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Year 75, August, First day of training.
"You're going to be late for training, Cecelia," Plutarch said, with everything Cecelia liked about him hidden behind that usual unflappable mask. The one that screamed 'pleasant sociopath'. "You're not even wearing your uniform."
Priorities, Archie. Priorities. Cecelia was about to not so much as step on his toes than jump on them with spiked shoes. She saw no other alternative.
And what was he doing out in the corridor with the four senior gamemakers at ten in the morning?
The aforementioned four were actively avoiding her gaze. Their kind had more blood on their hands than all the victors put together, and they weren't allowed to sponsor, so even Brutus and Mags had only made minimal efforts to get to know them. Interestingly, none of them had bought a victor, not for themselves at least. Cecelia was good at conveniently forgetting people's crimes, and it had been easier to explain her spending time with Plutarch by getting close to the merry band of child murderers he worked with.
Let's hope I don't die so you won't feel bad, right, guys?
"May I have a word, Lucia?" Cecelia asked, poking her head to single out the woman hiding behind the much larger Valentinian. Cecelia would milk that guilt for all it was worth.
If Plutarch hadn't also hung back, Cecelia would have grabbed him by the balls and made sure he did. Big picture or not, these were his kids, and he'd better stand up for them. If Cecelia had to make a public declaration and slip him a paternity test, then she would.
Lucia Templesmith didn't just ignore fashion, she flaunted her disdain of it. She wore her hair cropped-short and there wasn't a trace of powder on her ebony skin. Cecelia had never seen her wearing anything other than her white work blouse. Since her uncle was Claudius Templesmith, a solid grasp of mutt science had been enough to land one of Panem's most prized positions. Lucia loved mutts, those things crawled all over her house, but better yet, she loved kids –other people's well behaved kids- and Cecelia had let her babysit on more than one occasion.
"Lucia, I'm calling on that favor you owe me," Cecelia said when Lucia's strained expression told her she had time for a two minute pitch. "I want Charles, Victoria and Camlet in the Capitol as soon as possible. Eight is rebelling, with me gone and only Moire left to watch them, it's not safe." Cecelia's throat constricted. "And not just because Moire, or any young victor," she muttered heatedly, "isn't my first choice of babysitter."
The relief on Lucia's face made Cecelia itch to both slap her and smile in rueful resignation. Glad I didn't ask you to save my own life?
"The rebels will use them on their posters, they won't care what my opinions are. And if peacekeepers fall for it, and arrests my kids, I…" A large, very much unfaked, stone lodged itself in Cecelia's throat.
Tears. The last memory she had of them were screams and tears and prying their arms away before a peacekeeper hurt them.
She wanted her children in the Capitol. She wanted it public knowledge, she wanted them stalked by the media, because the media might harass them but they wouldn't lay a finger on them, and they'd make sure her babies were treated right. They'd be right under Snow's nose, but better here than hiding in Eight's sewers.
Plutarch was looking at her with that inscrutable expression of his. It's not that I don't trust you, Archie. They all had contingency plans. Cecelia would trust Plutarch with her life, she was trusting him with her life, but Charles, Victoria and Camlet deserved more than her passive faith in the man.
If push came to shove how high did Cecelia stand? Katniss, Finnick or even Beetee were so much more useful to the rebellion.
Cecelia forced a hopeful smile and swallowed back her cynicism. She'd told Mags she'd try to believe and believe she would.
"I think…" Lucia's frown deepened, but her whole face had lit up. Cecelia inwardly cheered. Lucia would go to sleep feeling like a fine person tonight. "I know I can do that. They'll be here. You'll probably get to see them." She turned to Plutarch, "No objections, boss?"
Together, those two had to be the most boring-looking Capitolites Cecelia knew. How could Snow not suspect Plutarch…
"You two are some of the Capitol's finest people," Cecelia said, her gray eyes crinkling as she smiled. She chuckled, relief pouring out of her lungs. "Lucia, if Victoria wants a pet, check the claws and fangs, and don't listen when she says she wants one that can shoot a bow."
The Capitol wouldn't be allowed to pretend her children didn't exist.
The doors to the training room slid open and Finnick strode in, a chiseled smile on his face.
Her arm using his as support, Mags felt his muscles loosen and his shoulders straighten as he glanced upon the facilities. Instead of a strong sense of déjà vu, Mags simply blinked: everything had been rearranged, replaced and modernized, from the mats on the floor to the polished beams in the fitness area.
