"...Dad...?"
"Yep?"
I cease my punching, returning back to an upright position. My back aches and my breaths are short.
"...I'm sweating a lot. Can I have the towel please?"
"In the arena, or as a PK responding to a call, you'll be a lot worse than sweaty." He comments, making no move to hand me what I need. Instead, he leans against the concrete wall of our garage. Lest I wanna get cuffed upside the head, I don't dare show my annoyance with him.
Panting, I wipe away the layer of sweat that builds up on my forehead, running down into my eyes and stinging them. Dad tosses me the towel and I catch it, padding down the entirety of my face. That feels better...sorta.
Mom watches me with a hard gaze from the garage's indoor entryway, only adding to the pressure I feel. I toss back the towel. Just as fast as I spot her, Mom is gone from the entryway, but leaves a platter of sandwiches and lemonade in her wake. I stare longingly at the platter as if I spent two weeks in an arena.
Mom makes filling sandwiches and lemonade sounds nice...What is that, bolongna?
"Zenobia." I guess it isn't lunchtime yet.
I turn to him. "Yes, Dad?"
"Stay on task." Dad says with a mild edge. "Start it up again. This time, strike faster."
"Yes sir." I reply, hunching my stance as I begin to feed punches into the heavy bag as fast as I can. I've been going at this for over an hour and it doesn't feel right still.
"Harder, strike harder." Dad commands. "Think of the bag as that snooty new girl giving you a run for your money. What's her name...Callista?"
I roll my shoulders in an attempt to rid myself of the kinks, and then begin to strike the bag harder, keeping the dumb Capitol girl in mind. Getting the higher grades, stealing Randy away from me...
Even with that in mind, the stupid thing doesn't even move! If anything, it's as if the bag is hurting me. Each punch I toss just drains me.
"See - now you're punching too slowly," Dad comments. "Combine your strength with your speed. You have it, I've seen it."
Sighing sharply, I halt altogether. Mom's right, maybe bare hands fighting isn't a girl thing. But it was Aunt Zenobia's thing, wasn't it? But like Mom often likes to say, Aunt Zenobia's hand-to-hand fighting skills are the "Exception to the rule".
I take a look at the heavy bag and frown at how 'normal' it looks. I see Dad doing this all the time, and by the end of his sessions the thing is always smushed in. Even thirteen-year-old Paulus makes some decent dents and causes the bag to swing.
The Basic Career Training Course is coming soon. Strength tests will be on the program for sure! How can I pass them if I can't even dent a punching bag?!
Instead of reprimanding me like one of his privates, Dad crosses his beefy arms, causing them to swell. He gives Brutus Gunn a run for his money.
"What's the matter, Zenobia?"
"I'm unsatisfied with myself." I say with a sigh, taking the towel from his hands. "I'm too weak-"
I gasp as Dad pushes himself from off the wall, capturing my small jaw in his large hand.
"I don't wanna hear you say that ever again. You got me? Sound like an outlier."
His fingers still gripping my chin, I nod. "Yes sir..."
"Mutts are chasing me down and I need to get to safety, but I'm too weak! A citizen needs my help, but I'm too weak to help them! What do you think happens when you feel 'too weak' in the arena, or 'too weak' on a deployment, Zenobia?"
I glance up into his stern, blue eyes. "...You die-"
"You die, exactly." He confirms with a nod, releasing my jaw. "There's no room for weakness, Zenobia. Aggression is the basis of everything you do as a cadet, tribute or peacekeeper."
Taking back the towel, he places a gentle hand on top of my head.
"Everything you do, even in practice - you give it your all, one hundred percent. When people see you going at it, they respect you. And with respect, everything else comes easy."
I grin at him. He might be strict all the time, but I wouldn't trade him for anyone else in the world - including Brutus Gunn.
"Yes sir."
He nods, gesturing to the heavy bag. "Alright, let's start it up again."
"Yes sir!" I assume a fighting stance - legs spread apart, fists at the ready and my stance slightly hunched over.
"Okay...Begin!" Dad commands with a resounding bark. "Left, right, left, bob, weave left, dominant kick, left, weaker kick!"
