CHAPTER ELEVEN: Atoka Menzies
His name is Cor Lee and he has ideas about how we're going to keep Seeder and Flaxie alive. He's taken me to Nvohg Café, one of the Capitol's most attractive neon cafés, after the premiere of the 19th Hunger Games, and even though the environment is noisy and jubilant, neither of us blends into it, nor are we saying much. I speculate on the origin of neon cafés: they are the latest rage in the Capitol, and they are reminiscent of the discothèques of long ago. Their draw is the lighting: it is sharp and very unnatural. In most neon cafes there are several interpretations of green, red and yellow neon lights, and none of them are flattering or stand still. Nvohg spreads them across the interior of the café so that heart attacks (which would seem to me a natural reaction to the atmosphere of the neon café) are at a minimal due to the edgier dark areas in the interior. Also, there are patterned lights – of the kind you might see in a stage production lighting schematic – that reflect shapes into the café and usually throw them at elongated angles across the room. And at the bar, there's always an eerie play on light and dark: the liquor is colored and luminescent but the bar is bathed in black light. I suppose if you were on drugs, this would all be a really relaxing environment to be in, but one look at Cor tells me that, like me, this is abnormal for him. It also tells me that something is off, even though I don't know him at all. His name is Cor Lee, he has plans for saving Seeder and Flaxie, and that is all I know about him.
If he were a less attractive man, I'd only look at him as a sponsor, but that's not the case for me right now. His costume is understated against all the other Capitol folk: he wears a glowing white shirt with cufflinks, black leather suspenders (which I suppose are an attempt to make a statement, fashion or otherwise) and flattering (for his physique) black leather pants. This costume is a change from the more exotic suit he was wearing earlier, and I use the term "exotic" very sparingly in this sense because there was nothing about him that stood out against the rest of the sponsors in the banquet hall save for his age and that he looked "normal" in comparison. So I suppose I can add to the list of things that I know of him, he doesn't act as though he is a part of this grand charade that is the Capitol, and that makes me doubt he is from the Capitol at all. It's an outrageous thought though: who here isn't from the Capitol except for the Mentors of the Hunger Games (like me)?
"I come here when I don't want to be followed," Cor says out of the blue. I find that to be a very strange thing to say as well: everybody who thinks they're anybody in the Capitol is here at Nvohg Café.
"That makes no sense. Everybody's here." I say, looking around at the circus. He sucks his teeth and shakes his head.
"Not what I mean." He takes another drink of neon orange liquor in his glass. He puts it down and looks around, anywhere but at me.
"Okay," I say to take the edge off the chilly silence between us. At least I'm not envisioning how to kill him right now.
"I got to this stratum by way of flattery and sexiness," he says in response, after a rough pause. I smirk.
"I got here by killing folks." He grins and glances at me finally. I give him a smile and a single shoulder shrug, and say, "No one's perfect." He grins wider.
"As you can see," he continues. "I don't dress in high fashion for Capitol folks. That, alone, can get me a following simple because I'm different." He looks at me again and I shrug again.
"Get up," I say almost barking at him. He's surprised but he listens, standing up so I can see him in full. I lean back, squinting my eyes, and then I raise my index finger and indicate he should turn. He does, his eyes twinkling and a silly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He's standing in profile now, looking at me expectantly. I look him up and down, pausing at certain places on his body to give an approving nod or a disapproving frown. Truthfully, I can't see a flaw, but half the game is to make him think that he isn't as perfect as I think he is; to lead him on in thinking there's something he needs to improve to meet my approval. It stirs something in me to play this new game, one in which no one dies and no one kills. "Turn," I order him. He turns so that his back is to me, and I take in what this backside has to offer. Leather suits him. I try hard not to stare, but I fail. He looks over his shoulder at me, half a smile on his face, and I stop staring and resume a neutral expression on my face. "One more time," I say and Cor turns so that he is in profile again. More stirring inside, some butterflies. He's smiling for sure now, and I detect a little blushing in his cheeks. I check him out again and sigh dramatically, raising my finger again and ordering him to turn again. He's facing me now, the right side of his face changing colors as the neon lights dance across his skin, while his left side is in relative darkness. I don't bother being polite in checking him out now, and I throw in a lower lip bite to keep him guessing. Finally, I heave a dramatic sigh and look away. He chuckles and sits back down.
"Like what you see, Miss Menzies?" he's teasing me. I wave a hand absently in the air, swatting the comment away.
"I was just making sure you were telling the truth," I say with as much disinterest as I can given that it is, after all, a lie I am telling. Really, I just wanted to look at you. I'll never give that up. "In 10, they'd follow you for the same reason as here." How fast would they see the Capitol in him and jump on his wagon thinking he can take them to safety?
"So it's true that everyone is the same in the Districts?" he asks. I'm a little intrigued by his question. Who says everyone is the same in each District? I'm sure there are nuances in lifestyles in each District just like there are in 10. The only places where I think life is 100% the same are the Capitol – where everyone is weird – and District 13 – where everyone is dead.
"Maybe in District 13 they are. Everywhere else: nope."
"Everyone in 13 is dead," he says glumly. I nod definitively.