Only the ceiling, as tall as four men, remained unchanged. Halfway up, the walls opened to reveal a second floor. This year, the formerly empty zone was furnished with chairs and tables for minimal refreshments. That was new. Five chairs, like the number of senior gamemakers. Would they have an audience this year?
"I'm going to explore," Finnick said, with a soft parting kiss on her head. "I'll start with snares."
Mags made her way to weapons practice and pressed one of the control buttons. She stared in narrow-eyed fascination as human shaped holograms sprang out of the walls. Could this be turned into a war weapon? She couldn't see how, and allowed herself to admire the technology.
Wiress and Beetee came in fifteen minutes before the ten o'clock gong. Mags could see them drinking in every detail, their suspicious gazes lingering on the empty chairs of the second floor. Mags blinked. Had she imagined? Was that -? The second shimmer put her doubts to rest. A forcefield she hadn't noticed at first glance separated the training rooms from the potential watchers. Her lips twitched. Shimmering forcefields were a sign of power generators pushed too hard. Snow was all posturing but his resources were dwindling.
"Must we?" Wiress said, a shadow in her eyes as she gestured around the room. A huff left her lips at the lack of choice in the electronics section.
Beetee already looked bored. "Dare I hope our Career friends will do anything other than show how solid and predictable they are to loyalist sponsors?"
He didn't have to wait long.
It wasn't the smooth slide of automatic doors but the rhythmic fall of heavy steps that announced Brutus and Enobaria. Where Brutus marched tall and stiff, Enobaria wore a cruel, eager smile, her golden sharpened teeth well in sight. She all but skipped to the knife racks, pulling out a handful with triumphant glee.
Beetee rolled his eyes and turned away. "Why do I constantly set myself up for disappointment… Let's go, Wiress."
Mags winced. The room acoustics were excellent and both Enobaria and the hidden but omnipresent microphones had heard him.
Enobaria bared her teeth at Three's victors' backs. Between her fingers, twin knives began twirling with increasing speed. Mags' hair rose on end and she itched to slap the weapons out of the woman's hands. Mags had punished trainees for less: such antics were the best way to slice off one's fingers. But this wasn't FLASH, and the Capitol's cameras relished in such theatrics.
They'd burned FLASH. FLASH's days were over.
Mags' eyes flickered to the forcefield. The first gamemaker had come, Anastasia, in a body-hugging luscious black and purple corseted dress that covered her from neck to toe. Mags gave a nod in salute. Every victor from the sixties and seventies owed their trademark tunes, music and the light effects superimposed over arena close-ups to the raven-haired woman with the fondness for black lace and alcoholic ice-creams.
Had they crafted their arena any differently, once they'd known who'd be sent in? Anastasia nodded back to Mags, too much of a gamemaker to betray any guilt.
"I'm so glad to see you here, Wiress."
Mags' eyes snapped back towards the other victors. Enobaria had intercepted Beetee and Wiress halfway to the first-aid station. Gone was the lazy slouch in her posture, the permanent tight-lipped frown, Enobaria was taller, gliding with predatory grace and poised to strike.
The Hunger Games. Mags shuddered. Now she could feel them.
"Oops," Enobaria said when the knife in her hand 'slipped' and cut off one of Wiress' locks, announcing clearly that her friendship with Mercury would mean nothing in the arena.
Wiress jumped back, her face pale as she fled. Mags stood frozen. Absorbing the scene, these people, her people, in uniform, standing like teenagers, as if they'd never outgrown being tributes... Mags had spent too long on the other side and now she belatedly wondered what role she could possibly take. Should she be the fourth wall? Forcing the cameras not to see her like a tribute ? But without her voice, with her body so slow and creaky…
Beetee hadn't moved. "Mercury said no one sane would come to the Capitol this year." His tone was too polite, and Mags tensed waiting for the bite. "But she said that you should be flattered that she considered it for your sake."
A few steps behind Enobaria, Brutus' face darkened, because he was a mentor at the core, and leaving fellow victors with no lifeline in the arena was unforgivable. It would never cross his mind that Mags had forbidden Nori, and Annie of course, to come with them. Mags wondered, what kind of reasoning Brutus had forced upon his brain, how he'd managed to make this right enough to avoid a psychotic break before the arena. Had he convinced himself that it was Katniss' fault for thinking that her act of defiance could measure up to the Capitol? Maybe it was District Eleven's fault, for forgetting that Cato and Clove and every Career volunteer before them had died just like sweet little Rue had? Or that maybe the Quell was necessary, because the threat of starvation looming over Eight, Six and Three was due to rebels forgetting who would suffer first when they'd blow up train lines and torch storage houses.
