Chapter Eight - "About-Face"
With a day and a half remaining until all the tributes arrive in the city for the opening ceremonies, I at least thought I could shut myself away for that remaining time, recuperate, take things 'by the hour' as Paulus put it.
Nope.
Instead, we're made to stay in a storeroom, or what I believe to be a storeroom. It's a musky, high-ceiling room perfect for stacking pallets and risers as high as you can make them. The beds - the bunk beds - are prefabricated, easy to tear down once they served their purpose. I know for a fact, after overhearing the PK chatter, that we're divided into cohorts. D1 to 4 in one room, 5 to 8 in one room and the remainder in the next. Even with the division, the washroom situation is...well, the less I think about the washrooms, the better.
The Peacekeepers are everywhere. As soon as we enter the training center, we're triple checked for anything that can be used as a weapon. They line the halls. They enter the room for feeding time in squads of ten - armed of course. One kid innocently hops down from his bunk just as they come by, spooking one of the PKs who then shoots the kid with a stun round. The kid, a Three, has static electricity dance across his chest before he collapses. He wakes up eventually after some coaxing by his district partners.
I make sure to distance myself from mine, opting to watch the likes of the Dixen's and Shadd from afar and imagining myself offing them in a variety of ways. It brings me comfort and takes my mind off from this odd situation I find myself in.
It seems that other people in this room want to off me as well. I couldn't help but notice how the other tributes eye me down like I killed their parents. My barging into these Games has everyone on edge, not to mention Lilith is making the rounds with her fellow rebel fighters from the other districts, chatting with them as if they were old friends. Finally, it's a boy - young man, really - from District 4 that leads a group over to my bunk. He's a typical fish boy, blond hair, blue eyes, tanned skin from years frolicking along the shores of his District.
"I bet you're excited to be home again, eh 'Spitfire'?" he jeers, coming to a stop before my bunk with his hands on his hips.
From my sitting position on the top bunk, I fold my hands over my lap. "What the hells are you talking about, Four?"
"I mean, you must be from the Capitol, looking to kiss all the ass you can in order to get back in their good graces." He elaborates with a snort. He then shakes his head. "Either that or you're a really dumb Career that can't take a hint."
"I'm neither of those things." I reply, running a hand through my bob. I'm getting pretty tired of people thinking they know things about me.
"Oh?"
"You take things at face value a little too much, Four." I jab back in reply. "That's probably why you're here, because you lapped up Fire Bitch's words." I lean forward, maintaining my eye contact with him. "Lapped them up like a little brainless bitch."
"Hello?" an obviously Capitol voice says. The owner of the voice is a white blonde girl whose just as neatly dressed as I am. She raises a hesitant finger. "Can we not fight right now...? I don't think anyone wants anymore Peacekeeper attention-"
Four strides a little closer to my bunk. "The hells did you say, 'Spitfire'?!"
I leap off the top bunk, landing on my feet as I stand toe-to-toe with four. He's taller than me considerably but I don't care. Dad always said if you let someone trounce you now, they'll trounce you forever. I ignore the murmurs from the tributes that circle around us, opting to hold my gaze into his eyes.
"Did I stutter, Four?" I say. "Slink off back to your bunk before I knock your fucking block off."
"I'm the kitten?!" he roars, eyes bulging as he points to his chest. "I'm the one that takes shit at face valu-?!"
A brown-skinned girl comes to his rescue, tugging at his bicep to no avail. "Rief...alto! It's not worth it."
"Es, stop-"
"Listen to your girl, Four." I taunt. "'N maybe you can get a week or two with her instead of ending it off today."
I don't see the hook he lobs my way and I pay for it. Connecting with my temple, I reel to the side just as another punch collides into my cheek. I find myself seeing stars as I tumble to the ground. On my fours with my ear ringing, I barely have time to recover as he launches his foot into my gut, launching me back even further. The crowd around us has begun cheering in earnest for their fellow Rebel.
On my back now, my middle throbbing with an uncomfortable hotness, Rief attempts to stomp my head. I catch his foot midway, the entirely of his leg feeling like fifty pounds as I reverse the momentum, gripping his leg as I use it to slam him down stomach first onto the ground with me.
Before he could scramble upward, I clamber on top of him and begin to feed punches into the back of his head. His girl, Es, tries to pry me off of him, earning her an elbow to the jaw. I continue lobbing punches into the back of his head, wearing him down gradually.
I'm glad he started this. It feels good to let it out just a little bit earlier than anticipated. I rub his face against the concrete floor for extra measure,
"Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!" Spinel chants with glee, cackling like a madwoman. "Why can't we just start now for crying out loud?!"
"All of you shut the fuck up and back up!" a voice barks. A PK I assume. Still, I don't let up. Four started this shit, not me. And now, he's going to face the music for doing so.
