TW: This chapter contains minor descriptions of sex, nightclubs, drinking, and drugs. Nothing majorly explicit, but proceed with caution!
The Comeback Kids
Renaissance Garçon, 22
The night before the reaping, there are specials at the Nightingale which attract a specific sort of clientele. They are the lonely, the downtrodden, the burdened, the poor, and the suffering. In the five reaping days since Renaissance's official debut as the Velvet Vixen, they've craved these shifts the most.
Isador, the man who runs the club, once pulled Renaissance aside after they first tried their luck at spinning around a pole hands-free, their legs supporting their weight and their core holding them aloft in a graceful pose, arms extended, locking eyes with as many patrons as they could. Renaissance still remembers how they heard a burly man with a thick, dark mustache gasp.
"I've got a tip for you," Isador had said, his hand on Renaissance's lower back and his lips an inch from their ear. His breath came in short, hot puffs. Isador had a wide mole in the crook of their neck, with a wiry, black hair springing from it. "There's a victor here – the guilty kind. Bet they'd like your attention."
Renaissance had dressed for the occasion. This was far from the first time that Isador urged Renaissance toward the private rooms, and so they'd anticipated that headlining on the busy night might be even more fruitful with the right outfit. Two Games ago, the tributes had been left in underground tunnels, sewer-like, and given bright white uniforms to make them more conspicuous – and easier to hunt. The uniforms had featured sleeveless tops, which the audience quickly deduced was a decision based on the oppressive heat that the Careers complained about for the duration of the Games. On the stomach of each top was the symbol of the Capitol over a gray background which came to a point on each tribute's chest. This design had reminded Renaissance vaguely of the stomach of a penguin, animals which were featured in the tundra arena of the year prior to that.
Imitating the uniform had become popular in the past couple years after the victory of one of their own. So that night, Renaissance wore a white, sleeveless top, and rather than the illusion of a gray stomach, Renaissance's velvet top had a cutout which came to a point in the middle of their chest, exposing their abdomen. Costume tape held the top in place around their chest while they spun, but the rest of the top flowed like a cape around them.
The top and the matching flowy white shorts didn't remain on them long in the room with the victor.
After Renaissance and the victor, Resplendence Cacciatore, were finished, they sat with him for over an hour discussing the victor's greatest regrets following the Games. Resplendence was careful in the way he discussed the Capitol and its affairs, but drunk enough to let minor details fly. Renaissance learned of the Capitol's desire for young, attractive District One victors, of Resplendence's theory that if a handsome enough tribute hasn't one in long enough, the Gamemakers will rig the Games for their survival, of Resplendence's rage when a failed sponsorship deal indirectly led to the death of one of his youngest volunteers six years prior.
Resplendence left them a weighty tip in an envelope, and said on the way out, "You're lucky. The things they'd do to you–"
Since then, Renaissance has entertained a number of harrowed individuals on the night before the reaping: parents and siblings of fallen tributes, would-be volunteers who were slighted like Renaissance, and the less privileged poor of District One, who were drawn to the deals. But always, at the end of the night, Resplendence came back and slept with them. Resplendence was tender with them, but rarely looked them in the eyes, and never made a noise during the entire ordeal. He never drank as much as he did the first night, and thus secrets were kept to a minimum, but conversation flowed: for one night of the year, Resplendence spoke of would-be lives he might have lived, of tributes who broke his heart, and, last night, of his joy and guilt at being free of the burden of mentoring.
"Aren't there other victors who would have done it? Who'd be happy to? Why have you done it so long?" Renaissance had asked him last night.
"It would have been Anisatin. I don't like the idea of leaving the children of the district in the hands of a man who would happily line them up for prostitution after winning," Resplendence said. He had looked up at Renaissance suddenly. "No offense."
From Resplendence, Renaissance learned that the most recent victor has first rights at mentoring tributes. Often, this gig came with additional glory and attention, but the most passive victors, who were happy to revel in their victory and wealth, would pass on the opportunity and allow a more eager previous mentor to step up again. Ultimately, the final decision came down to the Board of the Academy, but they rarely protested against beloved victors. The winner from two years ago decided after last year's victor-less fiasco to try his hand at it, and Resplendence was freed of his duty.
