Dishonesty.
"Don't be afraid of enemies who attack you. Be afraid of the friends who flatter you." - Dale Carnegie.
Sloan Ryker, District Eleven Male.
Priscilla circles me, cooing over my chocolate curls, drawing her fingers along my collar and settling on my back. I shiver uncomfortably, attempting to sink lower in my chair without arousing too much suspicion
"You're positively edible," she mutters, combing through her equipment set in the vanity. My reflection stares back at me, blue-rimmed eyes, tousled curls that I never brushed. I haven't had much sleep these past few days, what with the Hunger Games peeking on the horizon, steadily drawing closer and closer with each passing second.
"Hmm," she pulls out a comb, the teeth black and sharp. "This'll do." I feel the cold bite harshly against my scalp and wince, digging my fingers into the grooves of the baby pink wood. This is one thing I'll never understand about these people, these caricatures of human beings. In spite of their own families and loved ones, they look at us like lumps of meat to lust and drool over, only to cheer when our blood is spilt or we murder another child.
I'm curious. Priscilla drags the comb, again grating on my skin and I open my mouth to speak. "Priscilla?"
"Hm?" She's humming to herself, a tune I don't recognise. Her voice is lovely, though it's her opinions I'm more interested in. Capitol life won't teach me much for the days to come, nothing I can harness and use for my benefit, but what's not to like about a little conversation to pass the time.
"What is it about the Hunger Games you like?" I sense the falter in her hand, a gap between each comb-through. I smile up at her through the reflection, her eyelashes which dangle almost by the top of her rose cheeks, blink twice, startled. "Um..." she stutters and drags the comb once, then twice, through my hair.
I'm pretty sure it's over with, nothing more can be done about what's on top of my head. I don't question her though, giving her time to peruse her conscious for an answer. It's almost as if I can see the lightbulb blink on above her strawberry hair. She drops the comb on the vanity and brings out a small metal tool, tweezers maybe. My eyebrows start to burn in protest.
"The beauty, what else?" Her hands dramatically flourish. A light settles in her sparkling eyes. Do the Hunger Games really mean so much to these people? More questions spiral inside my head, working their way to the tip of my tongue.
It's just us two so I don't feel anxious nor nervous about speaking. Priscilla's not the brightest tool in the box but she's no fool, she won't broadcast anything that goes on behind this closed door. Besides, I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm simply wondering what makes these odd, bumbling women tick.
"What about in the actual Arena? There's not much beauty there."
"Well," she wracks her brain for another answer, dipping down to my eye level. I see the metal ends coming closer and closer, a tiny little enemy set to cause me pain. I brace myself and bite harshly down on my tongue, a metallic tang oozing to the back of my throat when a single hair is plucked from my brow. Shit!
"I guess you could say there's beauty in the Arena. Or beauty in watching friendships blossom in the Games."
"What about Arenas that are in ruins? The Arenas full of the worst kind of monsters? What about when friendships take a turn for the worse and collapse in on themselves, taking out children who only wanted the alliance so they could have some help?"
I struggle to find the filter with which to sift my words through. My stomach feels strangely uncomfortable, a red tint in my cheeks when I look up at the glass. I'm angry. Of course, why wouldn't I be? Priscilla plucks another hair but it's barely noticeable now with my brain on haywire. Why do these people stand around, going on about beauty when the true meaning behind the Games is fear and torture?
"You don't make any sense," I seethe, gripping onto the table, pain surfacing back from my forehead. She scowls, plucking harder. "That's very rude young man."
I scoff loudly, angering her even more. She pulls another out of place hair, I squeal and watch her pull back with nothing between the metal prongs.
"You're just trying to hurt me now." I moan, rubbing my forehead. I see the curl of her lips rising to meet her eyelashes. Priscilla's demeanor has shifted from the naïve yet gentle young woman who helped me into my Chariot outfit, to this one, the lady who I've dared to question.
"Keep your comments to yourself, or you might find the Gamemakers doing it for you."
"Threats now?" Shut up, Sloan. You're pushing your luck now.
