Chapter Fourteen - "Viondra DeWynter's School Of Etiquette"

The Trio spent the night in the apartment. This morning, they had avoxes carting in a bunch of equipment that they were adamant I not see. I know that in one of those boxes is my dress for my time with Caesar later on. Before breakfast began, they took down my measurements once more and scurried out the room. It's not often I get to wear civilian clothing, so I mostly look forward to whatever the Trio make for me.

"What's your favorite color?" Fletcher asked me as I watched their equipment be brought in.

"I 'preciate a good shade of green, to be honest." I answered as a small grin appeared on my lips. "Why d'you ask?"

Fletcher grinned from ear to ear and nodded as he punched in the information on his communicuff.

"So," I say, gulping down the remainder of my apple juice. It tasted amazing. It didn't taste like the generic apple flavor I'm used to at the Academy. I'll never get enough of the stuff. "I did my training, I scored my twelve...What's next, somethin' about 'molding' me you said?"

"Something." Viondra corrects, her eyes glued onto her communicuff.

My eyes narrow as I raise my hands confusingly and shrug. "S'what I said...somethin'."

"That's what I said." She corrects again, her accent somehow becoming harsher. "That's what I said, something."

Confused, I shake my head. "Not sure I follow."

She reclines back in her chair, sipping her cup of fruit juice all while studying me with those icy eyes.

"You have the fighting skill, but the verbal skill - well..." she wobbles her head back and forth, a "meh" escaping her lips. "We need to 'alter' a few things before your debut with Caesar tomorrow afternoon."

I frown. "Afternoon?"

"Yes. The interviews will be conducted in time blocks, One thru Four in the late afternoon, Five thru Eight in the early evening, so on and so forth." Viondra explains. "Having an interview - a tribute interview - so early is quite...lame, but your popularity will make up for the awkward time slot."

"Fair enough," I reply. Besides a few health lessons on personal presentation and how to appear as an 'ideal Panemian', Overwhill never taught much about the social aspect of the Games. How hard can it be, really? All you need to do is appear semi competent and interesting. How much more work do you need to put into speaking with someone for five or ten minutes anyhow?

A lot, apparently.

"Duty," Viondra corrects. One leg crossing over the other, she extinguishes her cigarette while motioning for me to say the word again.

I sigh, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. "S'what I said...duty."

"'Due-tee', not 'doody'." Viondra replies while rolling her eyes at my pronunciation. "That's what I said, not 's'what'. Goodness, your accent makes this harder than it has to be."

"Can't change where I'm from." I reply derisively, folding my arms as I recline back in the armchair. "S'not like I can change my speech overnight..."

"You're not from the capital. Born there yes, but not raised." Viondra comments. "I wonder because, not all Twos speak like you do. Certainly not the ones I've met."

"Grew up-" I roll my eyes when she quirks an expectant brow at me. "I grew up a little ways southeast in the District - the plains near 10. Where my Dad was born and raised."

A lot of people in Two speak the way I do. "Mom" is "Ma". We clip our words and sentences. 'Apparently' is 'parently, 'and' is 'an''. We do say our sentences in full, but due to the clipping, it sounds chopped up. Dad spoke like that. Mom, being raised in a neat community home in the district capital, spoke plainly, only breaking out her native accent when she was angry.

"Why are you makin' me learn the Capitol's English again?" I ask, frowning when Viondra glares daggers at me. I sigh sharply, sitting upright as I try again in the prescribed accent. "Why are you making me learn this?"

"Because Rivendell, optics is everything this year," She replies. "After two years of seeing young people mob justice buildings and lugging rifles, people need to be reminded of what an ideal Panemian youth looks like. And what better way of showing them that by making you the shining example?" She bares her pearly white teeth for me to see. "The beacon we need you to be."

And so, Viondra continues to drill me in using the Capitol's English, using herself and holovision as aids...as well as training Mars and Juniper to nibble at my calves when I slip out of the accent. It's the dogs that keep me on my toes. Viondra points to the likes of Kaiser Neumann and Serene Westenfluss, the sole District 1 Victors, as prime examples of districtpeople using the accent well. With her coaching I get a hang of it after a few hours, my jaw sore from the limited range of motion that comes with using the accent. My mouth barely moves at all.