Enobaria on the other hand, did look as touched by Beetee's words as she could get away with.
"I see you nicked Brutus to remind him you're now his equal." Beetee added, and while Mags was too far to see if one of Enobaria's knives had drawn blood, she was chilled by the cruel smile slowly lighting Beetee's face. "At least one of us is going to die doing what they love."
With the cameras there, the Twos couldn't shrug it off. Mags stood up, her legs animated by a will of their own and they lead her to the weapon racks. She couldn't let this happen. They weren't eighteen anymore. They weren't strangers. They weren't enemies.
Her eyes flickered to the forcefield once more. Valentinian and Mazaris had joined Anastasia. Mazaris was already jotting down notes on a jeweled table. He was the Gamemakers' eyes and ears, a pretty boy on top of fashion with a lovable personality who collected statistics and feedback to give the Capitol the story it desired. Was something holding Plutarch and Lucia back?
Enobaria's lips spread into an insolent smile that stank of bloodlust, "I'll make you dance, Beetee, and that quick mind of yours will calculate the exact amount of blood left in your veins until the moment I spare you the indignity of blacking out."
"Brutus let you cut him to soothe your nerves," Beetee said, each word dripping with condescension. "He just can't help looking out for the young ones."
Mags had to pull with both hands, and the axe almost dragged her down with it, but the sound the weapon made crashing to the floor had the three turn towards her.
"Stop," Mags said sharply. Where there had once been only respect, pity plagued Brutus' gaze as he forced himself to face her. She should have expected it but a part of her died right there.
"Someone here needs looking after," Finnick called, crouched next to Wiress near the plants station.
Beetee gave Mags a sideways glance, but his hostility vanished when he realized how shaken Wiress was. He strode off towards Wiress, and Brutus turned his back to go pick up a bundle of spears as if nothing had happened.
"You can't scream, old lady, so there's no point in dragging it on. I'll make it quick," Enobaria promised, her golden teeth gleaming as she glowered at Mags.
Mags' bit back a small smile, held back by the terrible knowledge that they believed it. The Twos were steeling themselves to murder them.
She gave Finnick a thankful nod, hoping she wouldn't have to witness them all regressing into their tribute personalities. Her own memories were fuzzy, muddled by age and the Capitol's tampering. She vaguely remembered a boy, Jay, from Nine, she'd thrown a spear at him –or was it a trident?- for insulting her. It was Constantine, and the chaos he left in his wake just before the interviews, that she remembered most vividly.
To think we'd never have met had that boy not been so thirsty for drama, Cereus.
Seeder and Chaff came in with Head Trainer Atala, seconds before the gong sounded ten, the official beginning of practice. One quick look at the room had Atala decide to wait for more tributes before starting the day.
"Good morning," Seeder said, and it sounded so genuine that even Brutus' shoulders slumped. Her eyebrows shot up as she turned to Mags. "Mags, you're certain you want to go with the axe?"
Mags grinned, opening her arms to receive a gladly returned hug.
"I told Katniss how I saved Rue's family," Seeder whispered in her ear. "She feels she owes me. Should I take advantage of that tell her something?"
Mags raised her eyebrows, warmed by the news. Seeder sounded like she'd had an adventurous year. Mags finally shook her head. It wasn't Katniss' role to fix this. "Not yet."
"Why are you here, Mags, Finn? Peacekeepers aren't setting foot in District Four unless you say so. Chaff and I turned ourselves in, despite being on the run since our Village burned two months after the Tour," Seeder said with pursed lips, "because we didn't want peacekeepers using us as an excuse to shoot even more people, but you?"
Seeder wasn't keeping her voice low, and the thuds and strikes from Brutus and Enobaria had definitely slowed before picking up again.
"Four not priority… as long as I... and Finn obey."
"So they'll use the forces they'd have used to round you up on Eleven instead, thanks, Mags," Seeder said, her snippy tone belied by the warmth in her eyes.
The buzz of opening doors had them turn, Johanna, followed by Woof. Mags' eyes creased with worry. He didn't look well. Woof's memory wasn't what it once been, and his temper had grown more volatile in old age, but this… Anti-anxiolytics, calming drugs, whatever it was, Mags didn't like it. And where was Cecelia?
"Come," she told Woof, disquieted to see him stumble heavily.