I'm not in District Eleven anymore, there aren't any Peacekeepers to find me and punish me for being in the wrong places and asking the wrong things. I'm in a place so much worse than that, and tomorrow being put into an Arena that beats those two to the number one spot.
"I think we're going to get your interview outfit now, we don't want you being late do we?" Her voice laces itself with that soft, sultry tone. I grimace when she disappears, rubbing my forehead again, the pain still tingling above my eyes.
I hope Sabrina has it a little better. The girl has more sense than me, remarkably. The three was devilish of her, hiding those true talents. No one here has a single clue what she has in that head, the danger she potentially presents to everyone. She cares, she doesn't want to dehumanize herself too much, but she's lethal. Sabrina understands how to play things for the better, I sit here and question each and every person that tries to offer me a little help.
Eaton hates my guts, spending each and every waking moment tutoring Sabrina or scolding me. Priscilla's meek, deformed face, hides a cunning witch who I've angered. And I'm alone in the Arena, with no one to help.
I guess that's one good thing, a lack of company. No one to annoy, no one to tear apart in my ignorance to their well-being.
"Time to get you dressed dear. Get those rags off of you." Priscilla cheers, returning through the door.
Things keep going from bad to worse, when can I catch a break?
Alistair Tempest, District One Male.
In all her glittering glory, Calliope sits proudly in her interview chair, interacting respectfully with Caesar. Her eyes are masked with indifference, yet she holds the conversation, laughing in all the right places and twirling that single silky strand of blonde hair that curls round her eye.
I know she's disgusted with herself, but this is Shine's area of expertise, and for once she caved and let the mentor help her.
Shine's… pretty. Even now as I stand in my matching gold tuxedo, my cheeks warm and flush with red. Dorian's eyes never leave her whenever she's in the room, and me… I can't help it. I giggle nervously under my breath and fidget, my thumbs pulling at the hem of my blazer. Little flecks of gold trail down to my dress shoes, lighting the black like sunlight.
Saskia's mumbling with Megaera behind me. The two girls are as inseparable as Megaera is with Matteo, and I'd like to think I am with Calliope. Though I'm aware I can be overbearing, Calliope puts up with it and even joins in on occasion. When she's mad, I'm there and I believe I help brighten her day, even just a little.
I understand the stress of her position. Megaera's amiable and sweet, but we know the other side to her even if she denies it. Matteo's charm covers the fact I even managed to beat a guy that struts like he knows his stuff, and then Saskia… Saskia's a mystery. She goes from anger to joyfully chatting with me, then back to glaring as if I'm a speck on her shoe. We have our work cut out for ourselves, especially when bonds turn sour and shatter.
The stage explodes with the fervent clapping of the audience. Caesar bids goodbye to a stunning Calliope who curtsies politely, and taps away towards me. My eyes peek behind the curtain just to see what's-… woah…
The stadium stretches back so far I can't see the stands. Everyone's dressed as if they were from a circus. Colours of the rainbow and inbetween the spectrum light up the place, Caesar's dyed hair a little less spectacular with the claws, tails and tattoos I can see in the front row.
Calliope stops by my side, shares a smile, and then struts past the queue all the way to the elevator waiting for her. I gulp, palms sweaty. Show time, Alistair. No need to be nervous…
"Ladies and gentlemen, Alistair Tempest!" Caesar's smooth voice pierces my ears and I feel the lights burst before my eyes, searing my brain. It feels fuzzy. I stumble forwards and recognise my feet gliding over towards the chair, but the blurriness hurts… I don't get nervous. I don't. I laugh and smile and cheer up the nervous.
Stage-fright of all things, of all things considering where I'm going tomorrow. Man up!
Caesar's suit is a shimmering tuxedo, somewhat like mine only ocean-blue. His hair is turquoise and little studded gems glitter in his cheeks. The freakish appearance is meant to make him all the more attractive, but what happened to just being normal?
"…having a good time?"
I perk up and let my lips peel back. If things seem down, I never let it show. I smile and nod my head eagerly, gripping onto both arms of the chair as if I was about to leap forwards at Caesar. His gelled back, slick blue hair stays rigid as he giggles alongside me.