Give it your all. I follow Dad's commands to a tee, beating into the heavy bag with all the strength I can muster. Somewhere along the way, I realize that the bag is becoming tenderer with each strike. Even the chain it's attached to begins to swing.
Left, right, left, bob, weave left, dominant kick, left, weaker kick...
...
The mechanical dummy swings its bat my way and I meet it with my left katar - my guard hand - following up with my right katar by punching it straight into the 'head' of the dummy, causing it to 'bleed' like a sieve. The dummy is the fourth one to be put out of commission within a span of five minutes. Its companions fare worse, nursing a decapitated head, severed limbs and numerous lacerations.
Sgt. Floris regards the display with a smirk, nodding like a proud parent as she tosses me a towel.
"Jus' like Overwhill, everything seems to be 'your thing'." She remarks. "Fuckin' smart aleck..."
I grin, blushing when she gently slugs me in the shoulder. "It was people like you who got me to this point." I point out, placing the towel around my shoulders. "Thanks for everything, Sar-"
"Claudia will do." She says. " 'Cause the next time I see you, high chances are I'll be lookin' up t'you not the other way 'round."
I grin. "Thanks...Claudia."
Who would've thought I would be chatting up Sgt. Floris, member of the famed Expeditionary Force - just below a victor in Overwhill's social status. When she isn't PT-ing us until wish we were dead, Claudia turns out to be a pretty swell woman.
"Don't thank me yet, Rivendell." She replies, her tone mock serious. "This is just showin' what you got to them poindexters. I'm not quite done with you yet but until then, knock 'em dead t'morrow."
Smirking, I nod. "Yes Sarn't."
Chapter Twelve - "A Grand Display"
"Now that was an amazing token of appreciation, First Lieutenant DeWynter."
From my seated position, I watch as she leaves the bathroom, a new coat of that luscious red lipstick applied to her lips. Those same lips curl into a playful grin as her throat rumbles with a giggle. Those glossy, ice blue orbs of hers watch my every move as she pushes off the entryway. In turn, I rose from the armchair, my eyes like metronomes as I watch those hips sway from left to right. She closes the distance between us, her expression haughty - her eyes never leaving mine as she adjusts my trousers, fastening the buckle. I return the look with an expression of amused disbelief, causing the younger officer's grin to grow as she begins adjusting my tunic.
The contact, the closeness and that scrumptious perfume that comes with it nearly compels me to postpone the private sessions for another hour so she and I can truly get lost for a little while. What a sight we would be after the fact, me a fatigued wreck, her slightly flushed with that smirk of hers permanently affixed to her face. It's not like it's happened before.
Alas, we're on the cusp of a historic moment. Such things can wait.
"There's plenty more where that came from, sir," she replies in that deep drawl of hers. "Especially if our 'spitfire' makes it through this arena of yours. I just might have to lock myself away in your bedroom for a year if that happens."
Instinctively, I lean forward to claim her lips, only for the woman - the tease - to tut playfully, placing a manicured finger onto my lips as she moves her head to the side - exposing her swan-like neck.
"Mind the lipstick...Not to mention the perfume." She warns. Now's not the time or place, unfortunately.
"Right..." I breathe, tugging on my tunic as I reach for the bedroom door and swing it open, gesturing for her to exit first. Before she does that, she presses two fingers to her lips and presses them to mine before slipping by, giving me another trace of that perfume.
I let out a soft chuckle, running a hand over my hair while my eyes return to her rocking behind. I've played with many a doll during my time, none of them as good as she is. Viondra DeWynter - my ravenous minx. Still as coquettish as she was when I watched her be introduced as a budding socialite, gliding down the stairs of her estate to an audience of hundreds.
The agents tasked with my security make no mention - verbal or physical - of our leaving the same confined space as we board the elevator down to the sublevels. I imagine that they've seen protectees get down to raunchier things than I.