Last night's conversations with Resplendence had run long, leaving Renaissance groggy and unprepared on the morning of their reaping. They had dragged the conversation along themself, wondering as each minute ambled past if they'd have the willpower to tell Resplendence of their plans for the next day. In the end, they decided that they were better off as the secret-keeper of the two.
Cordelia Reid, 22
The train hurtles toward Cordelia's stop and a thin stream of people file on, many of them likely instrumental in the activities for today. One lone boy steps off the train and wanders down the steps toward Cordelia's neighborhood. Her head swivels toward him. The nerve of his parents to allow him not only to go into town on a ghost town morning like this, and then to come back so close to the start of today's events? He might even think he's sly, avoiding the reaping without punishment. One thing that Cordelia's mother was always right about: the poor of District One require an attitude adjustment.
Being the first district to be reaped, District One's shops and businesses never open until after the reaping, and so the morning of, the actual town square possesses a quietness uncharacteristic of itself. Cordelia thought she would clear her head by wandering around the empty shop streets.
"Reid! You getting on?"
The conductor leans their head out a small window in the front of the first train car. For a moment, Cordelia stands taller, pleasantly surprised that a stranger recognizes her. Rising to Head Trainer has paid off, and maybe the community finally recognizes her invaluable worth – maybe they would regret allowing that bitch who died on day two to take her spot –
And then she realizes it's just a scholarship kid from her class in the Academy.
Cordelia waves them off and backs up toward the steps. The reaping doesn't start for a couple of hours. Plenty of time for a walk there.
Last year at this time, she was hurrying to the town square after an incident with her dress tearing on her gate as she left to walk to the train stop. Her first year as such a young Head Trainer made punctuality a necessity to organize, with precision and grace, the chaos of two future volunteers bristling with nervous energy and handfuls of dejected would-be volunteers begging her for reconsideration. Even when she wasn't the designated volunteer, she could feel the way they looked at her like meat. They wanted to slit her throat and watch her bleed out in the town square for depriving them of their opportunity for glory. This year, she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't have a black eye by the time she reached the stage.
The night she left her mother's house, stifling tears as she walked off the property with the one bag her mother gave her time to pack, Cordelia had sheltered in a youth hostel. It was dingy and not well-kept, the matron of the rowdy group turning her back on most parental duties beyond feeding and housing the kids who were old enough to choose to avoid the orphanages. The food had been meager, arriving on small, green dishes, most with chips and cracks forming, meals often consisting of little more than bread, cheese, and, on good days, hunks of fatty meat. Tearing at the bits like an animal in the desert struggling to gather its prey, Cordelia built up the nerve to march to the Academy and put in an application.
At first, the Head Trainer at the time, Misty Porter, had scoffed at her, her pointy-ended nose upturned at the girl who had lost everything so close to clinching the volunteer spot. "You didn't have what it took a week ago," she'd pointed out.
"I do now," Cordelia said.
On the walk past rows of cream-colored cottages, she gets a whiff of hearty pre-reaping breakfasts: bacon wafts on the wind outside a house with purple flowers planted in rows along the walk to the front door, and two houses down from that, a father plates a pile of sausage from the grill. Her stomach thundered, especially as her mind wandered to the delicacies she expected when she arrived in the Capitol later this morning. She had only ever properly wanted for food in the first month of working at the Academy, before her paychecks started building up enough to cover the cost of bills at her new little cottage on the rougher end of town as well as food. Still, four years later, that month hangs over her head. She remembers sneaking extra bread from the lunchroom at the Academy to save for breakfasts after she came close to passing out from exerting herself in front of trainees without eating more than the small, free lunch from the Academy for days.
In the square, the stage in front of the Justice Building has already been set, the age group sections roped off, the Peacekeeper check-in booths stocked. The camera crews are working on last-minute adjustments, and the escort, Hyacinthus Lucivius, seems to have just arrived in a rush, his sea-green hair tousled and his flashy suit with diamond-studded rows of small wings along the arms is off kilter.
Cordelia watches as the living victors of District One converse with the escort, most of them laughing and one man placing a hand on Hyacinthus's shoulder as he throws his head back.