"I'm perfect Caesar. Perfect, perfect, perfect!" Calliope's either laughing as she watches, or staring like she always does. Megaera's sick to her stomach, I know that much, but she'll congratulate me all the same. Matteo with his words and Saskia with a look that could mean a thousand different things.
But I'm me. If looks changed me, I'd have turned years ago.
"We like to keep these short, but I can't help but feel disappointed we won't have enough time to get to know what I'm sure is a very interesting life for our Alistair."
Flattery, I wrote the book on how to do that.
I laugh again. "Stay tuned for my autobiography, coming out after the Games!" The audience laps this up but I'm not in it to be fake. I appreciate the attention, in fact… I feel good. This all feels good. The nerves have all but gone, vanishing to be overthrown by this glowing sensation.
"Confidence hey? I like confidence."
"If you don't have confidence, how can you achieve anything in life?"
The audience hoot their approval and Caesar nods along. The spotlight's on us, a thousand watts of burning light but it's barely a blip on my radar. The cameras snap snap snap, the video recorders play this live all over Panem for a million people to watch my cheeriness.
Why haven't I done this before?!
"That's very true. A confident tribute succeeds."
"Well," my smile goes lopsided, sliding down my face, "not all of them. Only one can."
Calliope. A tug on my heart makes my face twitch. Calliope, the only person I can say deserves to win over my own will to survive. Sure she's manipulative when she wants to be, she plays the game she condemns because she's the best at it. But she's kind, underneath all that built up indifference, she cares for me, and others. Maybe not the others in our alliance, but the tributes she won't hold back to kill are there, haunting her.
I haven't thought about killing anyone, except for Calliope. And that makes me want to cry. I don't think I could do that, I don't think I can watch my friend die so I can win.
Caesar mumbles something about Calliope, a distant murmuring in my ear when she's all I can think about. We all volunteered for different reasons: fame, glory, to prove something… women in Dorian's case, maybe the same for Matteo. None of those reasons matter, not in the slightest.
We're all trained to kill. Megaera won't hold back from stabbing me, Saskia would gladly cut Calli's throat if it means her life.
And we're with these people, we call them friends.
That can't last forever, I don't want nor need it to. Calliope and I can do just fine together. Because together I can make sure she doesn't die… together… together I can be there for her in the finale, and the decision about what to do can tear me apart then. Then, not now. For now I just smile, for now I act the way I always have in life.
Tatum Caville, District Six Female.
Tyndall and Lochlan have gone, leaving me to fend for myself backstage. The other tributes peruse around, idly standing or twiddling their thumbs waiting for their chance. All I can do is stare and watch, watch as the careers play it confidently without a single chink in their armour. People like Lochlan smother their anger with humour, making jokes that ridicule Caesar but get the audience fist-pumping and laughing. Tyndall, awkward yet sweet, chatting with Caesar like two old friends meeting for the first time in years.
Then there will be me, as soon as Cynder Duke is finished acting the dolt he is. I've never been so scared, never felt so hopeless.
If the Games are as hard as this moment, I might as well not fight. I've never been good at presenting myself, forcing a smile to come through what the others are able to hide. The world tells you to be yourself, and all I've ever done is shy away from that. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'd never have thought Cynder a dolt, not a few years ago. I'm as bad as the others who judge and joke, at least they do it without hiding.
"Tatum Caville, your lovely and beautiful representative from District Six!"
Maybe Giselle's dress is big enough to hide under. I can't walk on that stage, I can't talk and be judged and forever mocked as the girl who either fainted, vomited or punched Caesar Flickerman in his plastic face.
"Tatum Caville," someone nudges my back and I whiz around, glaring at them. The Capitol attendant steps up, his chest thick and arms corded with muscle. Even if I wanted to fight, this guy would drag me onto the stage in a mess of violet lace and throw me into that overgrown chair.
Give in Tatum, do what they want you to do. I take a deep breath, composing myself to the best of my ability, and on I go.
The sound of my high-heels clacking against the stage is swamped by the uproar in the stadium. The stage teeters, my stance clumsy no matter how much Giselle tried to teach me. Left, right, left right. No girl, no falling. Left, right. Head high.
