For a change, I don't spend the train ride feeling sorry for myself. None of us do. I think we stopped doing that a long time ago.
Shortly after the Quell was announced, I decided to focus on what really matters: Making sure Logan and Emma would survive no matter what happens. Nothing else. I locked myself in my bedroom for days to come up with a training plan, based on a twelve-page list outlining our strengths and weaknesses. Every day, I would wake up at five and run until six thirty. Next, I would head back to the Village to make sure Emma was awake, have breakfast, and start training with her. Logan usually joined us in the early afternoon. We gave him a pass because Emma forced him to quit drinking until the reaping.
Every day, we ran, lifted flour sacks we borrowed from the bakery, and exercised until we were so sore we couldn't walk. We sharpened our survival skills in the woods. I taught Emma how to shoot. We worked on our skills with knives, spears, and every weapon we came across during the Games. Logan assisted us with hand-to-hand combat.
It helped. The feeling of doing something about the situation instead of feeling sorry for ourselves. We were all aware we could never truly fix the problem, but at least we didn't let it conquer us.
But surely, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. How could it be, training for a Quarter Quell?
Between the two of us, I've always been the one more fit for the arena. Physically, I'm stronger. I have great aim and experience with weaponry. I've known my way in nature for years now. But Emma has always been a better teacher than I am.
There were these instances during our training when she or Logan did something wrong, or worse, inadequately, and I kept losing my patience. Then it'd turn into a screaming match. Believe it or not, I'm not an asshole, even though Logan called me that quite often in the last three months. It's just that we had so little time to train until we would be thrown into the arena with all the other victors. We didn't have any room for any mistakes. We needed to be capable enough to compete with them. Wanting that for us doesn't make me an asshole, even though it occasionally made us distant. I don't regret anything. I can handle a few eye rolls, snarky comments, and cold shoulders from them. I could be a little hard to get along sometimes, too bad— I did it for our own good.
Another thing we did, which was not as tiring but just as bad as physical training, was devouring the Games. I asked Janet to send us the tapes of all the Games. She sent us each, with the exception of the tenth Games. She said she couldn't find it anywhere. I took notes and tried to create detailed profiles of all the living victors.
After I woke up from two nightmares that night, I watched our Games one more time instead of trying to go back to sleep. Just to live through it again, without taking any notes. I don't know why I did it. Maybe to motivate myself to train harder. Maybe to try to come to terms with going back to the arena. Maybe to see if it would stop twisting my insides if I overexposed myself to it.
It did not.
So I suppose it's a good thing that the Victory Tour was great at teaching one to swallow their emotions into oblivion, because I don't have time to pay any attention to that. My hands are full enough as it is.
Janet enters the compartment in a brand-new outfit and heavy eye makeup that fails at concealing her puffy eyes. "I have an idea. Logan, ask me what it is."
Logan stares at her from under his eyebrows. "No."
Janet narrows her eyes.
"What is it?" Logan caves in, his tone weary.
"So. Emma has her ring. I have my locket," She gestures to her chest. "Scott has his pin. I'll get you something gold as well."
"And how would gold help us, Janet?" Logan asks, letting out a passive-aggressive sigh. Janet clasps her hands in front of her and raises her eyebrows. There is something different about the Janet Van Dyne we all know. Aside from her sadness, I can pick up something else.
"It'll show them we're a team," She emphasizes. "And that they can't take that from us." The way the can't slips between her lips, reeking of spite. Anger.
She sits next to Emma. "I know we had our ups and downs during the tour," She starts. "I know my priorities can be different from yours sometimes. And I know how that makes you feel about me, I'm not stupid. The compartments aren't soundproof, you know?" She crosses her arms.
I never thought she actually heard us talking about her. Ever. I can't help but look down. Not because I feel bad about the things I said, but it's still embarrassing that she knows. Emma just keeps staring at her.
"Oh, it's fine," Janet says to me. "You should hear what the other stylists say about me. 'Did she steal that portfolio from a pre-schooler? Did she kill her husband? Did she seriously use florals last season?' I don't care what anyone says about me. I can be difficult sometimes, I know that. But what I care about is… That you know I care about you. I do."