When we arrive at the sublevels, entering the mezzanine that overlooks the entirety of the gymnasium, no one bats an eye besides the customary coming to attention upon the entering of a senior rank. Even then, they quickly return to the appetizers being served by wandering avoxes. Viondra goes to take her place as queen of the escorts who gaggle by the punch. Gamemakers and VIPs alike file by to offer me greetings, and I'm surprised that eight-year-old Antonius had the wherewithal to wait at the back of the line instead of pushing his way to the front. Thank Panem for his maturity. He has both his mother and I's stern disposition. Instead of hugging me and incessantly chanting my name, he extends his hand forward.
"How are you, Junior?" I ask, patting his head while pumping his hand.
"I'm doing well, Father." He replies with a nod, asking, "Will we see Ms. Spitfire soon?"
"Yes, we should be underway, soon." I reply, turning around to spot my 'shadow' in the form of a young aide. "Specialist Hodges, do you have any word on the President's arrival?"
"I was just about to inform you that the President and Vice President have arrived." The Specialist replies with a nod. "They're on their way."
Nodding, I turn my attention back to Junior. "Where's mom?"
Junior points toward the balcony, causing my eyes to follow his finger and spy Carmella staring idly down into the gymnasium all while nursing a glass of punch. If I had half a mind, I would go over there and tug her onto her feet by the hair. Doesn't she have any sense to come over here and play her part? How does it look to my colleagues and guests when my own wife is shutting herself away?
It's the spinster in her. All those years of little to no interaction with men has her socially retarded.
Hodges leans toward my ear. "Sir, they're on their way down."
"Very good." I reply, nodding toward Viondra who in turn begins to flag down the spectators.
"Take your seats by the balcony please, everyone!" Viondra pipes.
Eager to finally begin, it doesn't take long for everyone to claim their seats. I snap a finger toward Carmella, who takes Junior by the shoulder and takes her place by my side just before the double doors. Maintaining my pleasant demeanor, I give Carmella's shoulder a firm grip. It takes a lot of patience not to rip her arm out of her socket when she fixes me the nastiest of looks.
"Do I have to tell you to be by my side for occasions like these?" I hiss at her.
"My apologies," she spits back, maintaining her gaze toward the double doors. "I thought you were spoken for."
I snort, turning my vision towards the doors proper. The only thing this woman has going for her is a sizeable family fortune and not much else. Her use was over with as soon as Junior was discovered to be a 'he'. Once these Games are over with and my position as the greatest Head Gamemaker to grace Panem is cemented I'm going to broom her. I should have as soon as the President gave me this position.
A silence washes over the room as the same double doors swing open to reveal a Capitol Guardsman.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces. "The President and Vice President of Panem! Accompanied by the First and Second families respectively."
The room overflows with applause from the civilian spectators. Ignoring the cameramen that accompany her, I come to attention before President Choudhury and snap a crisp salute. Something she, still not used to her role, returns shakily. I pump hands with Vice President DeWynter as Carmella engages the First and Second Ladies.
"Let's not waste time with pleasantries, Head Gamemaker." She says. "I imagine you're as eager as I am to see how these tributes will perform?"
"Of course, Your Excellency." I reply, smirking as I gesture to the frontmost seats. "I can say with glee that these Games will be spoken about for a millennia."
The Vice President claps me on the shoulder as we take our seats, smack dab in the middle. "We'll take your word on that, Colonel."
"Gamemakers, I highly suggest bringing out your datapads if you haven't already." I say aloud. "Vi, Pax? Please send in the first tribute."
"Hello hello!" Spinel Knudson bellows, splaying her arms outward as she spins into the room. Spinning until she arrives in the center, she halts, glancing up toward us with pursed lips. She studies us for a moment, humming to herself while placing her hands on her hips. "Wow...Such a large audience for lil ol' me? I'm flattered."
"You're garnering quite an interest among some circles, Miss Knudsen." I answer, taking note of the murmuring spectators around me.
Her face lights up with supposed glee. "Is that so...? Oh, well, let's add some more fuel to the fire, shall we?"
"The floor is yours..." I reply, gesturing to the gym at-large.