I ignore each and every comment, smiling despite my head clouding, and take my high heels off. I dangle them by my hips as I walk with a gentle patter to the chair. Caesar greets me, bemused, and gestures to the cushion.
He either takes my expression as a joke, or doesn't want to bring it up. Despite the cool air tickling my feet, chilling them comfortingly, I feel as if vomit is fighting its way up my resisting stomach. My face warms, a hot anger radiating from my cheeks. I don't want to be mad, he's not done anything. But he will, they always do, they always say something.
"What a lovely dress Tatum," he compliments, made-up face slathered with a smile. I feel sick to my stomach and shift in the chair, my legs crossing then uncrossing. Since when was sitting down so difficult?
I do my best to feel a twitch in my lips, but that's all it is, a twitch. "Thanks." I say, voice thick with nerves. Caesar latches onto this and lowers his voice, not in volume, but in pitch. That incessant enthusiasm halts, no longer grinding on my ears as he leans in closer to my face.
He smells like a doll dropped in a vat of perfume.
"How about we try to unravel the mystery that is Tatum Caville, huh? I mean, that six, that six was marvelous. Who would have thought it?!" A murmur sweeps the crowd. I play with a ribbon knotted round my waist, twirling the silky edge.
"Yeah, I was pleased." I see Giselle, fuming in her seat. I'm not the lady she wants me to be, I'll never be what anyone wants to be. I'm not even what I want to be.
"Lochlan mentioned you two were together, with Tyndall too. Whatever brought this strange alliance together?"
Tyndall. My stomach coils, his gentle voice, his warm smile. All of it, forcing the sickness up and up and up. "He…" He reminds me of me? Or the me that was hurt and cut apart, the me that had to change because the world was never going to accept her. "He's kind. He's… he's smart."
He's gawky. He's helpful. He's a pushover.
He's you Tatum, the Tatum you pushed away.
"You look a little green," I see his face momentarily flash with disgust. I feel as if a hand is pushing up my throat and squeezing my insides on the way. I don't have the urge to punch him, I don't even have any sense of anger. I just want to… want to cry again? No. No more tears, not if I want to live.
I just want to stop this, all these emotions and confusions about who and what I have to be for the people around me. The careers are vicious cruel monsters, they may hide it behind the confidence up on this stage, but they keep it just on the surface so it's visible.
Lochlan. He's angry, he's always angry, but his biting sarcasm is who he is. He never was anyone else, he never will be. Tyndall. He's emotional when his mind is messing with him, he'll shy away if he feels the pressure budding against him. But he's himself… he's who he always is.
I changed because I thought it was for the best. I wanted to be a person no longer susceptible to the world I live in. And through that, I've become these people. These judgmental, sick, angry bastards who only care about themselves and ridicule others.
I swallow thickly, trying to hold it down. I have to, I can't throw up. Just make the buzzer sound. Please, please.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Tatum Caville!" The buzzer rings a vibration that never sounded so sweet. I sprint upwards, forgetting my shoes and nearly knocking a waiting Ward to his feet. My stomach grumbles with pain, acid burning the back of my throat.
Giselle, Morgan and Denley knew I don't do well with nerves. Caesar brought it all up. Tyndall and Lochlan; subconsciously I chose them as allies because they're two sides of the same coin, the spectrum on which I lie, stuck in the middle and trying to work myself to either end.
I make it to the elevator doors just as a hand grabs my shoulder. Giselle turns me around, face red ripe like a tomato, and up it comes. No words leave her, no chastising remarks, no cruel quips. Only a gasp as vomit drips from her fringe. Shit.
Graeden Peltz, District Seven Male.
"You'll be fine Tirzah," I whisper comfortingly. She shrivels from under my arms and steps back, eyes wide open. "You'll be…"
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, stalking off with her eyes rooted on the floor. Her legs nearly twist awkwardly underneath her, the side equipment shaking in her approach. Luckily my District partner is nimble and she shies away from a catastrophe and glides behind a curtain out of sight.
I sigh and awkwardly pat down a ruffle in my white shirt. If she doesn't want my company then I can't force it on her. For some reason it doesn't sit well with me, my stomach grinding, causing me to slump down and take a seat in chairs aligned on the right hand side.