Holding one of his arms, I turn Rief onto his back, raise the arm high and slam it against my knee as hard as I can.
Something inside him audibly snaps and Rief screams out, wreathing on the ground while clutching the arm in question. I've seen cadets screw themselves up worse and have a lesser reaction than this sissy. I fractured my growth plate on an obstacle course and I didn't sis out like he is now.
I lick my lips, slightly astonished that I'm drawing blood, a significant amount. I make sure to spit a wad of it on him to top it all off. If this is a 'rebel soldier', then the Games will be a cakewalk.
"My arm! My arm! The dumb bitch broke my arm!" he cries. I could see the blood forming through his striped jumpsuit.
Spinel's cackles go into overdrive. "Okay, she's definitely not a Cappie! No Cappie can do THAT!"
His girl, Es, runs forward and I back away with my hands in the air while everyone gawks at me as if I killed him. What's wrong with them? I just fractured his arm. No problem.
I glance up from the scene to see A PK aiming his rifle at me. Aw shit.
I shriek out as the bolt strikes me, exploding into hot webs of static that dance across my chest, legs and arms. I immediately feel my body tense up, my chest constricting as I collapse onto the floor back first. The last things in my vision as it fades are PKs reaching down to grab me.
...
I hear the sliding door to my polarized glass cell hiss open, followed by the sound of clunking boots.
"Stand up," a PK commands gruffly. "The ma'am would like a word."
I've been up for...Well, I'm not sure about the specific time, but I've been awake long enough. Even still, the stun round continues to mess with me even now as I force myself to stand on my two feet. It feels like a momentous undertaking, but I manage to rise and face DeWynter and the PK Sergeant that stand in the entryway.
"You broke a tribute's arm." She says flatly, as if she couldn't believe such a thing could be possible.
"He started it!" I reply hesitantly, unsure of how Viondra feels...let alone those higher than her. I'm already here, screwed like everyone else. So I can't see them punishing me any further than I already am.
"You broke a tribute's arm." She repeats. "Days before the gong goes off!"
Viondra starts off with a quiet titter that quickly rises to a loud cackle, elbowing the Sergeant who grins along.
"Can you believe that, Sergeant?"
"I saw it with my own eyes, ma'am. Overwhill's taught her well." He replies with a nod. "Sure creates a giant headache, though..."
Her blue eyes flicker toward me as she too nods. "That's right. She's created such a headache for me, but I'm sure it'll work itself out in the end."
She tosses me yet another MRE. I catch it. Judging by the labeling, it's dinner time. It's been at least a few hours since I got knocked out.
"Congratulations Rivendell, you've earned yourself protective custody for the duration of your time here in The Capitol. You'd surely be strangled in your sleep if I left you in there through the night."
I glance down at my feet, focusing on fighting off the fatigue instead. I don't have much of a reply to give. I didn't think about the aftermath of breaking Rief's arm. Given that I was in a room filled with over a dozen criminals, I would most definitely have to sleep with one eye open later tonight.
But I wasn't going to admit that to her.
"You're welcome by the way." She adds pointedly when I don't offer a response. "I'm surprised they didn't all maul you and it was just the one boy. All things considered, you still look fine. Sergeant?"
From parade rest, he clicks his heels at attention. "Ma'am?"
"Make sure to get a medical tech to look at her bruises. The prep team would die if they saw these tomorrow."
"I would've taken my chances." I mutter. "Don't need your handout."
She shakes her head and clucks her tongue. "Still hardheaded I see. If you keep smacking away my olive branch, your goals for these Games will go unfulfilled. You should hear what they're saying about you in that room..." she hums in displeasure.
"In a few days time, we'll all be cursing each other."
"Not before they finish collectively cursing you." Viondra counters with a cocked brow. "My offer in ensuring you fulfill your intent properly still stands."
Eyeing the First Lieutenant, I begin tearing into the MRE packet. She helps me, she doesn't help me, and what difference does it make, really? Since when is there a proper way of doing the Games? Scores are scores, talking to Caesar shouldn't be too hard and everyone will be too scared to focus once the gong goes off.
And those that try me when everything kicks off will earn something worse than a broken arm.
"I think one more day in here should do the trick." Viondra says, to herself more than me. "Until then, try not to break anymore arms or get yourself killed."
As the door hisses shut, I opt to focus on my food, making sure to sift through all the contents slowly. With something to occupy my mind, the mind-boggling boredom I feel isn't so clear and present.
...
After eons (or what felt like eons, the dammed place was too clinically white and there was no clock) in my cell, being out and about felt amazing even if I'm shackled up and guarded by a squad of four PKs. We take a short elevator ride to the famous garages where they prep the tributes and launch the chariot rides. With ninety-odd tributes needing to be prepped, the garage is like a tracker-jacker's nest in terms of activity, attendants rushing to and fro from prefabricated tents while screeching orders at one another.