From the time Cordelia was old enough to understand how badly her mother wanted her to succeed in the Hunger Games, she had been watching the stage at the reaping, her one glimpse into her life and her inner circles after her eventual victory. She had seen Misty cavorting with the elite since she could remember Misty being the Head Trainer, but she felt a certain distance from the stage. She knew many of the victors: Cavaliera Gough, who had been in her class at the Academy and had volunteered a year early at seventeen; Resplendence Cacciatore and Gloria Seaton, mentors who worked closely with the Academy in the final weeks before the reapings to make volunteer decisions; and York Riley, the boy she had helped to select in the last year before her promotion to Head Trainer. And, of course, brash Anisatin Walsh, the long-standing mentor until Resplendence came along and claimed his rights as a fresh victor.
Yet her failure four years ago hangs over her, and she nearly turns to find a quiet place in the empty shop streets to think by herself. It seems unlikely that the bloodthirsty eighteen-year-olds who should be in her place today wouldn't find her, though, so she clenches her jaw and walks toward the stage.
The victors are discussing what their first meals were on the train ride to the Capitol during their victory years when Cordelia comes into earshot. She hesitates on the first step coming up to the stage, as though she's breaking some unspoken rule: A tribute should not mount the stage before being reaped or volunteering. She must remind herself on each step that she is more than a tribute. She works for this district and has fought for this chance at a do-over.
"Cordelia!" Cavaliera, who has always been overly friendly with her, smiles and beckons for her to join their circle. "We were just discussing what you'll find on the train today. How do you feel?"
Cordelia holds her chin up a little higher. "Ready," she tells them.
"And you should," Anisatin says. His cheekbones are so sharp, his face looks nearly hollow. His salt-and-pepper curls and alarming features make him eerily striking. "I don't want to preach on a day of celebration, but you've made a lot of improvements over these past few years. You are not the woman you once were."
Cordelia digs her thumb nail into the back of her pointer finger. She knows she's meant to feel complimented, but the reference to her past faults brings a dull blow of anger to her chest. She isn't that woman. That girl. She never was. The moment of weakness was a one-off, and it's over. "I'm grateful for the chance to prove myself" is all she can say without acknowledging his critiques as true, or starting a fight with one of the most powerful victors in the district on the morning of her reaping.
Closer to the start of the reaping, Cordelia weaves through the hordes of people into the back of the line for check-in. There are more tables than usual because of the wide age gap in eligible tributes this year, spread into the southern streets of the square. As she inches forward in the line, she eavesdrops vaguely on a couple of young Academy students in the line next to hers who complain about their older siblings' tirade over their last year being used up by the Quell twist.
She catches sight of her younger brothers just ahead of the girls she's been eavesdropping on. She looks around at the people in line. She can see a few of them glancing at her, mostly just Academy students who aren't too engrossed in their own conversations to miss sight of her. Chancing that they'll let the Head Trainer and official volunteer pass, she hops out of her line and trots up to Cyrus and Ryker. Cyrus gasps when she taps him on the shoulder, and twists around in a flash, mouth open.
Cordelia feels a laugh bubble up in her chest, but she just shakes her head. "Wow, future volunteer," she says. "How have you kept the top of the class with reactions like that?"
"My guess is it's a nepotism thing," Cyrus says.
Cordelia bites her tongue. She would admit to no one else but him that her best friend in the world is her seventeen-year-old nerdy little brother, but as a result of her quiet bias, she feels incapable of judging his lack of work ethic. It's his rebellion against their mother. How can she say no to that?
"How do you feel?" Ryker says. He nudges her with his elbow, his eyes glittering with questions. He hit his growth spurt later than many in his class, and although he is a strong, athletic kid now, Cordelia can still see him when his eyes were always wide and his arms always seemed too scrawny for the skill in training he delivered.
"I feel good," she says. Truthfully, she feels tense, but she knows that she is capable of this. No need to dwell on the nervousness.
"Two Reids two years in a row, maybe," he suggests, looking over at Cyrus, who is inspecting the additional banners and flair around the square for the Quell. "It would be cool if I was a year older so it could be three years in a row."
"I think more than one in the span of five years is sufficient to get the point across," Cyrus says.
They are nearing the head of the lines now. As the Peacekeeper reaches out a hand to take Cyrus's finger for check-in, Cordelia leans towards them and says, "Visit me at the Justice Building?"