Perplexed like everyone else, I watch as the girl zips over to the plant identification and begins taking up a concoction of greens. We turn our attentions to the holoscreens, allowing us to get a closer look at what Ms. Knudsen is 'cooking up' as she mashes her concoction into a mortar and pestle - humming all the while. Once done, she sieves the greenish liquid into a syringe, letting out a sigh of relief.
"I need an avox!" she cries out.
"Give her the avox." I say aloud.
We watch with intrigue as a male avox wanders cautiously toward Spinel, who continues to coax him forward with a 'come hither' motion and a cheeky grin. Once he's in range, she tugs his arm straight, jabbing him with her concoction. There are gasps among the civilians in the audience. The Avox rips his arm away, perplexed at what she had done. He stumbles back a few feet before collapsing onto the ground, prompting us all to rise to our feet in astonishment.
"Its okay, its okay...He's not dead..." Spinel says with faux-annoyance, waving us off. "He'll be fine, he's just...incapacitated." she breaks out into a laughing fit. "There's...there's so much you can do with someone who's incapacitated...They're like putty in your hands!"
We gawk at the girl as she chortles, clutching her gut while stumbling towards the exit.
"Hmmm...I look forward to showcasing my 'skills' to you and Panem proper." She giggles before taking her leave. "It's gonna be one helluva show..."
Ignoring the murmurs of discomfort around me, I punch in a few notes about the peculiar Ms. Knudsen.
"What's her story again, Colonel?"
"The intelligence reports are sketchy, ma'am." I reply. All I know was that she was found trying to escape custody when One's rebel cell was being corralled and destroyed. Her training days fill in most of the blanks, however.
The rest of her district partners are less intriguing. None are rebel fighters, but are associated with those who were heavily involved. They were a blur, the only one being of note is the lone Capitolite female among them who puts on a decent show. District 2 is more of the same. The sibling duo performs their training together, but it's nothing noteworthy. The younger male after them is just as bland. I think we're about to get a decent show from the likes of Lilith Rabe, but instead she marches into the gymnasium with an air of contempt and just sits there.
"Ms. Rabe, this form of rebellion will not bode well for you in the arena or with your...living kin."
"Spare me your warnings, Head Gamemaker." Lilith bites back in reply. "The Rabe's are already screwed no matter what we do. I won't be apart of this-"
"Well, instead of wasting our time, perhaps it'd be best if you left." I say, waving my hand dismissively. "Ninety-six tributes is a lot to get through...Even with the ample supply of drink."
Her fair skin flushes pink as the spectators around me begin to snigger at her expense. I don't know what she was expecting, doing what she's doing now. These Rebel types can be so stubborn. Their army is decimated, their 'symbols' extinguished...
"Ms. Rabe, you may leave." I say, rating her 'zero' in my notes.
Glaring all the way, Lilith stomps out of the gymnasium only to be replaced by an even madder Tatiana Gibbs, who's boots clomp audibly against the ground as she enters. Naturally, being the captor of her entire treacherous family, she has eyes only for me. I can only imagine all the scenarios that are bouncing around in that head of hers that involve her bashing my head in with the various weapons on display. I spare a glance at my Minx, who's none too fond of prominent Rebels after her dear brother was killed in a spectacular fashion by Katniss Everdeen in District 8. Minx lights up a cigarette - a nervous habit I've noticed she indulges when in a compromising situation.
Gibbs stomps over to a rack of spears, swiping one up as with lightning speed, she wheels around and launches it toward me.
The audience barely contains their astonishment as the projectile bounces against the forcefield that separates us from her, causing sparks to splash across the width of the barrier. The guards are on her in an instant, dragging her away as she curses me, The Capitol...my mother and everything else in between. I tap my lip, wondering to myself if she garnered herself a 'zero' or something akin to a 'nine' due to the accuracy of the throw.
The eldest boy, Eldwyn Bishop, puts on a decent show with some knife work. He has no training from what my intelligence tells me, but he's willing. The likes of the President and her advisors doubt the willingness of rebel tributes to fight. But Eldwyn here seems to be dispelling this fear. All we need are one, two or ten tributes to kick things off. And then, it'll be like any other year, each tribute looking out for themselves.