What I notice above all else is that there are only thirteen silver tents, seven on the far left and six and the far right. Why seven? Reading and watching about how 'invasive' the process was, I wonder to myself if they were 'prepping' everyone as a group?
Didn't they have a Remake Center dedicated for getting the tributes ready...? ninety-six must've been too big a number to hold everyone.
The more I think about 'prepping', the more constricted my stomach feels as the PKs guide me to the farthest, smaller tent on the left. Once inside, I notice a holey metal slab in the shape of a person and shelves choked full of what look to be beauty supplies. On the slab as well are what appear to be clothes.
The lone PK who followed me in unbinds my shackles and motions with his submachine gun toward the clothes.
"Get changed, your prep team will be here any moment." He explains, his tone screaming that he'd rather be mopping up rebel resistance pockets in the Mojave Region than be here.
I make a show of moving to the slab and studying the clothes in question...if I could even call them clothes. It's a teal gown, the same type of light material they would use in the makeshift hospital during the War. There are no undergarments.
"Corporal, may I have some privacy please?"
He seems confused, frowning as he considers my request. He doesn't know I'm a cadet and probably wonders why some reb is giving him courtesy. He disappears behind the flap, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief. I don't even want to change, knowing that the things they'll do to me will be too much to ignore.
I don't even change with the other girls back in Overwhill. Ever since ninth grade, we've all been accustomed to nudity, I've been. But after the War and the highway, well...Bea would always stand guard while I changed in the stalls.
I make sure to quickly strip off my dress, cardigan and underthings in exchange for the gown. I don't lie down on the table but instead sit on it, honing my breathing while fidgeting with my tokens.
I lift my head up at the sound of the flap opening to reveal three, young men, probably as young as Viondra. Upon seeing me, the trio's eyes light up with supposed glee as they chatter quietly with glee among themselves while the olive-skinned one closes the flap.
"Hello hello, Zenobia!" greets the white one with a silver pompadour. "I'm Fletcher!"
The black one winks at me. "I'm Wyatt!"
The olive-skinned one waves shyly. "And I'm Amir."
"And we're your prep team!" Fletcher cheers, adding jazz hands with his beaming smile. Wyatt and Amir let out a cheer as well. "I'm the 'main' stylist I guess, but the three of us are basically one when it comes to any work around here. I don't even like using the term 'main stylist'."
I regard the smiling men with confusion, taking in how...womanish they are. Their upward inflections give their Capitol accents a whole new range. Besides that, they appear rather normal for Capitolites, barring their overly-shiny skin and flashy jewelry.
"We saw your reaping and literally fought to get you all to ourselves!" exclaims Wyatt.
"The way you just marched up...ugh!" Amir gushes, eyes fluttering shut as he places a hand over his heart. "That's a 'top ten' moment right there."
"You're the mutt's roar, sister!" Fletcher slips gloves onto his hands. "All our friends are wondering who you are!"
"You support me? People like me...?" I frown. "How do you know if I'm not-"
"You volunteered!" Amir cries. "And the news says that none of the other tributes with you are siblings or relations...Basically, you're one big question mark everyone is trying to figure out."
"So you must be a Career or something...right?" adds Fletcher, eyeing me like a pleading child. "Oh please please please be a Career, someone we can root for!"
"If you are one of those Careers, I'm not gonna pull your tail, sister, but that was very very dumb of you." Wyatt scolds. "I'll tell you right now that this whole 'ceremony', if I were in your shoes, I'd literally kill myself from the embarrassment!"
I frown. How bad could a chariot ride be? What's there than can change? Ride to the City Circle, probably get scolded by the President and away we go...
"Okay, now we need you to get undressed!" Fletcher announces, beaming as if the request were as natural as asking me to stand up for a second.
"I'm sorry...?" I gulp, feeling my stomach constrict and my body run hot with fear. I try to fix myself by sitting upright but it doesn't work. Shallow breaths accompany the ball in my stomach and the hot flashes.
"We need to get you to beauty base zero!" Wyatt explains, using his hands to name off the steps, "Which includes exfoliating, waxing, a nice bath..."
"Apparently you guys haven't bathed since Reaping Day..." Amir shakes his head in disgust. "I doubt any of those ghastly prisoners have."
"It'll be like an hour at the spa." Fletcher says. "All you have to do is lay back and relax."
He reaches out toward my shoulder in an attempt to 'help' me, but I quickly shrink back. I don't get it. Why did they give me all men? Don't they have gender-specific 'prep teams'? What makes them think that this is okay?
"N-No thanks," I stutter, waving him away while also shaking my head. "I think I'm fine the way I am...thanks."
The trio gawks at me as if I have a zillion heads. Amir and Wyatt glance at Fletcher who bares his teeth awkwardly.