Cyrus turns away from the Peacekeeper with a snapping twist of his neck. "You don't have to ask," he insists, looking in her eyes. "We're not Mom."
She nods, waving them off as a burning sensation creeps up her throat. She blinks rapidly to dispel anything ridiculous, and adopts a polite smile as she reaches her hand toward the Peacekeeper, a man named Paul who she often saw in the market on Tuesdays after work.
The whole operation begins to fall into place. The victors' chatter peters off onstage, they take their seats, and the sectioned-off eligible tributes align themselves, with minor difficulties thanks to some of the still-childless oldest in the new crowd forgetting if they went in the front or the back.
Hyacinthus approaches a thin patterned glass podium in the center of the stage, a reflective microphone resembling the splendor of diamond resting atop it. The patterns distort the glass of the podium so that it all gives off swirls of sea-green in the vague shape of his suit. He talks of the history of Panem, the development of the Games over time, the honor of the country for participating in this brave tribute to the rule of the Capitol.
"We'll begin with the…" Hyacinthus tilts his head. "…girls? …women? Anyhow, we'll begin."
There is a small, rippling chuckle with no heart behind it. Cordelia's lips twist upward. District One has such a tendency toward niceness, so imbued that it almost feels less nasty to be blunt, to prevent the falseness which politeness implies.
Hyacinthus has drawn a name when Cordelia returns to the present. It's a woman, who calmly approaches the stage, unhindered by youthful stage fright that the young reaped sometimes portray when forced to fulfill the formalities of the reaping in front of the entire district. He greets the woman with a jolting handshake, mentioning with a grin that she looks awfully old for a reaping. Then he leans further into the microphone.
Cordelia pulls her shoulders back and prepares for the walk up the steps onto the front of the Justice Building. As Hyacinthus asks for volunteers, she raises her hand and steps past the rope toward the center path up to the stage. "I volunteer as tribute," she calls up to him. He smiles and beckons her up the stage.
As she passes the reaped woman on the steps, the woman says, "Congrats, good luck!"
Looking out at the crowd of people, spilling into the streets of District One, she thinks of the many more in park fields just outside the town square who will be watching on screens projecting the live event happening blocks away. "I believe you're a familiar face to this crowd," he says. "What is your name, for those of us out of the loop?"
"Cordelia Reid," she says into the microphone.
Hyacinthus smiles, the lines around his mouth deep and telling of many other warm smiles to tributes for years. "Pleasure to meet you."
She expects the rest to fly past, feeling herself stuck in a trance where nothing feels like it is truly sinking in. She'd like to glance back at Cavaliera or Gloria for familiar faces of those who have always been kind to her, even when she was at times unkind to them, or to be able to find Cyrus and Ryker in the crowd without glancing around too noticeably. Instead, she clasps her hands in front of her and banks on the cameras not detecting the way she squeezes them together.
The reaped boy is young, perhaps just tipping over into the world of puberty. He mounts the stage with square shoulders and a toothy grin, surely imagining himself in his seventeenth or eighteenth year of life mounting these steps with even greater purpose.
The ritual continues, and Cordelia prepares herself to shake hands with Luncan Oliphant, the male designated volunteer. Luncan is a pigheaded sexist with whom Cordelia cannot possibly imagine sharing the most intimately important few weeks of her life, and since the announcement of non-district partnerships for the Quell, Cordelia has been hoping for the logistics of the twist to arrange for her near-immediate separation from him on arrival to the Capitol.
Indeed, Luncan is in the center of the aisle between Peacekeepers, booming voice insisting that he will volunteer, but before his voice is heard, someone lithe and agile has launched themselves into the path to the stage, their voice calling out first, their hand having shot up in a point at lightning speed.
It's clear: they volunteered first.
Hyacinthus looks over at Cordelia with a mouth slightly open, eyes locking with hers in search. This does not happen. Although there is nothing stopping any eligible tribute from volunteering each year, the isolation and ridicule involved in deviating from the rules of the Academy basically bar any false volunteers from receiving the financial support of their district during the Games, and the ostracism that the only two in history who have deviated and won functions as a social deterrent. She clenches her jaw and shifts in her spot.