If only for a brief moment, a ray of sunshine emerges through the storm.
"And now," President Choudhury says, "The show truly begins."
Yes, Madam President, yes it does. Everyone sits a little taller in their chairs, the room falling silent when Ms. Spitfire herself enters the room. I chuckle silently to myself as I watch the brunette dish of a woman-child march into the room with as much purpose as she did when she barged her way into these Games just days ago.
"Good afternoon." she says, her curly bob bouncing while she offers a curtsy. "I'm Zenobia Rivendell, District 2."
I spare a glance back at Minx, amused at the familiar grin that's on her lips as her eyes flicker my way.
"The floor is yours, Ms. Rivendell." I say, gesturing to the gymnasium at large. "Show me what an ideal tribute can do."
She murmurs something along the lines of "Yes sir" before pivoting on her heels and making her way toward the ranged weapons.
"Ms. Rivendell?" I call out to her. She spins around, her expression filled with curiosity. "I hear you're a cadet at Baron Overwhill Academy, correct?"
"Y-Yes?"
"And while at this Academy, there are certain levels of training one takes." I continue. "Basic, intermediate and...?"
"Advanced-"
"Right, advanced..." I nod. "And to my knowledge, you've only taken 'basic' and 'intermediate', correct?"
Ms. Rivendell stands a little bit straighter, her expression the epitome of confused. "Yes sir?"
"Yes, well, I've uh...read up on Overwhill's 'process' regarding the 'ACT' - a very interesting process I might add - and with you not completing said training...I thought that I would allow you to complete your advanced course right now."
Ignoring the murmurs of the spectators around me, I watch the expression of the young lady morph from confusion to surprise at the sight of multiple gurneys being wheeled in by a squad of Peacekeepers. On those gurneys lie imprisoned Rebels, their squirming and murmuring intensifying - maybe because they understand where they are. One by one, the 'dummies' are placed upright in the various stations Ms. Rivendell may use. Ms. Rivendell turns to me now, brow raised in confusion. The murmurs up here in the mezzanine reach fever pitch. Carmella rushes Junior out of the room. The DeWynter kids are thirteen, well over the age to truly introduce them to the workings of the Games proper. Speaking of the DeWynter's, Minx appears absolutely gleeful. I look forward to many more of her 'tokens of appreciation'.
"Colonel," President Choudhury says, failing to keep her voice level. "You told me you were going to 'shake things up'-"
"And I am, ma'am," I reply evenly in return. "You had concerns about her capability to withstand the others. So please, let her demonstrate." I turn back to Ms. Rivendell now. "Please, Ms. Rivendell, proceed with your demonstration any way you wish."
Her expression stony, Ms. Rivendell's eyes never leave me as she offers another curtsy, doing an about face as she pivots toward the rack of smaller melee weapons - axes, hatchets, tomahawks and knives. Murmuring like children, we watch as she studies the display, all while the unlucky Rebel tied to his gurney blanches as she selects a fistful of hatchets.
I wonder to myself, which is worse? Becoming a live dummy or undergoing experiments in the Gamemaker labs? I suppose being a lab rat would be worse. Which means I've done these Rebels a favor.
Without pretense, she lobs a tomahawk toward the trapped Rebel, and it fastens itself a hair's width away from his head. This naturally has the young man squealing for his life. Paying no mind, Ms. Rivendell does it again, lobbing a tomahawk into the opposite side of the gurney, grazing him deeply in the process. She lobs one into his right thigh and then his right - stifling his cries of agony with a final tomahawk to the chest.
The civilians among us cry out with surprise. Me and my fellow Gamemakers - despite not being frontline Peacekeepers, but have had plenty of experience dissecting captured rebels in the labs - show more restraint, eagerly taking notes while simultaneously keeping our eyes on the spectacle before us.
Blood completely soiling the white gag in his mouth, the Rebel wreathes so hard he causes the gurney to topple onto the floor before supposedly dying. Seeing this, his compatriots try desperately to free themselves only to be prodded with shock batons.