"That's not exactly how it works, Zenobia..." Fletcher says while he slowly wrings his hands. "For you districtpeople, prepping can seem a little...much, but I promise you it'll be okay."
"We can't not prep you..." Wyatt says, frowning. "You'll stick out like a sore thumb against the other tributes!"
Amir raises a tentative finger. "And you don't want the public to-"
"I don't care for the public."I snap back in reply, shaking my head. "Just leave me be...please."
The entire situation feels...off. The tent feels a million times smaller than it already is and the three of them just watching me while they glance at each other makes me feel as if they'll suddenly jump me and tear my gown off. Amir moves forward, not in a threatening way, but just closer perhaps because he was farthest away. I take it as a direct threat, moving myself off the table to the farthest corner of the tent, away from them. Their frowns deepen as they chatter quietly among themselves.
"...the Peacekeepers?"
"No, no no...instead?"
"How about we call...?"
The trio regards me with sad frowns as they retreat from the tent, Amir going as far as to raise a finger signaling for me to "Wait a moment." A minute or two later, a female Peacekeeper enters the tent, the violet energy cell in her gun alive and well as she carries it in the low ready position. His frown now a sad grin, Fletcher carefully makes his way over to me and places a communicuff onto my wrist and an earpiece as well.
"Here you go Zenobia..." he lilts gently, as he then whispers, "It's Viondra..."
"Hello?" I say aloud tentatively.
"Which one is worse, in your opinion," Viondra replies down the line, her voice sharp. "Being knocked out and worked on - and then looking like a zombie for your friends in 2? Or at least being aware of it happening and getting it over with?"
I remain silent for a few seconds, imagining the cocky, chipmunk-like grin Viondra sports on the other end of the line.
"You and I both know the answer to that. I've let the leash have some slack but now I'm reining you in. Get on the godsdamned table. The boys are as queer as a D12 finalist. You'll never find better girlfriends ever, I promise you that."
The line disconnects, leaving me dumbfounded and teary-eyed as I limply raise my wrist for Fletcher to collect his things. The Peacekeeper lowers her weapon and watches with the trio as with trembling hands, I begin to strip myself of the gown. My thoughts fill completely with the morning of the road. They don't come back in brief flashes, but play out like a full motion picture.
Fletcher raises his hands, causing me to stop. "Wait wait wait, I have an idea!" he turns to Wyatt. "Wyatt, get some courtesy bands!"
The taller boy grins and snaps his fingers, rushing out the tent and returning in record time, handing me what amounts to underwear. The situation thawing, the Peacekeeper turns to leave. "Here, wear these! It's not like we have to see everything."
"Not like we want to, anyway!" Fletcher adds, earning smiles and nods of approval from his friends.
"We don't even like girls that way!" Amir says. "One time, father took me to this place on Regent Street to see a lady - I'm glad I cut them off by the by. Anywho, as soon as she took off her shawl, I swear I was going to jump out of my skin - true story!"
After a bout of giggles - some of which were done by me - they quickly leave me to strip out of my gown and into the underwear, allowing me to mentally and physically decompress. Lying down on the cool table, they return and quickly get to work 'prepping' me.
They start off with an exfoliating bath, scrubbing my skin raw with bristled gloves and a fruity soap. My skin becomes so raw that when they rinse me off, it feels like I'm being stung by a million tracker-jackers.
And then comes the dreaded waxing. It wasn't all that bad, considering I wasn't totally laid bare for them to see, being scrubbed raw made me numb - lessening the pain - and I didn't have much hair to wax away anyway, much to the delight of my new acquaintances.
"For a rough-and-tumble Two, you really take care of yourself well..." Wyatt comments.
"Our mentor said districtpeople can be so unkempt sometimes." Fletcher adds.
"You have my mom and the Academy to thank." I reply. "An Overwhill cadet is always inspection ready!" the instructional film would drill into us. Mom would supplement that by giving me some of her tips and tricks from her Community Home days under her matron as I got older.
After my nails are manicured, my hair styled back into my bob and a light coat of makeup applied, the trio presents me with a mannequin that wears a dove white long-sleeved, thigh-length tunic with a stylized motif, a pair of black leggings and white jackboots. I can't help but feel extremely confused looking at it. What happened to...?
"What happened to the typical stuff?" I ask aloud, eyeing the mannequin from head to toe. "Bedazzled divas for D1, warriors for D2, so on n' so forth...?"
"I don't want to say for sure...but they're planning something, Zenobia." Fletcher explains. His voice is riddled with uncertainty. "Whatever it is, just...try and roll with the punches."
Biting my lip, I give the outfit another look over. They were most definitely going to do something differently this time around. As the trio excuses themselves, I call for them to wait, causing them to turn around while beaming bright grins at me. I can't help but wonder if Viondra told them about me.