"Well, I believe we have some competition," Hyacinthus says, adjusting his tie. "Excuse me, I did hear your voice first." He gestures toward the deviator, who Cordelia can see, through the red-hot cloud she feels in the moment, is a scholarship kid from her year. The year that Cavaliera won, they would have gone into the male slot. Of course, coming from a family who paid her tuition, she's always known of the unspoken rule that scholarship kids don't receive the same safety protections as paying kids in the Academy, and are never chosen to volunteer even if they survive being used as target practice.
But this kid— Yeah, she knows this kid. Everyone who was in the upper levels of the Academy at the same time knows this kid. They look much the same as they did when they were both seventeen, although they've grown into themselves a bit more. They're objectively striking: their features are sharp, and even their gait gives the impression of gliding across the air.
She hasn't seen them since they were breathing heavily over a pulpy lump of blood and bile coating the crumpled body of a tuition kid in the showcase that would narrow the class down to the eight selected for the final year of training before selections and the reaping.
Even then, it had seemed like each of their movements were uncannily beautiful.
"And your name?" Hyacinthus asks, clipping each word even more than the typical Capitolite. The confusion has made them lose their composure, a deadly mistake for an aging escort at risk of being dethroned for a highly sought after district like theirs.
"Renaissance Garçon," they say, leaning into the microphone with their hands met behind their back. The way they pronounce their name is like splinters in Cordelia's eardrum. Her jaw is tight as Hyacinthus requests that they shake hands. Renaissance's bows just an inch as they extend their hand.
"And look at that! May I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, your tributes from District One for the Fifth Quarter Quell: Cordelia Reid and Renaissance Garçon!"
Renaissance Garçon, 22
The small room for saying goodbyes is enough to send Renaissance into fits of laughter. The deep maroon couches are made of velvet and dark green walls with the deepest brown wood trim remind them so much of one of the backrooms for high paying customers at the Nightingale. Either the interior designer of the official District One Justice Building has a penchant for visiting Renaissance's place of work, or Isador has a better sense of humor than they ever knew. And now, the Velvet Vixen is in the Velvet Room.
The heavy wooden door swings open. Renaissance turns toward Evangeline la Rue. They have always thought that their full cheeks make them seem so sweet and innocent, a trait that probably some of their perverted customers adored.
"Ren." She holds her arms out, which Renaissance steps into, planting a kiss on either of her cheeks. "Oh, you crazy son of a bitch. You're going to be their star."
Renaissance takes a step back, though they keep hold of Evangeline's hands. Learning to dance in little more than skimpy undergarments in front of Evangeline has made it hard to be uncomfortable with physical intimacy with her, although they feel nothing more than adoration and appreciation toward her. "Well, I was your star first."
"Yes, you were. Don't forget it." She shakes her head and presses a hand to their chest, shoving them away so she can go sit on one of the couches. "I expect to hear my name when you're with Phoebe Pham."
"'And a gargaaaaantuan thanks to the love of my tiny heart, the splendid and not-at-all testy Evangeline la Rue,' how's that?" they suggest, mimicking the hissing of a Capitolite.
She looks off toward the ceiling, her lips pursed. "I think that will do. Maybe you can work out with York how to spice it up a bit more," she says. She reaches out to touch his knee. "In all seriousness, you need to be alert, Renaissance."
"I know," they say. Their face scrunches up in a frown. "I will win, Evangeline. I wouldn't have put myself in this position if I didn't know that I would." The Board of the Academy will already have planned how to best royally screw them, but Renaissance is also more than sure that they were no average defector. They've been privy to the innermost thoughts and vulnerabilities of more than enough important people in this district to be able to hang onto a loud minority.
The end of their visit passes in stilted conversation about the Nightingale and what they think Renaissance might get to experience in the Capitol. When Evangeline gets up to go, the Peacekeeper barks for her to hurry as they hug goodbye.
They stand in the middle of their empty room and soak in the silence of the moment. There's a permanence to every new experience now: Your life will never be the same. Welcome to the new you!
Marcel comes and his eyes are red. He doesn't smell strongly, but Renaissance knows he hasn't been crying, he's only high. "You look scared shitless," he says, a smile dropping from his face.
They shake their head and gesture for the idea to fly out the window. "A lot to process. That's all," they say.