A brief silence, followed by a half-hearted "We know," by Emma. I give her a nod. Yes, she's Janet. Yes, she's a privileged Capitol citizen. Yes, she cares about us. In her own way. That's crystal clear.
"I'm really sorry this is happening to you." She places her hand over Emma's. "When you grow up in the Capitol… You think that all this is…" She waves her free hand around the compartment. "How things are supposed to be, you know?" She sniffles. "But this wasn't supposed to happen, and… I'm sorry. You two deserved so much better."
There isn't much left to say anymore, maybe except, "You know what, Janet? Gold sounds like a good idea." I lean over to the desk and place my hand over Janet and Emma's. "Right, Logan?"
His upper lip curls upward. "Yeah," He joins us as well. "Good thinking, Jan."
Who would have thought? We are a pretty good team, after all. They can only try taking that from us.
"Now. Enough tears. Let's talk business— the day after tomorrow. You have the parade." Janet momentarily leaves to get her sketchbook.
Without letting her trademarked smug smile die down, Emma speaks, her voice carrying traces of doubt. "I wasn't the only one who heard the part about her husband, right?"
"Nope," Logan nods.
"Oh, thank god."
"I know you said you liked it simple last year," Janet says while adjusting my sleeve. "But we can't do simple this year. You have to make your mark out there. So…"
"Gold," I complete her sentence, staring at my parade outfit in the mirror. "Should have gotten the hint at the train."
This is undeniably different from the outfit I wore last year. Last year, I remember specifically asking Janet to make the outfit simple for me. So she did— I wore black combat boots, a black leather T-shirt, matching cargo pants, and the visor Janet gave me for a personal touch. But this costume… It's too much.
The first layer is an all-black full bodysuit covering my entire body, clinging onto my skin as if it wants to replace it. She gave me the same boots I wore last year. In the second layer, dark red accents resembling roots span across my shoulders, arms, chest, legs, and even my black boots. When Janet presses a button, they begin to glow. I initially thought it looked too artificial, but she made the lights blend so seamlessly, they're almost like a part of my body. The third and final layer is the gold armor. Placed generously, but not extravagantly, over my sleeves, shoulders, and chest; around the accents. Only my upper body is covered with actual gold, because according to Janet, "You don't want to get too reckless with gold, then it'll just look tacky. Remember District One from last year?"
I do. Sebastian Shaw did look tacky in that all-gold costume.
So, to avoid that, the prep team cautiously sprays some gold over my lower body instead of going with actual gold. The gold shine of the liquid begins from the top of my boots and increasingly glazes my legs from the bottom to the top. "This will look like you're transforming," Janet says, dreamily. "Starting from the simplicity of last year… Gradually becoming pure gold. From a tribute…" Her words linger in the air. "To a victor."
"From a tribute to a tribute again, you mean?" I roll my eyes.
"I feel you," Janet gestures the team to pause spraying. "But I really need you to stay still right now, dear."
"Sorry."
Once they're done with the spray, I inspect the costume for one last time. My former outfit looked like it belonged to a soldier. But this year, with the bright but subtle blood-red accents over the black suit and the gold armor… I look more like a warrior.
"As for the personal touch…" Janet hands me a box.
I can't help but smirk upon seeing the gold visor in it.
"Put it on whenever you're ready," Janet says. "I should go check on Emma's team."
I hang around the dressing room for a while, but then I decide that taking a look around is a better idea. I know I'll recognize most of the other victors. We watched all the reapings last night, and I did my research well. Logan's insight was the most helpful since he's known them for years. That's right, all victors know one another— except us. We've already begun this year's Games at a disadvantage. So I might as well wait by our chariot and assess the threats.
Upon exiting, the first one I lay my eyes on is Angelica Jones, District Six, the winner of the 67th Games. Won by hiding until everyone else died. Behind her is her district partner, Amando Munoz. Winner of the 57th Games. Drowned the District Two tribute before getting crowned as the victor.
I try my best to stay as neutral as I can. Neutral, distant, cold— We can't look vulnerable in front of them. We're already vulnerable enough for having each other. There is no room for other weaknesses.