I find myself caressing my shoulder with one hand. "Thanks for easing me into the 'prepping'..." I say a little bit too sheepishly for my own liking. I mean, it could've been worse. I could've screamed bloody murder and cried.
With bashful grins, the trio waves me off as Fletcher is the last to leave, turning around to face me.
"We'll be right outside. Change!" he says with a wink.
...
I'm the last tribute to be prepped, it seems. As I leave the tent dressed in the uniform of the hour I see that the chariots have arrived in a row of twelve, spaced out by ten or so feet. But I frown, noticing that the horses were nowhere to be seen.
"Where are the horses...?" Amir wonders aloud.
"This year is becoming weirder by the second..." Fletcher says, gently tapping my shoulder. "Zenobia, try not to get too frazzled by whatever it is they do, Viondra gave us specific instructions..."
Fletcher's words fall on partially deaf ears as my focus is shifts solely to the District 12 chariot where a familiar boy, pale as a sheet of paper with just as dull blond hair, eyes me back with the same intensity. He is as shocked to see me as I am him. His gawking causes his district partners to look my way as well. A lanky ginger-haired boy nudges him but it's no use. It's like loathing at first sight. That frigid December morning on the road and the anguish that followed fresh in my mind, causes my body to flash hot with rage. Matix, the Thirteen, is here in the Games with me.
I'm not sure whether to be jumping for joy knowing that he's here and I can end him my way or to be upset at the fact that he isn't dead like he's supposed to - turned into a scorch mark by an airstrike or mauled to death by a mutt swarm.
I bump into Wyatt, who continues to coax me forward, removing his hands as I angrily shrug him off. I feel a twinge of regret for brushing him off as he frowns in response.
"I'm sorry Zenobia, are you alright?" Wyatt soothes. "You look extremely peeved..."
Matix returns back to conversation with his partners, sparing the occasional weary glance toward me. Turning my attention back to the concerned faces of the trio, I sigh, letting go of the breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Yea...'m good," I respond evenly, continuing my walk towards the chariot without waiting for them to catch up.
He's here. What are the odds?
The rest of my 'partners' are gathered around the chariot, looking nervous as nervous can be. Besides a five second glance, they return to biting their nails or staring into space. As soon as I arrive the announcer orders us to mount the chariots. They're larger than the chariots of previous years, big enough for all six of us to comfortably stand. Though I loathe doing it, Fletcher motions me to take the middle, which is slightly elevated above the other five and has its own railing for the occupant to take hold of. I stick out like a sore thumb, or in my specific case, a putrid thumb or worse yet, an amputated thumb.
Sorry Forge.
"There you go Career, your spotlight." Lilith quips, much to the delight of Eldwyn and Tatiana. I say nothing, instead, my grip on the railing intensifies as I suppress the urge to take that neck of hers and wring it.
My anger gives way to confusion when a loud commotion rings out behind me, amplified voices roaring commands and a storm of clomping boots. I turn around and I see it, a mass of striped jumpsuits rushing towards us like the sea to the shore. Marshalling them are Peacekeepers armed with batons.
"Hurry up, move it move it!" A grizzled PK barks above the commotion. "We got a schedule to keep here, six to a chariot - three left, three right!"
The prep teams all squeal with surprise, doubling back a dozen feet as the prisoners rush to a chariot at random, tripping over themselves as they throw on a harness and strap themselves in. Some unfortunate prisoners arrive to full harnesses, causing them to be struck and berated by PKs until they find an empty spot. I can't help but watch them, the prisoners, while they sweat and breathe profusely as if they ran five miles already. All sunken-eyed and bruised, I wonder how they could manage the two mile trek down the Avenue of Tributes without keeling over.
I turn to my right, grinning weakly at the trio as they give me thumbs up in return along with weak and hesitant smiles of their own. I turn my attention to the tunnel openings, where the muffled rumbling of the spectators could be heard as clear as day even though the openings were shut by steel gates. Prisoners instead of horses...What the hells is waiting for me outside, immediate execution?
From the D1 chariot to D12, the PKs come by and make sure everything is fastened tight. They even shackle us by the wrist again, thankfully not the ankles. Somewhere along the way, the prep teams left - probably not to miss out on the good seats. With no proper district partner to converse with, I'm left to stare into space that is until Eldwyn makes eye contact with me and nods.
"What'd she say to you?" he hisses to me. "The escort bitch?"
"Probably the same thing she said t'you." I deadpan.
He sniffs. "Lemme guess, you said "yes"?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm here shackled up like you n' everyone else, ain't I?"
He's about to open up his mouth again when the national anthem begins to blare through the speakers and the prisoners driving our chariot causes it to shudder as they begin moving forward. We move from the warmth of the tunnels into the cool November evening. 'Cool' in more ways than one. Like being splashed with a bucket of water, we're doused with boos and curse words as soon as D1's chariot rolls into public view.
"No good TRAITORS!" cries one spectator.