"Well, yeah." Marcel takes a step further into the room and looks around. He reaches out to the top of the nearest couch, fingers brushing on the velvet. Like it's his first time seeing it, despite the prominence at the Nightingale and, really, District One in general. "You're gonna make it big, Vixen."
The use of their stage name makes them feel like they want to go into a room and lie down where no one will watch them for the rest of their life. For a moment, they see their body plastered on the big screens in the Capitol, they see themself lying in bed with the citizens of Capitol, extracting their inner thoughts like they extracted the wealthy in One. At once, powerful and exposed.
"I know," they say. What's the alternative, anyway? Renaissance shifts their weight from one foot to the next as Marcel looks at them and doesn't avert his gaze.
"I just— I just want you to know I believe in you," he says with a budge of the shoulders. "You've become really important to me, you know— as a friend more than a coworker," he adds, "and so, you know, I'll be rooting for you."
Renaissance isn't entirely sure what they're meant to feel from that speech, but they laugh and clap Marcel on the shoulder. "I'd hope you're rooting for me."
When the Peacekeepers come to take Marcel away, they tell Renaissance that it's time to leave, beckoning for them to follow behind. They knit their eyebrows but step forward, one step, then two. Where are the rest? For a moment, Renaissance feels as small as they've ever felt since the Peacekeeper, with a similar, forceful gesture, beckoned for them to follow along as a group of other Peacekeepers dragged their parents, whose heels dug into the dirt, away toward a black van. The sting is so prevalent, it's so salient in this moment that no one else in the world might want to give them their best wishes, that they nearly miss Resplendence Cacciatore standing just around the corner.
"Excuse me, I was in line?" Resplendence says. He is far too polite to be a man who willingly killed to save himself. These Peacekeepers, so forceful and sure, have likely never felt in intimate detail the way a person dies like Resplendence and, they suppose, Renaissance themself have.
"We're behind schedule." The Peacekeeper's voice is gruff and matches the uneven shave job on their graying chin hairs.
Renaissance turns toward him as they're led off down the hall, presumably toward the back of the building. "Thanks for coming," they say with a lopsided grin. They feel by the weight in their chest how much they mean it, as much of a surprise to them as Resplendence's presence to say goodbye is. Without knowing it, Resplendence has given them more hope than their closest friends in the district: You're not alone.
Outside of the Justice Building, Cordelia Reid is already waiting with Gloria Seaton, who is perhaps one of the homeliest victors from District One that Renaissance has ever seen. She looks like Renaissance imagines someone who is born to build a large family and keep them well-fed on family recipes might look: wide-boned cheeks, a slender nose that's just too small for her face, and lips so thin, they mesh into her face. District Two is not picky about the looks of their victors, but District One trades only in the best of the best in all categories. What makes Gloria so worth it, though, is her straightforward determination. That woman could crush and resurrect all of Panem by herself if she chose, and the whole of the country knew it when they were introduced to her in her Games. Renaissance was too young to remember watching them, only five, but replays come up every time the season of the Hunger Games draws closer.
Next to Gloria is York Riley, the boy who will mentor Renaissance. They're nineteen and full of gumption and very little wisdom about the world, or so Renaissance assumes, if they're anything like they were and every other nineteen-year-old that Renaissance has ever met has been. York is a beast of a person, though, muscles ripping through his skin. They can only hope that he has more advice to offer than to bludgeon other tributes to death.
Hyacinthus scurries over from behind, and Renaissance notices that their shoes are so loud, pattering against the crunchy gravel behind the Justice Building.
"Well, team!" He smiles and puts his hands on his hips. "Let's win a Quell!"
THANK YOU to ladyqueerfoot and ShadowMoose for Ren & Cordelia! writing this chapter has been (a long time in the making oops) so much fun!
i also want to say thank you for everyone for waiting around for this chapter - they shouldn't be this far in between again, but graduating undergrad and moving to a new city got away from me! i hope to have district two posted within 2-3 weeks (maybe sooner :0) and to post regularly after that every 2-3 weeks, occasionally 2-4 when my grad program starts and i get busier
let me know what you think and check out my profile to see open spots! :)
ALSOOO district two f is open and available! i want to keep to a quicker turnaround on chapters so if no one swipes it up i'll make a filler tribute but i'd love to see a reader submit to the spot!