"Bugs and plants," Woof said, his deep voice pasty. "I better learn."
"Fine," Mags said. They'd all spend weeks drugged to keep up with their mentor duties or simply have their wits about them when reality became too dark, but she hoped Woof still knew his limits.
She peered curiously when Katniss and Peeta came in. Atala finally decided to give them their welcome speech and usual training advice. Mags debated whether to throw a bandage roll at the Capitol woman but feared her aim would fail her.
"Woof, no," Mags said for the third time, preventing her old friend from eating another poisoned bug. Had they not given him breakfast?
Don't make me play the 'look you drove him to suicide' angle.
Mags remembered the time she had almost given up in face of the hostility displayed by all victors against each other, their refusal to cooperate even when they were cordial. After over fifteen years, her drive had threatened to fail her. It had been Woof who'd come to her during the 29th and tell her to keep trying.
Look at us both, one drugged and half-deaf, the other half-mute who can barely climb stairs.
"Woof!" Mags hissed as he picked up the bug he'd just put down.
His lips twitched as a blush colored his face. The rascal was doing this on purpose. Mags glowered, her eyes crinkling despite herself.
Cashmere and Gloss came together at eleven, with a theatrical yawn to make sure nobody remained oblivious to how merrily they'd slept in. The reaping tape revealed that they'd both volunteered, sauntering upstage with crafted eerie playfulness before their names could be called. It had been their names, the escort hadn't left any doubt on that. After the prostitution scandal that had freed them from their clients before the 74th –and Mags didn't doubt the Capitol had loved Katniss and Peeta so dearly because such innocent, noble love made them forget the horrors that had been brought to light- Cashmere and Gloss come back twice to the Capitol, to reaffirm their love for the people and assure them they didn't blame them for the actions of a few criminals. The golden siblings were more popular than ever, topped only by Finnick, Katniss and Peeta on the charts, and Donna had told Mags that many expected the two victor rule to remain valid another year.
Naïve as only Capitolites can be…
A sharp pain filled Mags' chest. Had one sibling decided to protect the other? Was that a conversation they would not have? She left them to Finnick. She'd breathe so much easier once they all were safe. Mags was certain they'd be saved just before the bloodbath, or on the way to the arena, where Capitol guards were few and all the victors together. It would also save the stylist, Cinna, who fed the fires of the rebellion with every new magnificent dress he made for Katniss.
Mags turned and smiled as she heard soft laughter reach her ears. Katniss, coiled like a tense bow as always, was with Wiress and Beetee, and she wondered what they'd managed to tell her to almost remove the fear in her eyes.
Strangers, they were all strangers to the girl, all enemies that had to be killed.
Mags knew she was maybe the least threatening person in the room. She left Woof to Finnick and went alone in a corner with some string. She gleefully realized she still was dexterous enough to make fish hooks without stabbing her own finger or needing a magnifying glass.
Mags smothered back a grin as Katniss walked over to her. The poor child had no idea how closely each of her moves was tracked.
"That's beautiful," Katniss said, her sudden softness making something melt in Mags' heart. "I saw you volunteer for that young girl. That was really brave."
Mags shook her head and puts her hand on Katniss' shoulder. Born in Twelve, so ignorant and yet so brave. Mags was glad that the rebellion had taken off with such a noble symbol.
"Prim is my sister," Katniss muttered.
Mags' eyes crinkled with sympathy. She knew all about Primrose Everdeen. The Mockingjay made no sense without the sweet twelve-year-old. Mags' sympathy deepened as she saw Katniss fight her own fear, look past Mags' objective uselessness, to find something that could bind them together a little more. The Capitol tried to divide them with prejudice, to isolate them with ignorance, but they had failed the day Katniss had accepted an ally and decided her fight also included little Rue from Eleven.
"If you um...if you teach me how to make a fish hook like that, I could teach you how to hunt," Katniss said.
Mags didn't allow the laugh to leave her lips at the ridiculous suggestion. The girl meant well and probably had no experience with anyone older than forty. She hoped Katniss would find it in her to at least train with each person in the room.
When Katniss stepped in the training booth with her bow, the first golden holograms rushed after her. She knocked her bow and released after less than a second's hesitation, making the first burst in a shower of golden pixels. Mags eagerly waved Finnick and Johanna over.