"Take off their gags." I command to the Peacekeepers below, to the unease of the President. What results is a loud string of pleas for forgiveness, curses to the Capitol and of course our executioner in the form of Zenobia Rivendell. Can Ms. Rivendell's adversaries hear the happenings inside this gymnasium, I wonder?
Of course, Ms. Rivendell doesn't care, but goes on to peruse her library of weapons.
The process is repeated with four other unfortunate Rebels. Utilizing her 'jack of all trades' trait as described by my intelligence reports, the Spitfire works her way from hatchets and throwing knives to a machete and even little punching daggers - that she uses to devastating effect. She puts so many holes into the woman in front of her that it finally takes a punch dagger to the head to finish her. The end result has her looking like a bloody demon.
I make note of Ms. Rivendell's weapon proficiency and willingness to kill. Should I have done this with all the tributes? Perhaps next year, when the social implications simmer down a tad. Can't have the condemned even more upset than they are now.
The lone Rebel remaining has poured his heart out, rendering him spent. He can only hang his head in defeat as Zenobia lines up a spear and lobs it full force into his head, through the headrest, sending him and the gurney to the ground. All sense of impartiality is tossed out the window as the audience booms with applause, headed by none other than Vice President DeWynter himself, alongside his wife.
"Bravo!" he cries, chuckling all the while clapping wildly. "Bravo, bravo, bravo!"
"Are your concerns quashed, ma'am?" I ask the President amidst the thunderous applause.
The President begins to take her leave, shifting past me while replying, "For the most part. I wish you well on your experiment, Colonel."
I glance back toward Minx. She appears absolutely flustered, her ruby red nails gripping her armchair for dear life, one slender leg crossed tightly over the other. Her eyes flicker my way, her lips curling upward into a salacious grin. I know that expression she wears very well. I've seen it plenty a time back in the prisons when she would witness the prodding and cutting of Rebels fortunate enough to be selected for my medicinal 'what if's'. With her dear brother being killed by these savages, it only makes sense that their pain becomes an aphrodisiac. I just adore when she gets that way.
I turn my attention back to Ms. Rivendell our, Spitfire - no, no...Our judge, jury and executioner. "Thank you, Ms. Rivendell. You may now leave."
Curtsying, Ms. Rivendell gives the scene one last look-over before striding out of the gymnasium.
I order my aide-de-camp not to clean up the space before the next tribute. I want the other tributes to wonder, even with the blood that currently soaks Ms. Rivendell's uniform.
The grand majority of my fellow Gamemakers and VIP spectators alike have seen what we needed to see in the form of Ms. Rivendell's performance. Everyone else that follows is a foregone conclusion. With the drinks and food flowing at an ample rate, we rush through the districts at lightning speed - citing reviewing the footage hours later once we were sober enough. Being Head, I couldn't indulge in too much fun - despite being offered glass after glass and having to endure Minx's attempts at seducing me. So, I still maintain a coherent eye on this year's chosen.
Contrary to what an outside viewer may think, none of these 'children' - young men and women in the literal sense - are 'innocent'. Sure, a handful may be here because of the sins of their kin, but they too pose a threat simply because with time comes reflection. And in their case, reflection over a period of years makes for a bitter person. And hundreds of thousands of bitter people - all for the same reasons - will result in yet another civil war. We let the bitter of the First Rebellion simmer, only for their hatred to kindle up again. If we let these 'children' simmer this time around, well...Their presentations serve as premium examples of the underlying danger they pose to The Capitol and thus Panem.
District 3 has decent marksmen among them, their excellent perception working wonders with the projectile weapons. Not to mention their intrepidness with electronics, trapping and mines.
I'm surprised Rief Cohen does well with his cast. Perhaps, like his dear grandmother, Mags Cohen, he has the traits of a victor as well...as well as a respectable unifier - a slept on threat. I may have to take preventative measures to prevent him engaging with our 'executioner' too soon.