"Exactly. There's nothing more unifying than death, Mr. Lee," I say sarcastically.
"Ohhh," he says softly. "That's not true." He doesn't elaborate though. Rather, he drains his glass and gets up again. I watch him as he walks over to where I'm sitting and offers a hand to me. I take it out of curiosity and perhaps there is a desire I'm invested in that moves me toward him. At this very moment, I want to keep him close, and that's all I can elaborate. But the Games rage on for me, flaring up when I least expect it, and when I take his hand, I feel the death-cold hand of my slain Denton. I can see him lying on the beach, dying. Immediately, I retract my hand and frown at him. He frowns back. "It's me, Atoka," he says and I fill in the rest for him. I'm not going to kill you, Ato. You're not going to die at my hands. Still, I step back one step. His frown deepens.
"I don't know you," I say.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he chuckles in a patronizing way. I'm still not interested in taking his hand again, false promises or not. He shrugs finally and drops his hand to his side. "Okay. Come on. There's something I want to show you. Something I bet I can get your mind off the Games. It always takes mine of them anyway." I'm in retaliation mode. What do you know about the Games? You're just a spectator. But I have an uncanny feeling that he can read my mind, which is bogus and yet difficult, as a feeling, to discredit.
We used to have women and men in 10 who could make accurate predictions on lots of things relating to the future and the past. We called them Cassandras and outlawed them from society. Eventually, they all left the Town except for one Cassandra whose name was Iffegenia Cordwip. At first, rebel leaders in 10 listened to her and asked her questions about the future, and while she called for change in favor of freedom – the freedom they were seeking, at least – they kept her alive. My memory is not perfect on this course of events: I was only four at the time. One day, she responded to a question with an answer no one wanted to hear, and after that, the rebels expelled her from the ghetto they'd made of the Town. I don't know where she went. I do know that when the Capitol executed our rebel leaders, one of them, Enjolras, shouted out, "Find Iffegenia. She was right," and I remember that very clearly.
"Well?" Cor asks. I nod slightly, still not convinced.
He takes me away from the neon lights and the sounds of the city, away from the tall buildings and the street lights. He walks along a path that follows the train tracks above it until we reach the single body of water – a lake, manmade – between the mountains in the Capitol. At the first sound of water lapping the breakwater barrier, I stop. Cor looks back at me.
"You are aware that my arena was mostly water, right?" my voice has a sharpness to it. I think he nods. "So, tell me how you think bringing me to water is going to take my mind off the Games?" His eyes twinkle.
"I'm sure it won't. But why does that mean you have to avoid water?" He holds out his hand again.
"I want to go back." I say forcefully. He sighs.
"Okay, then go." I hesitate. He retracts his hand for the second time and turns his back to me, continuing down the path, his hands now shoved into his pockets. Suddenly, I have no idea what to do. He stops a little farther down the path and sits on a rock. He's looking out across the lake at the city lights. I follow his gaze, hoping to see the city as well, but instead I see the shores of three islands about two miles from where I stand, and each island is spread apart from the next a fair but unfathomable distance. If I were closer, I can only imagine that the shores would be soaked in blood. Four islands, six Tributes on each: one center Island with the Cornucopia and a tidal wave awaiting – it's as nightmarish as a decrepit city in which twenty-four potential killers lurk around every corner waiting to slaughter you.
"I thought you were leaving," Cor calls out to me, sharpness in his voice now. I clench my jaw, turn around and pick my way back along the path into the city. I'm angry at him for making me think I could ever escape the Games, and I'm angry at me for thinking I could trust him to be a sponsor for my Tributes. Really, it seems, he wanted to remind me of my horrors and my trauma from the Games. Just like all agents of the Capitol, Cor Lee is here to remind me that my life is not really my own.
As I'm walking back, I wonder where Iffegenia Cordwip is, really, and if my memory of Enjolras' final cry is accurate. Could the last remaining Cassandra be alive still, and where?
"Hello lovely," the toad-like man stands in my way, blocking the door to the Training Center. He's familiar – not his looks but his smell: he smells swampy. His crooked smile reveals a mouth full of golden teeth. He's only toad-like in his costume and facial features. He's wearing a lily pad green tuxedo and white cufflink shirt and a white bowtie. His face is round, boxy at the jaw and without prominent cheekbones, and his nose sits low on his face with wide nostrils. I try to pass him but he puts out an arm to block my way. "We have an arrangement. I help you, and you help me." Now I remember him. Being able to get Cor as a sponsor – if he's even willing to be a sponsor now – helped me forget I'd made other arrangements.
"Actually," I say sweetly. "I don't need your help anymore." I try to move by him again, but again, he blocks the way.
"Too late. You're already bought and paid for."
"What do you mean?" I ask sharply.
"I mean, they found the girl and anyone who goes near her is going to get blown up. Fireballs can destroy most building materials, lovely." He's still smiling, and now he leans closer to me so the full essence de bog assaults my nostrils.
"Lovely," I say.
"So, take me to your place, lovely, so I can collect my payment." His arm drops, but he's practically on top of me. My skin crawls. Thankfully, I'm calm and collected, and I'm playing the Games all over again. I look into his eyes and force a smile.
"Right this way, my Prince."