I spot Jason and Regan Wyngarde from the reflection of the mirror on the right. Father and daughter (Jesus.) from District One, presumably the first half of the career pack.
Hank McCoy, District Three, feeds one of the horses sugar cubes. It seems extremely ironic to me that Hank McCoy was reaped again. He is one of the smartest victors ever. So smart, the Capitol has given him a job. He was working for them for years. He contributed to Panem so much, and this is how they repay him. He must be pissed.
Next, I come eye to eye with Remy LeBeau, District Seven, while I walk past the empty chariot of District Nine. He seems to be speaking to a girl, but I can't tell who it is from this angle. He briefly stops talking and just stares at me. His lips form a cool smirk. I don't return it.
Why did he smirk? Were they talking about me? Coming up with ways to kill us in the arena? Could they be—
My racing thoughts are interrupted when someone shoulders me. "Hey, watch it!" I say, knowing who it is the second I get a glimpse of that voluminous blonde hair. It could only belong to one person. (I should note that, even while shouldering me, his skin looks flawless.)
"Then look where you're going." Warren snaps.
"This is my chariot. I could say the same for you."
"And what happens if I don't listen to you?" He scoffs. "You'll get your blood on me too?"
"I could get more creative than that," I spit.
He smirks, leaning in closer to me. "Make friends, Scott," I can practically feel his breath on my face. Peppermint. "Plenty of friends. You'll need them." I push him away. He makes his way towards his chariot.
"Think fast, loverboy!" I whip my head around and catch the little, round thing thrown at me. A plum. "Nice reflexes," Lorna approaches me, her hands clasped behind her back. "He's usually not an asshole, you know."
"Doesn't appear so."
"It's just the thing with Betsy. You know, the one you killed using your—"
"I know, Lorna," I say between my teeth. "You don't need to keep reminding me. I was there."
"Warren won the 72nd Games, he's only two years older than her," She points out. "They were best friends for a long time, and then he was her mentor..."
"I don't remember asking you about Warren's life story."
Lorna crosses her arms and presses her tongue against her inner cheek. "You've grown teeth ever since I last saw you, Scott Summers. You know that?"
Is she being serious right now? There is no telling with Lorna. "Here, have your plum back," I say, hoping she'll just go away.
"Keep it. I already had one. It was pretty sweet. People like us…" She starts, petting the horse next to us. "We should grab something sweet when we see it. Before the time runs out."
"Not a fan of sugar."
"That's too bad," Lorna says, staring at me from head to toe. "Your stylist really went all in with you guys this year, didn't she? I saw Emma with her prep team. She looks so good. I couldn't help but be a little jealous."
"Oh, you saw her?"
"Yeah. Not going to lie, she was definitely more talkative than you."
"Opposites attract."
"…They do, don't they?" She raises one of her eyebrows. "It's really a shame, you know. This entire quell. You guys would have made it big in the Capitol," She takes the plum from me and takes a bite. "You wouldn't even have to take off your clothes. The people there would shower you with their money just for fun."
"I have enough money," I shrug. "Nothing interesting."
"Well," She throws the plum in the air and catches it. "That makes two of us."
I smirk. "That's a surprise."
"Please. No one in this room is dumb enough to be fascinated by money."
I raise one of my eyebrows.
"You can't really survive once you make it out of the arena without some secrets up your sleeve. A victor's wealth has no power over them. I mean, even with all the zeros they pay us," She snorts. "They'll always have more. The key is knowing that the biggest secrets lie in the thickest wallets."
From the corner of my eye, I spot someone else wearing gold. I clear my throat and step away from Lorna. "Right," I say, dismissively.
She takes another bite of the plum. "Oh, and I'm sorry about your wedding. That must be so heartbreaking for you." Lorna adds, with five different undertones of fake in the word heartbreaking. "It's too bad. I had already picked out my outfit."
"You weren't invited."
"Oh," She lets out a tiny cackle. "It's funny you think you'd be in charge of the guest list."
"Lorna." A familiar voice greets.
"Emma," Lorna winks at her. "You look great."
"Thank you," Emma smiles distantly, softly tossing her straightened hair. "So do you."