Districts 5, 6 and 8 - like their urban cousins in 3 - are also proficient in projectile weaponry and improvisation - crafting bottles of poor man's grenades, daggers made out of glass and the like. What's to say that their bitterness wouldn't translate into making IED's to kill and maim our troops and innocents in their respective communities? The rural districts, 9, 10, 11 - they naturally have great aptitude when it comes to crafting remedies. Who's to say they wouldn't hone their bitterness into concocting a serum to poison our stocks?
I can't forget the various last names that flood this year's selection of tributes, peppered throughout all the Districts - Rabe, Gibbs, Matix, Cohen and Paylor just to name a few. If the Victors were chief threats, then they come in a close second, hence the need for higher tribute numbers. While few would renounce their lineage, many would walk down the aisle and up to the stage to continue their family's legacy.
And of course, there is one District who embodies all these toxic traits.
The rowdiness of my fellow spectators comes to a grinding halt when District 12's tributes enter the Gym. Like most district partners, the District 13 emigrants that make up the majority of 12's tribute's this year seem to be performing together. Headed by Matix, the six tributes tackle each of the stations by taking turns one at a time. Besides the occasional glare, the Thirteens never say a word to us - not even to introduce themselves. My interest in their activities peaks when they enter the shooting gallery.
It's no secret they perform leagues better than Career packs pre-War. Even on the most difficult level, they execute the shooting exercise perfectly. Although Peacekeeper cadets - of District 2 stock - are immersed in patriotic doctrine as soon as they can walk, they have social breaks. I doubt the monotonous rats of District 13 allow their youth a break from plotting the downfall of The Capitol.
"That's all I need to see. You may leave." I say, waving them off when they assemble in the middle of the gym for the first time since coming in. I turn to DeWynter now, sighing as I get another nose full of her perfume.
"Do you think your girl has it in her to down those six?" I ask. "Not to mention the other Thirteens running about?"
I know the answer, but even with Ms. Rivendell's impressive feats, the Thirteens are not to be understated this year. She's where Ms. Everdeen was in the eyes of the Career Pack of her year.
"Never underestimate a mad woman, sir." She replies into my ear, breathy and pleasant.
Next enters a tank of a boy, easily one of the tallest boys in the Games this year and probably one of the strongest. With his black skin, one would think he was an emigrant from District 11 or 10 until he introduces himself in the Capitol's English. This peaks the interest of myself and a number of spectators buzzed from drink.
"Where are you from, boy?"
"Bountiful, sir." He replies confidently, standing rigidly at attention. Quirking a brow, I sip from my goblet. He's a special one, isn't he?
"Are you a cadet, boy?" that stature, his tone with me...
"Yes sir, I was going to attend Ravinstill, sir." This garners some hums of approval from the military men and women that make up the spectator base.
"So what brings you here before us?"
He glowers toward the floor. "A very stupid father, sir."
"Well boy, if the odds are in your favor, perhaps you'll be back in The Capitol in time for the winter semester." I gesture toward the gymnasium. "Show me what you're capable of."
And show us he does. Partially drunk, escorts and spectators alike count out the amount of repetitions he can do on the pull-up bars and weighted lifts. With impartiality in mind, I order them to stop. Should Ms. Rivendell be unable to withstand the ire that's sure to explode once the Games begin, this young man would be a suitable tribute to root for - far above the other moderates I've picked out during my time observing them.
"The private sessions have now concluded," Announces my Deputy Head. "I should warn spectators that what you've seen here is confidential. If the Gamemakes could stay behind one more hour to consolidate our scores-"
As people begin to stir, chatting loudly as if they were schoolchildren let out last period, I remain seated, my eyes focused squarely on the gargantuan tree in the prefabricated forest portion of the gymnasium. "We're not done yet, Major."
With confusion on her face, she frowns deeply. "...Sir?"
"I said we're not done yet!" I repeat, loud enough for our spy to hear. "We still have one more tribute! Isn't that right!? You can come out now!"
Within the mixture of greens and browns is a streak of color. The figure begins to move, disturbing the branches until she drops to the floor. The girl, the youngest tribute this year by a long shot, shakily makes her way toward the center of the gymnasium, adjusting her eyeglasses out of nervous habit while spectators begin to gather by the balcony and murmur in wonderment about the child. She seems familiar, but I've seen hundreds of thousands of faces within the past year or so.