The backstage area is an open crowd of bumbling Capitolites working on their tech, and us remaining tributes, interacting or staying in the shadows away from others. Tirzah's gone, even though Ward Bingham is nearly finished with his own interview. For my own, all I want to do is be myself, but Tirzah's disapproval has hurt me in a way that it shouldn't.
I don't whine when people try to push me away, but me and Raven, even he knows we're not destined for greatness. Tirzah has her skills, even if she hides away behind that three. I thought if I could break down the barrier, she'd openly throw herself at the chance of a little company. I guess I thought wrong.
When her name rings out from the speakers, I see her shadow shift behind the velvet curtain. She's talented at staying out of sight, Raven picked up on it during training, a little leg poking from the metalwork. She's on the stage in a frilly pink gown, and down she sits.
If there was ever a person encompassing everything that surrounds the word uncomfortable, it would be Tirzah. Her face is squished and squinted as if she'd eaten a whole lemon, or her throat was closing up. Caesar makes a snide little remark about something Tirzah is apparently supposed to find funny, but it blows over her head and she remains straight in her seat.
She gives him nothing. A nod for one question about family, a shake of the head for a little bit about friendship and help in the Arena. Everyone here understands the importance of sponsors and I never had Tirzah pegged down as someone stupid. She isn't, but she's blown that out to sea, she'll be alone in there. Both from the others fighting to remain alive, and the watchers outside the Arena, betting money and providing necessities for those they want to live longer. Tirzah won't be one of them. Sadly, she's rejected every bit of hope I could have lent her.
"Tirzah Ovata everyone!" The clapping is less enthusiastic, anyone could notice that. She doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. I catch a brief look in her eyes when she stares upwards, meeting mine. And then she vanishes in a flurry of pink and the curtains are left wide open for my entrance. My interview in the spotlight.
"From District Seven, Graeden Peltz!"
The stadium comes alive with the buzz of the Capitol. Hands bat away at one another with each footstep on the wooden stage floor. Each pair of eyes, from beach blue to the darkest of blacks, watch me take my seat. A cold sweat chills my back and I sink into the velvet cushion, hands twitching on the arms.
"No need to be nervous, I don't bite," he winks, sending the audience into a fit of giggles. He gnashes his teeth playfully and I awkwardly chuckle, biting on my bottom lip.
"Sorry, I'm not usually like this. I guess a lot rides on how I appear right now."
His lips slink up in a smile and he leans forwards. "Don't worry Graeden, everyone loves you."
"They do?" I ask, honestly shocked. They don't, he's lying. The voice whispers around my head but I let that slide out. Oren continues to mess me about, shunning my happiness, but he's not here right now. If I want to smile, I'll damn well smile!
"Show 'em your pearly whites!" Caesar chirps and bangs his hands together when I allow myself to sink through, holding back the Graeden that shouldn't exist.
I smile and the crowd smiles with me. A warm glow swims around my gut, smoking out the nerves. Tirzah either knew how to play it, or refused anyway. I'm not here to act false or put up a facade. Raven needs me, and when a friend needs me, I do all I can to help them.
"So Graeden, I feel as if you're someone who doesn't doubt their chances in this. We see a lot of sad faces, or at least those who hold it back, but you… you're different. What do you think you bring to the table over your fellow competitors?"
I gulp but glue the smile to my lips. The careers versus me, I stand no chance. I've never even thought about my confidence in actual fighting, not even yesterday when we trained. Is this the real image they get from me, that I'm one of the confident ones? I've always had a level of self-esteem others have struggled to find, but I'm not a violent person.
"Um..." my tongue wraps round the words awkwardly, a weird fuzzy feeling drying up my lips. I smack them together quietly and clear my throat. "Y-Yeah, yeah, I mean it's good to believe you can do it. If you think you're gonna die, well, you're gonna die aren't you?"
"Words of wisdom from our dear Graeden Peltz." He claps me on the back triumphantly and I revel in the applause. Though the subject is morbid, tainted with evil and corruption, the topic will never be avoided. I either face my fears, or die.