Soon everyone was behind the training booth glass, staring at the youngest victor. Katniss was far from the skinny, hostile little thing that had stunned them all the year before. She had grown into a striking woman and moved with lethal confidence, nocking arrows and releasing them with barely a breath in between, running and turning with incredible agility to meet the enemies coming from all sides. Few arrows missed and not a single of the holograms managed to so much as brush the raven-haired girl. Finally Katniss emptied her quiver and the program stopped, leaving her to blink like a hawk at her unexpected audience.
Wiress began to clap.
Let's hope you'll never need those arrows, child.
Finnick entered Cashmere and Gloss' quarters after a courtesy knock.
He frowned as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. With streetlights as their only light source, the two were playing some kind of game on the living room table involving piled cutlery. They were both cross-legged and barefoot on their respective chairs. Finnick's lips melted into a smile. He rarely caught them in the cute moments.
"Mags wants a word with the two of you, come on," Finnick said, handing them both a pair of shoes. Ones fit for running. The two shared a look, slipped on the shoes, and followed him out.
Obviously, Mags had nothing to say. She didn't socialize past 9 pm. Cashmere's eyebrows steadily rose as Finnick led them to the bottom floor and towards the door the avoxes used to enter and exit the building.
"We've got a party to crash," Finnick said as they reached the gate, guarded by two Homeguards.
Finnick winced in pity as the two men lacked so much as a chance to ask them what they were doing. One's Careers were taught four methods of silently incapacitating their enemy while leaving minimal bruising. Finnick almost felt self-conscious when Cashmere gently accompanied the larger Homeguard's fall to the ground and flipped her hair at him with a smile.
"Why are we risking jail time exactly?" Gloss inquired.
Finnick snorted. They were so beyond jail as worries went.
"We can't leave before saying goodbye to our dear sponsors," Finnick replied. Cashmere's smile turned delightfully scheming. "Let's run."
They ran. The hard Capitol streets had little in common with Creneis' soft paths and crunchy sand but a hard wave of homesickness crashed into Finnick. Last he had run, he'd been holding hands with Annie. Could she be pregnant? Was she alright? Was she -
"Witnesses," Gloss breathed, pulling him back to the present.
"Hey, you're Finnick Odair!" A teenaged boy amidst a group of friends called out from the streets. "And that's Cashmere and Gloss!"
"Wasn't allowed to go to my own party if you can believe it!" Finnick called back.
They finally reached the luxurious hotel hosting the second Games' soiree. Had Finnick forgotten the exact address, they'd just have had to follow the taxis.
"They're waiting for us," Cashmere said haughtily, breezing past the stunned bouncers like a queen.
She unexpectedly snapped back towards Finnick. "What was that crap about not committing to a Career alliance earlier?"
"I said I'll think about it. Maybe I want to ally with Jo and Katniss and put a trident through your pretty chest," Finnick deadpanned.
Cashmere's long nails dug painfully into his wrist. "I'm itching to split your skull in two and see what I can get from your brain, stop being so obtuse."
"Careful, you're starting to sound like Enobaria."
"You're way too chipper for a guy about to enter the arena with Mags," Cashmere muttered heatedly.
Maybe Finnick had really become as pretentious as Haymitch said, because he pretended not to hear her. They'd forgive him once this was over.
"Look sharp," Gloss said, his casual arrogance wrapped in an aura of danger slipping over him like a second skin.
It was in rather casual clothes, with minimal makeup, that Gloss, Cashmere and Finnick walked in the large reception room hosting the second Games' soiree, and never, never, had they made such an entrance.
Glass shattered and a woman screamed as a wine waiter hit her with a fount of champagne. The socialites first parted, shock pulling them back, but slowly smiles, hungry, relieved, or truly happy, climbed on their painted faces, and they rushed to greet their favorite victors.
Finnick basked in the attention, pulled back to reality by the expression on the Twos' faces. Lyall was too experienced to betray himself, but his eyes could have chipped steel. Bahamut hid behind a huge plate of pastries, his face abnormally flushed, and not by alcohol.
Lyme, never a delicate lady, wore a sleeveless panther shirt that made her muscled arms and shoulders look like weapons in their own right. Her expression was open and pleasant, but the tension in her every limb betrayed that the only thing that kept the presidential building from going up in flames was Lyme's fear that Snow would escape.
Haymitch raised a glass of what Finnick hoped was juice cocktail, his eyes narrowed at the three of them.
Immediately a man blocked Finnick's sight of Haymitch, and a young woman -was that Nevaeh?- almost fell to her knees grabbing his sleeve and begging for his attention.