"Rebel spawn!" spits another.
"How does it feel to be a LOSER!" one cackles.
Words aren't the only thing were pelted with. I turn to my right, spotting a red object in my vision as I duck, allowing Eunice to take the tomato to the head as she squeals out in shock. Tomatoes, cans, apples, water balloons among other things are tossed our way. Something strikes my cheek hard - an apple - causing me to growl in pain and anger. But then Fletcher's words replay in my brain. Don't get frazzled, roll with the punches.
So, even though I'm pelted by the occasional tomato or banana peel, I stand straight-backed, my hands firmly on the rail in an attempt to look as calm and collected as possible even though the urge to flinch as items are tossed our way is high. There are no cries of "Miss, Miss, Miss!" and if there are, they're being drowned out by the overwhelming hate being spewed by everyone else.
Spinel Knudsen, the nutbar, hurls cusswords of her own back at the audience, even going as far as lobbing garbage back at them.
"Why don't'cha come say that to my face!" she yells back. Her defiance spreads down the procession, and I watch as some tributes begin defending themselves while others remain stunned with fear.
The prisoners forced to haul us down the Avenue are kept sharp by Peacekeepers who flank both sides and whip them. You would think these condemned people were horses themselves by the way they grunt and pant as if they were on their last legs. I hate these people as much as the audience, but I'd be a liar if I said that this haul to the City Circle was overkill. Being prisoners, they're already weak. It's only a matter of time before one of them...
And it happens.
One of the prisoners driving the chariot up front can't take it anymore and collapses, causing District 1's tributes let out a cry as their chariot bounces two feet into the air, resulting in the prisoner lying on the ground in a tangled web of limbs. It's Two's turn to cry out as we run over the unfortunate man, causing our chariot to bounce and one of our own drivers to drop due to fatigue. Besides his loud shout of agony, I swear I could hear the telltale crunching of bones as the wheels run over him. I whip my head around to get a glimpse of the crumpled man on the ground. Is that blood...? I can't tell. Everything's moving too fast.
I turn back around, returning to my 'collected' posture. The various screens offer a glimpse at the rival chariots. If I thought District 2 was feeling the heat, other Districts were getting burned by hatred. District 8, where the tenement-to-tenement fighting was ferocious. District 11, where food delays were widespread Panemwide and resistance was stubborn.
It's only natural that the infamous District 12, birthplace of the failed 'revolutionary', would take the most heat out of us all. I can't help but smile at their misfortune.
Where as everyone else's uniforms still retains their pristine whiteness to an extent, the uniforms of the D12 tributes are soiled with trash. The hate they get looks to be so overwhelming, that almost all of them cower behind what cover they can get. Except him, of course. Out of all his partners, Matix stands tall, almost unfazed by the seething hatred literally being thrown his way.
I laugh out loud when he's knocked down a peg, a drink tossed from the stands clocks him on the side of his head, ruining his coiffed blond hair and causing him to reel to the left, almost making him fall off the chariot if he didn't have a handrail to cling onto.
I smirk. Good. I hope that behind that mask of his, he's quivering in his boots knowing that his days are numbered and that sooner or later he and I are going to have a little long-awaited meeting.
I turn my attention back to my front, noticing that we have arrived at the City Circle. Our remaining drivers stumble to a halt, right in the middle, before the balcony where the President delivers their speech. Below the balcony, a band of Peacekeepers play a rendition of the national anthem that blares for miles while on the screens, men, women and children sing the lyrics from inside what appears to be The Training Center.
With all the chariots assembled, the orchestra finishes their musical rendition with a triumphant blare, so triumphant and stunning that it causes a lull in jeers from the audience and even garners applause - only for the jeering to come back in a lighter form.
I watch as our chariot suddenly dips forward. Glancing from left to right, I notice that we're not the only chariot that does. Absolutely spent, all the drivers collectively drop to their knees, panting and groaning audibly, so loud that they even eclipse the rumbling of the audience. I can't help but be reminded of Sgt. Floris' killer morning PT regimens she would put us through. The Peacekeepers quickly put a stop to it, rushing toward the circle with their clubs and whips brandished as they strike and berate the drivers to remain standing.
The light musing of the crowd explodes into applause as the screens show President Choudhury approaching the podium. Wearing a brown skirt suit sporting a prominent medallion of Panem's emblem, the President waves a hand to silence the crowd and they comply within seconds. I still can't shake the image of President Snow from my mind, expecting him to take her place at any second. The President has an expression of disdain as she glances down at us from on high.
""Welcome, tributes" would be the usual greeting the president would give to the tributes on this day. Unfortunately, you are not welcome here in this place, let alone this nation. Panem has no place for criminals not wanting to do their part to ensure that Panem remains prosperous today, tomorrow and forever."
The crowd roars at her words, causing me to feel smaller than I already do in comparison to her.