"Hello Zenobia, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you!" Viondra recites.

I take her hand and shake it. "Hello Caesar. It's a pleasure to meet you as well." As distinct as it sounds, it feels like such a chore saying words in their entirety. Pronouncing the t's, making sure every word is accounted for in a sentence. It still feels foreign, but I'll get used to it.

Viondra nods in approval. "Excellent. You sound a lot cleaner. Not too pleasing, not too out of character for a Career from Two...It's just right."

After my English lessons, I'm given a treat in the form of a pair of high heels. With Viondra taking a backseat, an amused expression on her face, the Trio fits me with a variety of shoes and commands me to walk around the apartment to get a feel for it. Apparently a girl my age should be well-adept to using heels by now.

We're a military family. Where in Panem's name would we wear heels as narrow as my pinky?

"Haven't you worn heels before?" Viondra comments incredulously, exhaling a plume of smoke from her lips.

"I prefer Mary Jane's - my standard-issue Overwhill shoes." I reply as I continue to traverse around the apartment. I feel like I'm gliding. It's a rare day when I get to wear civilian clothes. Being a cadet doesn't stop when summer 'vacation' rolls around. Now I genuinely try to add up how many times in a year I wear civilian clothing. Not much if I have to think.

Fletcher gives me a pair of wedge heels akin to the usual Mary Jane's I wear. It feels, much, much better than the literal stilts they had me wear just now.

"We could work with wedge heels." Fletcher says, nodding along with his subordinates.

Wyatt eyes me like I'm the President herself. "Can you see her in it now, guys?"

"Yes!" cries Amir. "She's going to love the dress-"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Fletcher replies, easing me out of the heels. He then clutches both my hands in his, looking me straight in the eyes. "You're going to look fabulous, I promise you."

"I look forward to seeing it." I reply warily. They've been touting the dress for a day or two now. I just hope that the thing isn't like Glimmer Rambin's nightie-thing or any of the other 'barely there' pieces I've seen throughout my seventeen years of life. We do another lesson on my accent and then jump into things like body language and expressions.

"At least you got this down pat," comments Viondra, looming a few feet away from me as she observes my sitting posture. "A lot of tributes look so artificial on stage. I can see you now and I'm impressed."

I clutch my chest where underneath my blouse, the ID discs of my parents and Paulus hang around my neck. "Thank my Mom," I say in reply. "Where Dad was all physical all the time, she was the brains of the family."

We break off for dinner, convening in Viondra's room as we sit in front of the holovision and go over the day's Hunger Games gossip. It's mostly just arena speculation and placement predictions. I'm surprised that despite my score of twelve, they don't immediately assume me to be first place. In fact, the crown of victor seems to be divided between the likes of Rief Cohen and many outer district boys that are two times my weight and are at least half a person taller than I am. Despite the joyful outlook of Viondra and the Trio, I'm glad I still keep some inkling of realism to my prospects.

"And now, you need an angle." Viondra says, scooping up a piece of cake into her mouth.

"An angle?" I repeat, giving into Mars' request for a meatball as I skewer one and place it into his waiting mouth.

She nods. "You know. Some tributes are flirty, some are mysterious, some are people persons..."

"Oh yes, I remember now." Paulus and I always used to marvel at how some tributes would put up such a cocky front, only for them to revert back to their usual selves, cowering as they died or going completely mad.

"Luckily for you, I already have one sorted out." She says. "I assume you already know what to do once you're out there?"

"Expose my family business to millions of random people?" I answer dryly, notching up my sarcasm to '100' when I say, "I'm very "much looking forward to it-"

"You made that loud and clear when we first met." Viondra's eyes light up as she whips her head toward the HV. She points a manicured finger towards it. "However..."

"I imagine that the Two camp are still keeping their mouths shut in regards to Ms. Spitfire, Marceline?"

"You got that right Caesar," Chimes Marceline. "No one and I mean absolutely no one will budge about this girl that literally forced her way into this year's festivities!"

