough to think critically. I must make the most of the time I have left.
It's harder now. That's a given fact.
But I still have plenty of life left in me. As long as Finnick needs me, I'm going to do everything in my power to be there.
A quote from the actual Plutarch, a Greek historian: "An imbalance between rich and poor is the oldest and most fatal ailment of all republics."
Thought I would share :)