The other tributes have the choice of learning or remaining ignorant to what they have to do.
A smile saves sadness, but a knife saves a life. I have to choose between the two. Tirzah made her decision, I need to make mine.
Alton Shelding, District Ten Male.
Her feathers ruffle once more, golden bits of lace attached at each end. The pressure of today and the days to come has built up so much inside, torturing me, that I barely make a single noise when Raelyn hooks her arm into mine. Maybe if I could care more, I'd shrug her off, give her a stern talking to and let her know no matter what we can't be friends… because… well we can't, can we?
Over and over my mentor has repeated the words. Don't trust anyone. Yet I found an alliance and broke the one piece of advice he told me to maintain. Don't trust anyone. Trust kills just as much as any well-timed blade, he told me over and over that even Raelyn, in her time of need, would attack me if it meant her own skin.
Somehow as I look at her feathery dress, crafted and shaped against her curves yet as chicken-like as our chariot outfits, I can see she doesn't pose a threat. The boy on stage, Elijah, he does. The guy from Eleven, he does.
The careers are the biggest killers overall. I wouldn't be surprised if blood has already tainted their hands. Soon enough it will, it makes sense if they're used to murdering innocents before they do it for the fun of it in a real Arena.
Since when did you care so much Alton? I shake my head and glance down at the floor, polished and shining in the spotlight cast onto the stage. I've tried so hard each and everyday to just do what I knew would have to be done when I was reaped. Play it like I always have. Things never matter too much to me, my life in Ten gave me little to cling onto except the fact that it gave me a life to live.
Then it just went on. Day to day, over and over the endless cycle of doing nothing in hope that we'll escape the reaping. But then what? We work our hands raw to the bone, have families that then go off to face the same event we escaped from?
It's a cycle, that maybe, if I wasn't so scared, I'd be happy to see the end of now that I'm a tribute. But I'm a teenager and I know it, whether or not I try to deny it, that I'm terrified. I do… care.
"I don't want to die," I mumble, drawing my feet in invisible circles through the light. Raelyn's presence is still there, but her contact vanished seconds ago.
Kitty is off with her by some metal railing, chatting broadly and loudly. They don't care either, but they don't care in a way that's stupid. They don't care who hears them, what targets they paint for themselves, who sees and pays attention to them.
Davin's weak in the same way. Smiles have no home here in the Capitol, not on our road. Yet I can't say it, because if I don't want people to change me, I can't change them. I'm a hundred and one different things, but I'm no hypocrite.
I watch Raelyn speed forwards in a blur of yellow, skipping merrily past an enthused Elijah who swishes next to me. The Capitol laps up their eagerness, but what Caesar doesn't say is that most Victors, maybe all Victors, are the ones that didn't smile. They kept it real, they played the Game the way it was meant to be played.
Raelyn won't kill. I don't want to either, I shouldn't, I told my parents and sister that I was never coming home. Each day breaks down that twisted promise. Each day I want to fight more and more, and now I see a possibility where I will take the life of one of these tributes, maybe even Raelyn, who with all her smiles can't understand the real message behind the lives we all have. What I have to do boils down to who I can accept being. I'm unsure right now, all I have is Raelyn's interview, then my own to concentrate on. The killing doesn't start until tomorrow.
Sadly, her voice is as grating as it's always been. Soon enough, maybe even Caesar gets annoyed because the buzzer goes off, and Raelyn leaves just as happily as she arrived.
"Good luck Alton, try to smile!"
"Try to shut up," I grumble under my breath. Usually, I'm not so beaten and angry. I'm lazy, sure, that doesn't bother me. I never care or commit, but I still do my bit in the weirdest way to joke around. Morbid humour people have called it, but right now no joke makes its way up my throat and out my mouth. Only a bout of sharp breathing as my chest tightens the moment my name is announced.
Waiting has given my eyes the chance to settle with the light. Luckily when I walk, I don't trip or fall or faint in the burst of heat that wafts from the giant lights rooted into metal structures bolted in the ceiling. Caesar greets me with a handshake and I shake back, maybe not so enthusiastically as he does.