"The amenities given to you - as barebones as they are - are because of formality and the Capitol's generosity alone."
President Choudhury continues her scathing speech denouncing the rebellion and those that fought against the Capitol, making comment that the special Quell-like stipulation she put on these Games and the next few are important to 'cleanse the nation' of the 'cancerous rebel cells' that current infect it. What she says next causes my breath to hitch and gives me goosebumps.
"I truly hope that among you condemned are tributes - that despite their predicament - are eager to prove themselves different than the rebellious rabble that makes up the grand majority of your cohorts."
I can't say for sure, but was that directed to me? The President is looking down at us now using silence to let her words sink in, and I can't help but think she's looking straight at me. I can't comprehend it quick enough and she moves on, warning us that we'll need 'all the strength we can muster' and that these Games will truly 'push you to the brink, serving as perfect atonement the hardship you brought with the Rebellion'.
The President ends her speech with a modification of the famous phrase, "You all should hope that the odds are in your favor."
I swallow as the PKs order the drivers to circle around the loop and back towards the triplet towers of The Training Center. You know we're being punished when they don't even wish us a 'Happy Hunger Games'.
...
Any defiance that the other tributes had prior to the opening ceremony is gone now. As soon as we arrive back at the garage, I could hear the sobs and sniffles of the girls around me as well as see the angry expressions of the boys. Eunice sobs like a newborn, causing her to be consoled by Jeremiah, blocking my way. I make sure to shove them aside while I dismount. Fletcher, Wyatt and Amir are nowhere to be seen, neither are the other prep teams.
"You still a proud, loyal Two, Zenobia?" Lilith seethes, brushing into me as she dismounts the chariot. My eyes flash with surprise before narrowing at her. My anger flaring, we begin slowly circling one another. "Or do you need something a little more on the nose?"
"Listen you bitch-" I'm about to close the distance when a pair of gloved hands tug me backward. It's a Peacekeeper, and he's not alone. They descend on everyone, prisoners and tributes alike as they shackle us and corral the prisoners into a cowering huddle.
"Yep that's right," Lilith calls after me. "Go back to your isolated room! God knows you wouldn't be able to sleep with one eye open with us around!"
"Go fuck yourself!" I hiss back, wreathing in the PK's grasp as I throw myself into the motion. The PK is quick to reel me back as three more join him, almost as if they're forming a protective bubble around me. He coaxes me forward with a gentle shove, prompting me to flash a glare his way. He simply responds by pointing to the elevator.
"Quiet, tribute," he orders. "Keep it movin' or I'll do the movin' for ya."
I spare a quick glance down the procession, noticing the gawky eyes of the Three's and the harsh glares of the Four's. Rief, the tribute I got into a tussle with, would look intimidating with his murderous glare, but the way he nurses his protective gel cast causes me to snort at him. He growls at me, but a PK holds him at bay as well as his girl 'Es'. As the tributes are lined up by fours, the PKs begin to escort me over to the elevator.
I return each and every one of their glares as I make my way alongside the procession. Some even opening whisper while they gawk. Let them, it's the only thing they have. When the gong goes off, they'll have nothing to show for it.
I make sure to hold my gaze towards Matix and his partners for as long as possible before slipping into the elevator proper.
...
Back in my isolated cell, I munch on yet another crappy MRE. MRE's were supposed to be fun, something you eat on a day at the shooting range or on a field exercise. I could think of plenty of times where the gang and I would happily swap out pieces others wanted in exchange for what we wanted. Safe to say I'm sick and tired of these packets.
Once I finish, the fatigue that comes with eating, alongside the adrenaline of the day's activities toning down hits me like a brick. I want to sleep, but the bright florescent lights in this place seem to never turn off, causing me to lie idly on my cot - that I had to unravel and make up myself. No blanket, no pillow. So, I'm reflect on the day's happenings in hopes of falling asleep. President Choudhury's speech is my main focus, playing it over again and again in my head. I mean...she meant me right? I'm the exception out of the rabble?
"Are you dumb, 'course she means you." Paulus says. "Who else but you?"
Lying on my stomach, I crane my head to the left where my brother sits idly by, elbows on his knees, bouncing his head against the wall as if he were bored out of his mind.
I yawn, shrugging as I ease myself onto my elbows. "I dunno, there's bound to be more neutral or loyal people caught up in the mix."
"Yea, but 'eager' to go in n' get shit done?" he replies, quirking his brow as he waits for my reply. I rest my head against the cot without a word, causing him to tilt his head while wearing a smug grin on his lips. "Exactly, that's what I thought."
"She just wants to use me." I grumble.
"You scratch her back, she scratches yours." Paulus replies with a shrug. He scowls, sticking me with a cutting look. "Do you wanna die, is that it? 'Cause that's what it's lookin' like if you continue the way you are."