Finnick gracefully disentangled himself and quickly scanned the crowd with practiced eyes to find the man he was looking for, almost hidden in his high-collared black suit.
DeCharon seemed to have felt the need to erase any doubt he was in fact an undertaker.
"Mr. DeCharon, Sir, I'm going to need you!" Finnick called joyfully, leading Cashmere and Gloss up to the undertaker, who was with Cinna, his ex-apprentice and District Twelve's prodigy stylist, surrounded by a legion of fans.
An anguished cry tore the air. "Don't say that!"
Finnick lifted his eyes skywards. "Oh don't worry… I -"
His eyes locked with Cleopatra, the woman who'd screamed, one of his loyal clients, a beauty of many secrets. She was crying. Finnick knew she didn't fancy herself in love with him. Suddenly, the pain on her face felt painfully true.
Something broke in his voice and Finnick found tears of anger prickling the corner of his eyes. These people were too thickheaded to comprehend starvation, or precarity, but they were supposed to care for their idols, damn it! Neither he, Cashmere or Gloss should be here, not after everything they'd given to the Capitol!
It was too late, the Capitol had seen his tears.
Finnick turned his head away, but instead of uselessly erasing it all with a smile, he decided to let the weight on his chest build. One look at Gloss, at the shadow under Cashmere's azure eyes, and sobs finally wracked his chest.
"I'm sorry," Finnick said, his fist balled before his mouth. "I just…"
"We had to come," Cashmere said, her melodic voice trembling as she wrapped her arm around Finnick's waist. "Look at us, we're barely clothed but …" She blushed and cleared her throat. "We couldn't just… not say goodbye."
"So we can surmise you'll be allies, then?" Whoever the man was, Snow would surely give him a medal for trying to keep this about the Hunger Games.
"I don't know." Finnick shared a loaded look with Cashmere. "I don't know if I could stand being there when one of them -"
"We can't afford to take Mags with us," Gloss declared, placing his hand protectively on his sister's shoulder. "She can barely walk."
"Mags and I are a package deal," Finnick said with a hard smile, taking a step back from the siblings.
"Finnick? Cashmere? What - Did I miss? Are the others here?" Effie Trinket had suddenly appeared, her wig slightly askew and her usual overblown smile looking unexpectedly genuine. "Cecelia's children just arrived and they needed a babysitter on very short notice. It's a hassle, they're upset of course, and -".
"Effie, breathe," Finnick said slowly as the woman managed to flush even under her makeup.
Finnick truly admired Cecelia for her ability to expose her children just enough to give them their best chance. His heart constricted. He'd so love for his and Annie's kids to call Charles, Vicky and Camlet 'cousin'.
"That's good," Cashmere whispered. "I won't fall over myself to let Cecelia live, but if her munchkins stop these games, I'll hang her portrait in my bedroom."
Finnick realized too late that the relative quiet around them was due to the Twos deciding they'd had enough attention.
Lyall's white beard did little to soften his figure and Finnick was glad he didn't have a sword. Bahamut and Lyme flanked the older victor and no Capitolite now dared step in a ten yard radius of them.
"You clowns quite finished telling the President what he must do? Your sledgehammer subtlety is killing our chances," Lyall hissed, his face inches from Finnick's.
"We had a chance?" Finnick challenged with an incredulous smile.
Lyall's face darkened and if it had been anyone else, Finnick knew he'd have heard a bitter sigh, but the man who'd pulled Brutus out of the arena over three decades before and who had given him back his sanity just grabbed Finnick's shoulder, his grip hard enough to bruise. "Let's hope your people skills don't fail you this time… I've got a job to do."
Finnick found Lyme in his personal space before Lyall had even left it.
"Tell me you're saving him," Lyme said, her broad shoulders almost blocking the light.
"Best I know," he said, flashing a smile he willed winning.
It was her cool, modulated tone that scared him. If she was afraid to drop her mask even for one moment, then her emotions were running dangerously raw.
"The arena?"
"If it comes to that," Finnick replied, his smile gone, "you must get away." He suspected Lyme would understand 'if Brutus dies' instead of 'if we put a foot in that bloody arena', but in the end, he knew she'd move. "Are they really that oblivious?" Finnick added, too curious to let the opportunity pass. Neither Brutus or Enobaria had hinted at rebellion, and Finnick had been paying close attention.
Lyme snorted. Finnick stiffened, fearing a blow. Whoever would be at the receiving end of Lyme's pent up violence wouldn't be getting up.