"What do we have here...a little spy?" Minx purrs, prompting some to giggle.
"That's Emery!" Minx's sister cries, pointing a finger toward the tribute.
Minx glances over at her sister. "Who is she, Victoria?"
"Oh come on Viondra, you don't remember!?" Victoria exclaims. "That's Emery Smithson! Everyone was wondering where she went and when we saw her during the reaping, everyone at school went crazy!"
Ah, another Capitol. Looking at her, I could tell that Emery was squirming under the increased attention. To add to the rather amusing situation, four Peacekeepers enter the gymnasium in a hurry - supposedly looking for Ms. Smithson. Before they could seize her, I raise a hand - pausing their advance.
"What's that you have in your hand?" I ask her.
She clutches the purple book like a lifeline. "...iary."
"What?"
"M-My notes!" she repeats.
I fold one leg over the other. "And let me guess...you wrote out observations about every single tribute today?"
"...Yes-" she replies, flinching under the increased volume of intrigued murmurs by my colleagues.
"And throughout the five days as well?"
"Yes..."
More murmurs rumble throughout the mezzanine as I lean back into my chair. Genius. We've seen our share of wallflowers over the past two hours. Sure, many have probably spied on other groups and retained information inside their heads for later use, but none have taken whole notes. Genius!
"And how, pray tell, did you get in here without anyone noticing?" I ask.
"I..." Her dark face blanching, she pauses for a moment. "I paid a Peacekeeper off."
With an incredulous expression, I turn to my colleagues who laugh their asses off, a loud, resounding bout of laughter reserved for a cabaret than The Training Center. Despite this, Ms. Smithson stands defiant.
"You're..." I clear my throat, attempting to regain my clinical air - but failing. "You're serious?"
The look in her eyes tells me that this young girl isn't lying. Perhaps we should do a more thorough search of the tributes next year.
"And what are you going to do with this information you find yourself with?"
"You'll just have to wait and see." She responds back firmly, causing my colleagues to exclaim at her brazenness.
"I guess I do, because I'm all burnt out for today." I reply, motioning for the Peacekeepers to take her away. As they do this, I rise out of my seat, shaking my head as my colleagues break out into laughter once more. Her rather ballsy display serves as perfect cap to a mostly dull afternoon. Minx gets into my space in the most fraternizing way possible - wrapping an arm around my shoulder, her blonde curls gathering in my vision as she leans in to get a look-see, shrouding me in her perfume.
"So...what did you think, sir?" she asks.
I peruse the training scores on my datapad. The application is live, prompting the judgments made by all spectating Gamemakers to be aggregated into an average score. A brief glance down the line gives me high score after high score - all were well-earned. Snipers, bombers, insurgents aka infantry, these Games will be the definition of 'historic' and 'back to their roots', however...
"Ms. Rivendell has her work cut out for her." I say, giving her a look-over from head to toe. Discreetly, I place a hand on the small of her back, nudging her golden locks away with my chin as I move my lips over her bejeweled ear. "Now let's say I get this pesky work out of the way and then we could...settle down for a little while?"
Atonement76 . weebly . com
! - You may know him as the lecherous and sadistic prison commandant in "Emery Means Brave", this year's Head Gamemaker, Colonel Antonius Rose has been added to the blog. Jeremy Irons seemed like a fitting casting choice.
! - A recurring character in my universe, Sergeant Claudia Floris has also been added to the blog. You may notice the uniform is a stark difference from a standard PK. In past works and this one, I often make mention of a "Expeditionary Force" - Peacekeepers tasked with conducting operations outside Panem's defined borders. Marines essentially.
I should up that rating soon...
Coming Up Next...
"So now what, now that everyone in the Capitol adores me?" I ask. Judging by the constant notifications going off, and holovision showcasing Capitolites sporting signs showing their support of me, they don't see me as a criminal anymore.
She rises from off of the sofa, sauntering over to me. Placing her chin on top of my head, she latches onto my shoulders with her manicured hands.
"Now, we mould you into the beacon we need you to be."