"Alton! How are you my boy?" Straight to it. No dawdling, that's the one thing I like about Caesar. If there is anything to like, it's this.
"Could be better," I shrug my shoulders, "could be worse."
"Typical teenagers huh?" Caesar flashes a wink in the direction of the camera, and the audience, as if they're timed for these reactions, explode in hoots of laughter and applause. I don't find it funny, nothing he ever says is ever perceived as funny in my eyes. Maybe the President forces these people to laugh, I've seen my stylist, but not everyone can be as imbecilic as she is, surely?
"Your friend Raelyn sure is lovely?-" Great, Raelyn. "-you two get along?"
I can almost see her bright eyes staring at the pair of us, either backstage or if she's made it to another television. We're not friends, but I couldn't… I couldn't hate someone just because they're annoying. I hate the careers for being the evil monsters they are. But I don't hate Raelyn.
"We're not two peas in a pod exactly, but we don't hate each other. She's… nice." Why the word is hard to get out, I don't know. I gulp down something that sticks in my throat and Caesar grins fondly back at me.
"Only nice, come on Alton, there must be more than that?"
I shrug my shoulders, uncomfortable, my legs urging to pick me up and carry me away. "She's nice, that's all I have to say."
Caesar prattles on about some of the other tributes, over and over saying names of people I don't want to, nor will, connect with. They know me by know, my neutral words, how I feel about them and everything else. Maybe Caesar gives up on me as well, in a second the buzzer dings out loudly, vibrating the chair, and I leave too quickly.
The audience laugh and clap behind me, but I don't wait for anything. The elevator doors have never looked so beautiful. I run to them, and up I go. As far away from hell as I can be.
Cynder Duke, District Five Male.
My knees rock forwards and backwards in time to the gentle pattering of rain. The sun has vanished behind thick set, heavy black clouds and the Capitol has finally calmed down. No one goes out in bad weather, the Capitol's materialism is for sun, heat and humidity. I relax with a smile into the cushions of the armchair and close my eyes, letting the world slink into darkness, my own dreams buzzing alive…
"Cynder." I jerk upwards, biting back a shriek in the direction of Taryn. Her face contorts with guilt, though the moment I shroud my displeasure with a quick grin, she settles and laughs gently.
"Sorry for waking you." I brush it off and prop my elbows behind me, pushing upwards so I'm leaning towards her. "Kinnard wanted one final meeting."
"What Kinnard wants, Kinnard gets," I snicker, rolling my eyes and standing up. My knees buckle, a stagger in my step. Taryn helps, providing her shoulder to lean on and we walk together to the table. It's been a long, long day. Prep, then conversation, then more prep with stylists and escort, then when I was assessed finally, more prep because there always constantly seemed to be something out of place.
By the time the interviews began, more specifically my one, the world had pissed me off. All along I had it planned that I'd mask my intelligence with humour, controlling statistics or scientific facts about chances with a gentle joke. It worked because it always has.
Ward sees me, a bubbly sprightly young man who opted to ally with him over Celene. He knows I have my strategies, but he doesn't know the true extent. Caesar and the whole of Panem, they saw a ditz like Davin, Raelyn and all the others that would rather live their last moments in happiness than plan how to actually procure a longer life.
And then Taryn, Kinnard and Celene. I spend most of my time with them, each of them providing difficulties, each providing another incentive for why I can't break down. Kinnard's depressed, constantly and always. His emotions drain the life from anything, yet he won with his mind, Kinnard would know a fellow intellect if he saw one.
Taryn, she's optimistic. Her and Celene are two branches from the same tree. Celene's a little girl submerged in a world out to get her, and she's oblivious to it, turning to creativity rather than reason. Anything I say to her would be perceived as intelligent. I left her because I knew she would lead to death, her alliance is doomed because she won't know how to protect them. They're all just fatalities waiting to happen…
I snap out of my haze and my eyes hover over the dining table. For one last night, we're collected together in our misery. Celene's face is twisted with fear, eyes wide. My own heart palpitates, nothing but a throbbing in my chest that hurts everything. Maybe we are all smiles – with the exception of Kinnard – but the atmosphere tonight destroys any semblance of joy.