"Her, not that much," Lyme finally answered. "But she feels she's stuck. Him? Oh yes, he's always been." But he's my friend, the painful affection in her voice screamed.
"This is it," Finnick said with a smile he hated himself for donning so easily.
Mags had always said that Lyme was sharper than most Twos, but Lyme was undeniably a Two of Two's Victor Village, and he couldn't imagine what those simple words, this is it, could mean to the fifty-year-old woman. For him, for Jo and the others, it was a promise of freedom, for Lyme, it was the certainty her district would be torn apart.
"Guys, guys, break it up."
One of the bouncers had walked up to them. Finnick realized he was almost pressed to the wall and that Lyme could probably crush him where he stood.
He suddenly had a plan.
"What do you want me to say, Lyme?" Finnick snapped, his voice building into a shout. Around him, socialites interrupted their conversations to stare. He doubted he'd raised his voice in anger in public since his arena days. "I'm twenty-five, Brutus was soon to retire anyway!"
Lyme roughly grabbed him by the collar, her muscles bulging as she lifted him up.
"Kid, if you wanted sponsors, you should have told Nori and Annie to haul ass and cover yours. Get out!"
Finnick winced in pain. "You'll never get enough sponsors to beat me," he spat. His feet were barely touching the floor.
Lyme's tightening grip was his only warning. An undignified yelp left his lips as Finnick crashed on the buffet table. People gasped and jumped out of the way as Finnick rolled -maybe a bit exaggeratedly- over pasties and rolls, ruining costly dresses and polished shoes as plates and wine fountains were upturned.
Soaked in dipping sauces, Finnick stood up with as much dignity as he could muster. He chuckled softly, as if suddenly remembering he had an audience, and removed his stained shirt, letting it drop to the floor. He straightened, cracking his flirtatious smile back in place as four hundred pairs of eyes found themselves riveted on his bare torso. "Who wants one last group picture?" He barely blinked as the flashes started blinding him. "Come'ere, Cashmere, Gloss, it's going to be a limited edition."
He couldn't have planned it better when Leslie Rosier, that pawing rich man Finnick knew all too well, threw up all over his shoes, backing away from the three as if he couldn't bear to watch further.
Effie Trinket stifled a sob, but Twelve's escort was more controlled than most. The room seemed to have darkened, with men and women actually seating on the floor to collect themselves. Still, they wouldn't leave. Missing out on the action, no matter how obscene, was so much worse than making the moral choice.
"Do you want a group deal? I could make a memorial for all Career Districts," DeCharon said, his professional tone so out of place that Effie almost choked. He spread his arms, a fashionable grim reaper had Finnick ever seen one. "District One, Two and Four, the eternal alliance. Three generations of victors."
"That sounds cozy, Gloss," Cashmere said, slipping into her brother's arms. "What do you think?"
Finnick's eyes flickered to Lyme. He repressed a wince at her expression. He'd check every morning until the arena if there were flames coming out of the presidential palace.
"I think it's fitting," Effie unexpectedly said, a stubborn hardness to her tearful eyes. "You should rest here. There's so few people in Victor's Village, even in Two and... everyone who cares about you is here. We're like family, all of us." Her breath hitched. "To think Katniss and Peeta were about to get married and start a family!"
Finnick almost forgot himself before he plastered a touched smile on his lips.
Effie Trinket had just dug her own grave. Finnick swore to never have a bad thought about the woman ever again.
"A toast," Gloss called. Finnick, still shirtless, turned to see him standing on the table. "To every beautiful memory we shared."
His order rippled through the room and no one seemed able to resist. Hundreds of glasses were raised in the air, and the crowd started to press towards the victors as people finally realized they may really have no other chance.
Finnick could see Cleopatra crying in a corner and yet unable to tear her eyes off him. Would this be enough? Or would he just make the Capitol's psychoanalysts very busy for the months to come?
Gloss downed his glass and slammed it down on the table.
"We'd stay but we really can't afford to waste our strength," he said, with a vulnerable bad boy vibe that Finnick could never match. "Bedtime." Gloss forced a smirk that wouldn't have fooled a toddler. Was that a tear at the corner of his eye? Nice. "Finn here can entertain you until dawn."
"Nice try, Gloss, but I love you too, so I forgive you," Finnick replied, giving the man a pat on the back.
He caught Haymitch's gaze as he left the room.
Later, it said.
Finnick belatedly realized how badly he still stank of food.