"I guess I'll have to drill her extra hard when I meet her face to face tomorrow afternoon!"

"I think everyone and their grandma will be glued to their HV sets when you do," Says Marceline. "I know I will."

Viondra shuts off the holovision, regarding me with a serious look.

"If you manage to pull this off - hells, as soon as you marched down that aisle and showed me up, your life became ours whether you like it or not." She says.

"Our life?" the last time I checked, I was the one who was violated while her family lay dying.

Viondra sighs, cuddling Juniper as the puppy leaps onto her lap. "Your angle is our angle...if that makes sense."

"I want it to make sense." I know that victors serve as ambassadors for their districts - the epitome of the best and brightest...at least for most districts. The same couldn't be said for District 12 or most of the lower districts.

"With all due respect, you're not the only one who has experienced terrible loss, Rivendell," She says. "There are a lot of loyal orphans, broken families..."

She trails off, jutting her chin toward her dresser. I turn my attention to the furniture - more specifically the items on top of it. I place my hands on top of a book and pick it up when she nods. I flip it open and my eyes lock on a portrait of a rather handsome fellow. His garrison cap pegs him as a member of the Air Force - a Captain to boot. Blond hair, blue eyes, bulging cheeks as he smirks...

I pick up the scrapbook for further study. "Is this your brother?"

Viondra hums in acknowledgement. "He was a flyboy, like Paulus was." She answers. "I read his file too. Richard and he would've got on famously." She contemplates lighting up a cigarette, but decides against it. "He was killed during the Battle of District 8."

"Richard his name was?"

She nods. "Named after my father and his father before him and so on. We called him 'Dick'." She replies, rolling her eyes at my quirked brow. "It's an odd name for a Capitolite, I know, but it's a legacy from before Panem."

"I'm sorry to hear that..." I say lamely.

She lets out a 'humph', waving me off flippantly while flagging down an avox with a press of a button on her communicuff. The servant nearly spills the drink when Viondra snaps at him to give it to her, swiping it off the platter before dismissing him again.

"It's water off my back." She says after taking a sip, although judging by her tone and actions, she's still peeved over the death - and rightfully so. "I made damn sure that they got theirs. I could've had a comfy desk job at the Citadel, but I chose to get my hands dirty - pick up the slack after his death."

I nod along, flipping to the next page. Viondra calls the Avox again, demanding that he leave the bottle instead of pouring a glass. While she berates the poor man, I select another photo, this time of Viondra and a squad of Peacekeepers posing against a SJ-7 Assault Transport Vehicle.

But it's then that I notice the eight shapes on the side of the hull and even stenciled on their armor. The eight of clubs. The Crazy Eights.

"You were 8th Division?" I exclaim, surprised at my own excitement. "My Dad was once upon a time."

"I was with Rommie Thread's boys for a spell, yes...From late spring to until 13 quit," Viondra replies proudly. "I was an administrative officer, not involved in direct combat...just policing, battening down the rear while they pushed forward." She motions with her glass towards the commendations bar seated on a velvet holder. "I've had my fair share of close calls...believe it or not."

"Do you mind...?" Viondra nods as I pick up the bar. For a junior officer she has quite the rack of medals. Out of the two rows, one gains my attention above all others. She's had a 'close call' alright. "The Silver Eagle, seriously? Even if you weren't a Citadel desk jockey, how did you earn a Silver Eagle? All the Capitol officers I know are more than happy to stay in a command tent."

She takes a liberal sip of her drink and rises out of her overstuffed chair, turning her back towards me. I'm shocked when she shrugs her slip off, exposing the entirety of her back. She takes up a rather awkward positioning, grasping both arms of the chair while bringing her behind ever so forward. I find myself averting my eyes to stop myself from seeing more. I blame the alcohol for making her more brazen.

"Come a little closer," She says.

I obey her, closing the distance as I scan the entirety of her back. It's then that I notice two significant indents alongside her spine. Replacement discs, she tells me, from a piece of concrete that struck her as she was under fire - all while dragging a crewmember to safety. She would be in a wheelchair for life if it weren't for her body armor.

