Chapter 7: Brutal
Orla Flanagan, Age: 30, Victor, District 4
The sleek black car glided along the smooth paved streets, traversing the City Circle all to quickly. The gates to the grounds of the Presidential Palace opened as the vehicle approached, closing as soon as it was through.
Next time, Finnick can bring someone else to President Snow's exclusive Day Three luncheon.
"We could've just walked." Orla rubbed her hands down the front of her velvety, dark blue dress. "It's like four blocks from the hotel."
"But then we'd be late. All those fans to mob us." Seated next to her, Finnick grinned and patted her shoulder. "It's just the same deal as every year, Orla. Nothing to worry about."
She managed a smile back. "Except for the company turning my stomach. I hope Claymore doesn't show up this time."
"Last I heard he was in one of the high-end bars, still drinking himself silly over what happened during the Bloodbath. So probably not."
Right, the one unexpected Bloodbath death. More than a few of Two's Victors were still complaining about that. "Oh, good. He's about as pleasant as a stingray, even when he's sober."
Finnick snorted and leaned forward as the car came to a halt. "Here we go." Their chauffeur opened one of the car doors a moment later, letting in hot summer air. The underlayers of Orla's brown curly hair immediately started sticking to her neck.
For the last fifteen years or so, Cornelius Snow had made a habit of hosting a semi-formal lunch party on Day Three of each Games for Victors from One, Two, and Four. Aka, his favorite districts. Presumably to keep it simple and to prevent potential scandal, he kept it private and only invited two Victors per district each time, none of which could be among that year's official mentors. In fact, he often asked just one Victor to come and bring an approved plus-one.
For example, Finnick had been asked to come and pick his own companion for about ten years straight. He asked Orla more often than not.
"I know you get sick of seeing me all the time, but I need someone who will keep me responsible!" he would joke every time she teased him about his obvious favoritism.
"And here I thought you only kept me around because my great-grandma practically raised you!"
As they were escorted through the cool mansion to the lavish gardens out back, Orla tugged at her diamond-studded collar and felt glad that she'd picked something short-sleeved and knee-length.I won't make the same mistake as I did two years ago and almost pass out from heatstroke in a formal gown… Summers in the Capitol rarely got as warm as those in Four, but some days did get very hot. And there's no ocean to dive into here. Pools just aren't the same.
She and Finnick were the last to arrive at the table set up in a large rectangular gazebo out among the ornately-trimmed hedges. Screens were mounted in each corner, showing the live feed from the Games but with the volume turned down low. Elegance Devereaux, in a pink-and-white silk sundress, sat next to her fellow One, the previous year's Victor Amaranth Lush. Oops, she wore long sleeves...I guess most of that dress is lace so it might be fine...she looks good in silver-gray, though…
On Elegance's left sat Two's Brutus Fletcher, with his compatriot Enobaria Barrow across from him. Between the Twos, at the head of the table, sat President Snow himself, taller even sitting than his father and somehow not sweating in a full black suit. It probably has a built-in air conditioner or something. A red rose was pinned to his lapel.
"Welcome!" Snow smiled and gestured to the empty seats next to Enobaria. "Food and drink will be out momentarily."
"Excellent! And such a lovely day, too." Finnick flashed his most winning grin and sat next to the infamous fang-toothed Victor from Two; Orla took the seat on his left. "So, it's Day Three already! How's everyone enjoying the show?"
Discussion about the Games lasted through most of the meal. The Ones and Twos were varying degrees of enthusiastic about talking through every detail of the first couple days, and Finnick played off of their conversation with ease. Orla got by the same way she always did: by stuffing herself and only giving an occasional comment when her mouth happened to to not be full. Snow, between sips of champagne and small smirks, commented more often than her.
One topic that came up immediately was the Bloodbath. Brutus and Enobaria, despite neither being very talkative in general, did not hide their displeasure at how that first day had turned out for their district.
I wish I didn't feel some kind of relief. Fewer Careers meant marginally less brutality, but Flint had, in a way, been the same as all the other tributes.Just a kid.
Only one, the boy from Six, had died on the second day. On their first sweep through the area southeast of the Cornucopia, the Careers had caught up to him, and the Ones had given the Capitol the exact kind of show that they liked to see. After returning to their base for dinner, the main pack had again headed off for a longer hunt; they had drawn straws to see who would stay and stand guard, and the girl from Four had lost.
Giant spider mutts in a mushroom grove west of the lake had gotten to the girl from Seven early in the morning on Day Three. And, according to what was being shown onscreen, the Careers were closing in on the girl from Ten as they tracked her south.
"I find that the first three days of each Hunger Games tend to indicate what is likely to come," the president said as a pair of Avoxes served the final lunch course of cheese, grapes, and tiny tarts filled with fruit-flavored custard. "I predict a swift and exciting Games this year."
"And last I checked, that was my job to ensure."
Orla twisted around in her seat to see Celeste Snow, granddaughter of Panem's previous president and niece of the current one, come sauntering into to the gazebo. An Avox followed behind her with a chair; he put it at the empty end of the table, opposite the president. As she practically fell into it, she glanced around the table and chuckled. "Hello, all! Devereaux, Lush, Fletcher, Barrow, Odair, and Flanagan. A lovely assortment." She reached out and grabbed the nearest half-full bottle of champagne and took a sip straight from it. She put it down a moment later, making a face. "Ugh. Can I get something stronger?"