I frown, shaking my head. "No? I did this for you, for Mom n' Dad..."
"Do you wanna get a leg up on those Rebs in the other room?" He continues, jutting his chin out towards the direction of the main tribute quarters. "I'm pretty sure they're talkin' about you right now, 'specially that pasty white cave rat from Thirteen."
Paulus has a point. They stare at me as if they want to tear me limb from limb. Rief tried, and earned a broken arm for his troubles. If they didn't hate her then, then they surely hate her now. And there's no doubt that Lilith was probably chatting them up, telling them about me.
"Yea, I do." I answer.
"Soo...Friggin' tell the Sarge you want outta this place so we can let the real work begin." He says, gesturing to the glass wall where the PK in question stands guard outside. The polarization of the glass only allows me to see a brief outline of him.
I blink a few times. Paulus is no longer there, yet the grogginess of sleep is - as well as his words. With a heavy sigh, I ease off the cot and make my way toward the intercom, pressing the red speaker button. I wet my lips.
"Excuse me?"
I see the silhouette of the PK turn my way, activating his side of the speaker. "Yeah, what is it?"
"I'd like to speak to my escort." I say.
The cell depolarizes, and the cell doors hiss open. Slowly but surely, I make my way out of the cell and into the hall where the PK Sergeant stands idly by. Strangely enough, he has a smirk on his face as he watches as he watches me exit.
"It's about time..." He jests, snorting. I'm slightly taken aback at how casual he's being while his buddies have been nothing but switched on since we got here. He's Viondra's man, I assume he's already in the know about who I am.
I simply shrug, following his outstretched hand as he guides me down the concrete hall lined with a company's worth of PKs standing ready for what I assume any attempted break out by the other tributes. I don't like to fold my hand, preferring to tough things out until I make it, but staying in a cell and munching on MREs while ninety-odd rebels are planning to kill me isn't the best way forward. I scratch Viondra's back, she scratches mine.
As we make our way down the hall, we pass the tribute quarters - three for each batch of Districts. Though the oblong observation windows I watch as each cohort is glued to their holovision screens as they recap the opening ceremony.
"I was the Duty NCO in the Comms Room, to keep tabs on the tributes." He says to me, as if I'm one of his buddies. "Ever since that incident with the Four boy, you're the subject of conversation a lot of the time...It isn't all pleasant, though."
"I figured." I shrug. Forge is probably massaging his temples so hard he has indents in his skull. Not even Domita's doting could save him now. I wonder what they thought of this evening's display.
The elevator slides open, revealing a PK attendant armed with a submachine gun. This year is an 'all white' affair indeed. The two exchange nods as we slip inside, the Attendant pressing '2'. Despite being the 'second floor', the elevator trip feels as if we were on our way to the sixth floor.
When we arrive, the doors sliding open with a telltale chime, I can't help but ogle the entirety of Two's floor. This was the luxury that was sorely missing from the train ride - D7's finest furniture pieces, a decent view of the Capitol's City Hall and the Avenue, a dining room table piled high with food and drinks. I wouldn't admit it out loud, but part of me thinks I should've just bit the bullet and accepted Viondra's offer from yesterday.
Across the way, sitting in the spacious living room as they watch a rerun of the Ceremony is the trio. As soon as they notice me, their faces light up with glee as they greet me, waving and cheering my name. Blushing at their excitement of me, I stroll into the apartment proper just as Viondra's puppy-creatures rush up to my feet with their jingling collars, sniffing me. The red, oversized chair adjacent to the trio rotates to reveal Viondra, slender leg crossed over the other with her cigarette holder in hand. She grins at me with those puffy cheeks of hers.
The Sergeant unshackles me, causing me to caress my wrists for a second before looking her square in the eyes. I scratch her back, she scratches mine. That doesn't mean I'm going to bend to her every whim. This is a partnership, at least I'm gonna make it that way.
"I accept your offer," I say aloud. "Where do we start?"
Bouncing her crossed leg, Viondra takes a drag of her cig, exhaling it through the side of her mouth as her ruby red lips slowly part to reveal a bright smile.
atonement76 . weebly . com
! - Every main tribute character needs an eccentric prep team to hype her up. Fletcher Davidsmith, Amir Townsend and Wyatt Shakespeare have been added to the blog via (Characters Cont'd).
! - President Choudhury has been added to the blog via (Characters Cont'd). Remember Mockingjay? She's the lady who offers Snow a chance to meet his doctor and tells him that the Star Squad survived. Played by Sarita Choudhury. The Harry Truman to Snow's FDR...
! - Vice President DeWynter has his own full-sized body figure now.
! - A photo of the two leaders together (Choudhury and DeWynter) has also been added to the 'Photo Gallery'.
Coming Up Next...
"These Games are basically a giant reset. You're all fish out of water -forget everything that happened in the past.