Taryn grips onto my hand, gently squeezing it between her fingers. I nod warmly, fear thickening my throat, and slump down in a chair next to Celene.
"You did good today Cynder, they all loved you." Celene's voice cuts my heart. Maybe I only see her killing those around her, maybe she is destined to die, but she's… she's Celene. Despite breaking her initial hopes, she never insulted me or called me out. The night after I severed our alliance, she smiled and laughed with me. We acted like friends when there was no hope for a friendship.
Tonight, we're united in our future.
"Caesar couldn't get enough of you Celene." I miss out the part that she won't understand. A ditzy, oblivious girl, blessed with beauty is a target for anyone. The Capitol is a vile place. Celene doesn't understand how precious she would be to some people. "No one could ever dislike you."
Taryn stares between the pair of us. Kinnard, his brow furrowed and stuck staring at the window behind my head. Silent as a funeral.
"The pair of you did splendidly. I couldn't be more pleased." Her voice is laced with sadness. Taryn can hide behind a smile, lock her true meaning behind words that are smothered with lies. But nothing she does can hide what I really see there, lurking in her tone. She sees Celene, dead. Me, dead. Her hopes, dead.
This past decade, District Five has been lucky. Two victors within a gap not too large to abandon the chance of having another Victor. I can try and distance myself from their sorrow, play it smart like the Cynder I've hidden would, manipulate the manipulable. But right now in our joint despair, I can't do anything but cling to my fear. Celene stares at me with a watery smile. Maybe she's not as deluded as I imagined, maybe she understands that tomorrow… tomorrow she might be dead.
"Kinnard, you wanted to see us."
He peeks away from the rain and twitches. "I did." He says, shrugging his shoulders.
"And…?" Not even I can joke about Kinnard right now. For all his flaws, he's helped. He told me about how to play it with Ward, even as oblivious as I acted, he still tuned into helping my survival. His words are golden, as much as what Taryn has to say might comfort Celene.
"He does this every year." Taryn mumbles, sliding a hand into Kinnard's. He shifts awkwardly but breaks no contact, remaining rigid in his chair, fingers intertwined with his fellow Victor's.
"I just… wanted to say. Y-You two," his face contorts with… something. His eyes break, a tear dangling on his eyelash. "I just wanted to you say that you two, you two deserve so much better. Nothing can make up for what you're about to go through. We'll miss you," I notice the gentle squeeze of his fingers, sharing a moment with Taryn. "We'll both miss you."
Celene steps from the table to embrace the pair of them. I will my legs to move but they glue to the chair, rooting me in place.
They'll miss us. They see no hope, no spark of a Victor. Was it wise for me to play it dumb? For all the plans I had, the way Ward and I connected and played it all, him observing, me fighting… I forgot the real point of it all. Strength. Valour. The Games are about the strongest of the strong coming out on top, the Capitol loves a Victor who encompasses their ideals.
And I dumped them all so I could, what? Rebel against my parents?
I look down at the floor, tucking my hands into the folds of my shirt. Maybe it's Celene who will make it far. Maybe she'll make it far because she never hid behind a wall, she never played anyone for a fool. She was herself. Individualism is better than what I've been doing.
Tomorrow I could die… tomorrow I will die. All because, no matter what I say, I never truly understood anything.
Sorry for the late update, pretty much for the same reasons as the last chapter. I've spoken to a few people and they've apologised for not reviewing because they're pretty behind, if anyone is not reviewing cause they've got a lot to catch up on, y'all can just start with this chapter and forget about ones you have missed. Honestly, I have no problem with that since it'll be easier for those of you behind :)
Although we've nearly reached 24 tributes for the new SYOT published on my profile, we're still happy to accept tributes of either gender so don't be put off at all. I hope some of you will consider sending in a tribute.
Those who have noted the problem with the blog, it's because I deleted that one and made a new one. I didn't like the layout, it was too big and messy so the link to the more simple blog is on my profile :)
Favourite out of these six and why?
Which alliance do you see being the first to die out?
Which career do you see being the first to fall?
Only one more Capitol chapter left, then the Games begin!