"No, but really— I have to meet your stylist. Are you going to glow again?" Is this Lorna's version of girl talk before she attempts to slice us in the arena?
"I don't know. I guess we'll see. Oh, Bobby was looking for you."
"Shit. I told him I wouldn't be late this time. Guess I'll see you."
The second Lorna leaves us alone, we start scanning each other from head to toe. "Emma…" I breathe out almost instinctively, my hand placed over my chest.
My costume has three layers, hers only has two.
The first layer is a white bodysuit with long dangling sleeves. The second layer is the gold armor covering the entire bodysuit except for the sleeves. The gold gets less and less prominent as my eyes land on the slits at the edges of her waist, where the armor frames her oh-so-generously exposed skin. She wears white knee-high boots. Her thighs remain bare except for the glitter and the sprayed liquid gold. It's like a waltz of glitter and gold, on her skin.
I gulp and try to think of anything else, but she just looks so...
"Will you stop staring at my legs?" Says Emma playfully, bringing me back to earth.
"Hey, I'm your fiancé," I joke. "I should have every right to, don't you think?" I tease, keeping her gaze. Not because I necessarily want to, but because I have to.
"Touché." She shrugs.
"You look beautiful," I say. "Really."
"Thank you," She smiles. "I think we should go now."
"Right," I get on the chariot and help her up. I put on the visor, and Emma carefully takes the golden crown Janet hands her. It has even more diamonds than last year.
"Is it heavy?" I ask.
Emma smiles in reminiscence. "Very," She says. "Are you seeing me in red right now?"
"Very." I smile.
"One last thing," Janet approaches us, silently. "Remember what I told you last year? About smiling, waving, whatever? None of that today. No smiles. No waving. I didn't design those costumes so you would suck up to them today. Today, they are beneath you. You hold the power. Make them feel that."
I take a brief look at Emma before we make it outside. The white eyeliner under her eyes, mixed with the gold eyeshadow on her eyelids. Her sparkling lips. The way she carries the crown. The way the gold on her skin blends with the glitter.
Here we come— Emma and Scott, one year later, dancing with death again. But it's different now, isn't it? We're not doing this alone, and we know it. We have each other. It's our greatest strength, and our greatest weakness because it'll be what makes us most vulnerable in the arena to the others.
But that's not today's worry, is it?
I take her hand in mine and give it a firm squeeze. Today, we have each other, and that's our greatest strength.
"Here they come, my favorites! The latest victors, the star-crossed lovers of District Thirteen, Emma Frost and Scott Summers!" Caesar Flickerman announces enthusiastically.
The second we enter their sight, the crowd begins to chant our names. Then it begins again, the circus animal treatment. The pointing. The flashes. The applause. The screams.
"You ready?" Emma smirks mischievously, just before we get out of the shadows. The second the sunlight touches her skin, she begins to glow again. Just like last year, but even more gloriously. The crowd roars. I catch a glimpse of us from one of the screens.
"And she did it again, ladies and gentlemen! The White Queen is glowing for us again!"
We made our entrance to the parade as War and Peace last year. But this year, we're the one and only star-crossed lovers.
You hold the power. Make them feel that.
Emma Frost is the White Queen, the girl who glows, destined to rule from the way she simply carries herself. I am the rebel, the volunteer. I am everything they stand against. I am their worst fears in flesh and blood.
We are not the confused kids from last year. We aren't intimidated by them like we used to be. They're intimidated by us, and they love us for that. They love the darkness the Games rubbed on us, and how less storybook it makes our story.
We are the star-crossed lovers. We are dangerous, we are lethal, and we know it just like everyone else does. Just like he does. We hold the power. So let them chant, let them point, let them clap, let them scream— as they should.
I can feel President Kelly's eyes on me as the Chariot moves past the stage. Emma completely ignores him, like he's a fly on the wall. But I stare into his soul.
There will never be another rebellion. He made sure of that by putting out the spark— Me.
So while making sure Emma lives through this… I can give him a little hell in the meantime, can't I?
I can't help but find myself suppressing a smirk, before staring ahead. What's he going to do… Kill me?