An Avox hurried off as Snow, the irritation evident in his voice, "How kind of you to join us, Celeste. You're usually too busy to accept any invitation of mine...and I didn't issue one today."
"I'm making up for some of the missed invitations. At least one of them. Plutarch gave me a couple hours off, bless him."
"Hmm. Did he also give you an exception to the Gamemaker dress code?"
I guess he has a point... Any time Orla had seen Gamemakers on screen or in person between the Tribute Parade and Victory Ceremony, they were wearing their customary dark purple robes. Right now, Celeste had on a very short, very sheer black dress decorated with colorful jewels in strategic patterns. It looked like something an eighteen-year-old tribute playing up a provocative angle in her interview would wear. But not a woman in her mid-thirties with one of the most distinguished job titles in the country. Knowing it was safer to keep her mouth shut in this situation, Orla grabbed a couple tarts and some grapes, exchanging a look with Finnick. This should be...interesting. Better than directly talking about child murder, I guess.
"Really, dear uncle, you think we follow a strict dress code in the Control Room? All right, some of the older Gamemakers do, and the assistants, but people far enough up the food chain...Why bother?"
"So you wear... that in the Control Room?" Amaranth ventured as the Avox returned with a bottle of amber alcohol and a glass.
Waving away the silent help, Celeste grinned and poured herself a drink. "No. I wear this to lunch parties with my uncle and his favored Victors. I have much more comfortable clothes for the Control Room. But not the robes. Those are so dratted easy to trip on."
"You should take your job more seriously, Celeste," Snow said coolly. "You are far from a child anymore."
She took her time to savor a sip of liquor before answering. "And yet you still still insist on treating me like one."
His glass thudded onto the table. "I don't know if you've spent the last decade wasting your own talents or Heavensbee's time. Either way, it's disgraceful. Joking your way through each Games season, partying the rest of the year...Your...flippancy...is disgraceful."
Orla silently reached for another tart. They were delicious, after all .
Celeste drained her glass and put it down just as firmly as her uncle had his. "It's been fifteen years since I became a Gamemaker, Cornelius. And I can assure you that neither my talents nor Plutarch's time has been wasted. Because I am not wasteful." She stood, shoving her chair back. "Grandpa taught me all about that," she added, tossing the words over her shoulder as she left the gazebo.
Seconds later, Snow shook himself and plastered on a thin smile. "Well, the afternoon is getting on. Thank you all for coming."
They all took the dismissal politely and headed back to the front of the mansion. The Ones and Twos, engrossed in conversation, lagged behind. As a result, the Fours caught up to Celeste before she got into her car.
"Sorry I broke up such a nice luncheon," she said, pushing strands of bleached blonde hair from her face. Her tight up-do wasn't holding together in the summer heat. She looked like she wanted to say more, but there were guards and chauffeurs around.
Lots of ears.
"Oh, it was almost over, anyway. Don't worry about it." Finnick gave her one of his real smiles. "Family can be difficult; everyone knows that."
"You're not wrong." She sighed. "How is Annie? She stayed in Four this year, didn't she?"
"Yes, but she's doing better than some years." Finnick's eyes narrowed. "How is Plutarch?
Celeste huffed, turning to her car and the door that was being held open for her. "Dying. But everyone knows that by now."
Before her vehicle pulled away, she rolled down the window a couple inches and called, not only to the Fours but to the Ones and Twos that had just emerged from the mansion, "Watch out for some excitement tonight. There's a tribute getting too close to the edge of the Arena."
I wonder which one? What sort of trap will be waiting for them? As the Gamemaker's car pulled away, something else occurred to Orla. She looked a lot older out here than she did in the gazebo.
The Capitolites, among the few others in Panem with the means, tended to hide their age with heavy makeup and surgeries. But, as Finnick had told her before, some people could hide age with little besides charisma if they so chose. Celeste was one of those people.
And people like that can often hide much more than age.
Not long after the Fours got back to the hotel, the Careers caught up to the girl from Ten. This time, it was the boy from Four who gave the Capitol a good show. Then, that evening, the District Five boy almost got struck by lightning near the Arena's northern edge. He managed to escape, running, dodging, and retreating southward into a patch of thick pine forest.
After his nightly call with Annie, Finnick joined Orla in her room to watch the death recap. He brought a pastry box with him. "I brought cupcakes," he said once the unpleasant part was over and there was little to watch besides sleeping tributes.
With nothing mandatory to watch, she turned off the Games and put on some quiet music instead. "I'm getting fat, Finnick. Do you want to encourage my unhealthy eating habits?"
"You've got a long way to go before it becomes an actual health problem, Orla. Also, serious questions: do you yourself care about a few extra pounds?" He moved from a cushy chair to sit next to her on the bed, opening the box.
"Sometimes, but not always. It does help keep unwelcome hands off." She scoffed. "Noticed how few appointments I've had the last couple years? It's not just because I've turned thirty."
"Capitol attention a bad metric to use for your own self worth. Besides, better to soothe your feelings with food rather than with something more destructive."
She smiled weakly and grabbed a cupcake. "Thanks, Finnick," she said through a mouthful of chocolate cake and mint frosting.
He kissed her forehead, chose a cupcake, and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. "Happy to help, little fish."
She took another bite and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I mean it."
"I know."