Glynn sat at the edge of the buffet table, her hazel eyes assessing the mood as Finnick left with the Ones.
Tears and anguish was not enough, these people needed to be told what to do. It was just a matter of having orders come from an innocent source. Or one already condemned but too beloved by the average socialite to be suspicious.
In this occasion, Glynn chose the most readily available commodity: drunkenness.
The female lavatories was one of the very few places without camera surveillance. It was also ridiculously crowded. Glynn pulled her makeup out of her bag and squeezed her way to the mirror, next to an inebriated, sniffing woman desperately trying to set her makeup right.
"Here, let me," Glynn began.
Less than half an hour later, people were still chatting their sorrows away, and Glynn admired her handiwork. She hadn't even had to suggest they stand on the tables and bellow their outrage.
"Are we Capitol or District? How can we allow ourselves to feel so powerless?"
"I spent so much money, I spent so much feelings! Didn't we all? And for what? What is this all for?"
"What is this? Why are we being punished?"
All of Glynn's pity was squashed by the knowledge almost every single one of those speakers had slept with one of the three.
"We must protest," a youthful boy said, throwing a tower of sweets on the floor and pointing at it accusingly. "We must stop spending money that will be used to kill our favorite victors!"
"We need to show the President that we've supported all this, but this is too high a price!" Cleopatra Quest shouted. "This is… This is barbaric! Fuck, Cecelia has three kids!"
It was snowballing and fast. Capitolites thrived on popular opinions, and unfortunately for Snow, those opinions were less and less convenient as time passed.
"We should all refuse to attend the next party! Ask for Katniss' wedding instead!"
Glynn didn't let her satisfaction show as she made her way to where Lyme stood. She watched the fury build as people fed it with anecdotes and pathos, reaffirming each other's resolve that this was so very wrong.
The only Gamemaker present, crowd-savvy Mazaris, had made himself scarce.
"It won't work, they'll be slapped down by Snow before interview night," Glynn told Lyme. "Their anger will be spent by these useless displays of outrage. Fear, and the belief they can't do much, will calm them down." Glynn said. "No victor will appear in public."
She counted four more minutes before the Homeguard evacuated the premises.
Lyme was a marble statue. "So it really was pointless."
"No," Glynn countered with a small smile. "When the interviews will have emotions running as high as tonight, Snow will have already wasted his arguments. Once isn't enough. Twice gets things moving." The Capitol's love for Katniss and Peeta hadn't been won in a single night.
"I don't really care if buildings get pillaged in protest of Cecelia's or Gloss's death," Lyme said stiffly.
"You'll care if the Homeguard figure out that the only way to keep civil peace is to remove Snow and his people." Glynn's lips quirked. No, not even she believed that. "If the Homeguard must stay here to stop riots, they won't leave to the Districts to fight alongside the peacekeepers."
A hundred blood-sucking monkey mutts were being weaned out of the cloning vats for the arena. Alongside them, a thousand reptiles, their skin as thick as armor, were being bred to hunt rebels, but Snow would be lucky if ten percent survived their first days. Hopefully, the doctors would not realize what was wrong with the mutts until it was too late.
Lyme crossed her arms. Glynn could glimpse the shadow of two dozen dead tributes fueling the storm in her eyes. "District Two will bleed the most then, again."
"Two's hardly a paradise, but with hospitals, population-friendly peacekeepers, no starvation, and non-life threatening working conditions, few people die before fifty." Glynn pointed out. "Lyme, Eleven has more casualties in a decade in peace time than Two has living peacekeepers today. Eleven's women give birth to average of four children and yet the population has remained roughly stable since Snow poisoned his way to power." Glynn softened; Lyme had nothing to apologize about. "You have every right to care about your own people more, Lyme, but this must happen."
"Finnick told me to get out," Lyme said, mouthing the words more than speaking them.
Glynn gave Lyme a metal bracelet. "These are screens, so don't bump the bracelet too hard. If it warms up, numbers will appear, they're coordinates, the same ones taxis use. Don't dither when it happens." She stole a glance at Bahamut, determined to tear promises of support to Enobaria until he dropped down dead. "You can come alone or with them. It's your call. Twos are pretty safe here."
Lyme shouldn't need it, not if the victors and mentors were evacuated according to plan. Glynn didn't doubt Plutarch's competence or District Thirteen's timeliness, but she'd not lived this long without contingency plans.
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A good chunk of next chapter is already written, so it should be out soon enough.