"And then I had to consolidate what was left of my convoy." She says, chuckling dryly when she adds, "It was a bad day. It would have been worse if I didn't make it through. Speaking of, could you fetch me my pills? I guess all the talk about it is causing it to act up - thank you."

I watch as she downs two tablets with a swig of wine to wash it down. Seems like a bad concoction to me. Viondra goes quiet for a moment, reclining back in her chair as I continue to peruse through the scrapbook. She has a penchant for photographing destruction - destroyed buildings, piles of captured weapons, a bunch of photos during 13's surrender...

"What about this one?" I ask. "Were you on leave or something? Gee, even the Head Gamemaker was a part of the Eights...This one is dated April in Two."

I show her the portrait where she, Antonius Rose and a handful of other PKs in walking out uniforms pose happily for the camera on a wooden balcony of a cabin overseeing what looks like a base of sorts. Viondra stands prominently in the middle, Mars and Juniper by her knees.

"After I was wounded during the Battle for Ravinstill Springs. I did a spell as a MPO at a detention camp." She says, taking another sip of her wine as she lets out a breathy sigh. "When you killed those rebel drecks the other day, imagine that relief times a million. That's how it felt operating that camp. Us DeWynter girls, it's a family gag to say that we have power as soon as we're born. You know, because of our looks and last name. I find that to be 'soft' power. Making those rebels suffer - choosing who lives or dies at the pull of a trigger or an utter of a command, making them knock-kneed just by being meters away...Now that's power on a whole other plane."

Slowly, I continue to peruse the scrapbook, freezing at some of the images that meet my eyes. POWs, wearing the same jumpsuits as some of the tributes here wore, scared out of their minds. One picture has Viondra beheading a POW with a sword. Another photo shows the aftermath of one being mauled - presumably by Mars and Juniper - while another showcases Viondra's handiwork with a whip.

"...We didn't even have his body to bury, all thanks to that rube bitch with a bow." She continues, passively swirling the remainder of her drink before downing it and filling it back up again. "The dam attack, the granaries on fire, the derailments, your family, tons of families...They've nearly ruined the nation and for what - Because they can't see the bigger picture? Because they can't see that we'll fall to the wayside like the foreign mongrels outside our borders if we deviate even an inch?"

There's Viondra getting her shoes shined by a fearful child...There's a photo of a huge bonfire, Peacekeepers drunkenly raising their bottles into the air. There's a photo of Antonius Rose being ridden around, whip in hand, all while two prisoners wheel him around on a wagon. On the next page, Viondra lounges on a throne, one leg draped over the arm, all while carried by four men.

"They deserved everything I dished out and more. Would you like to know funny thing about it? No matter how many times I put them down, shot them, beat them...It never felt complete. I never felt as if I've gotten even with them. From what I hear there are hundreds of thousands of people like me...not quite satisfied. Maybe perhaps, we would find relief by living through you as you go through the Games."

I flip the page once more, getting an eyeful of Viondra in an assortment of intimate poses with none other than the Head Gamemaker himself.

"Zenobia,"

I slam the scrapbook shut.

I glance up to find Viondra glancing down at me. Looking disheveled, with her glossy eyes and one of her shoulder straps askew, she clutches both arms of my chair.

"When you sit across from Caesar tomorrow, you tell Panem exactly how you feel." She says. "Loyal Panemians everywhere will listen and then, when the arena comes, you won't even have to lift a finger."

"Understood," I reply.

What else can I say? It all makes sense when you let it all sink in. Randall, his eye, and his mourning for our fellow cadets who didn't make it back. All those broken loyalist troops in the field hospital, the crushed livelihoods back in Two? Who else can speak up for them if not me?

Coming Up Next...

"Eccentric kitsch is dead," Says Wyatt.

"Bring on tasteful minimalism!" Amir beams as he takes me by the hand and slowly twirls me.

Fletcher places his hands on my bare shoulders, joining me in regarding my reflection in the wide mirror. "So...what do you think, Zen?"