XXIX: Interview Night.
Sanne Levesay, 16
Victor of District Seven
In the eyes of the Capitol, Sanne Levesay would be deemed a coward.
That is, if they knew the truth of her.
Just a few short hours ago she played the part well enough, offering delicate smiles and a warm enough deposition that she may very well be considered charming. Woman had reached out to touch her dress, the shimmer dancing off of their skin, and men had spoken of what a beautiful young lady she was—and oh so dangerous, too.
That's what they thought she was. A torch, ready to be weaponized. Someone who reveled in pain and the destruction she could cause merely by wielding something previously deemed inanimate.
To do that again tonight, to live such untruths, may just make her sick. Cowering in one of the private bathrooms backstage was no better, but it was safer. Here she was subjected to a thrilling absence of judgmental gazes, others who would serve to paint her into a horrifying picture. Surrounded by four too-close together walls and frigid tiles, at least she could be herself.
Anxiety clawed at her chest, each thump of her pulse quicker than the last, but Sanne refused to let herself cry. They had spent so long doing her makeup, nearly as long touching it up just in the last hour, and ruining their work seemed counterproductive. They would drag her back out of here to fix it, and kind as they made themselves out to be, Sanne could bear to be trapped in that chair again.
That was coming for her soon enough. That wretched chair up on the stage and Merride's toothy grin looking to carve out every inch of the horror that she had been through—the horror that they would all say she had caused.
It may have been her hands that willingly let the sparks catch the dry grass, but her mind was worryingly absent. It was seeing Thatcher, bones burnt black, the stillness in Brycen's body.
She never should have let it happen.
The knock at the door is so gentle she doesn't even start, forcing herself to straighten where she's bent over the sink. "Sanne?" the voice comes. "It's Evette."
She'd be a fool not to recognize that voice—not just her mentor, but someone she considers a friend, a confidante and an unfailing shoulder to cry on since the summertime. Sanne brushes some of her hair back, willing some of the blotchiness to be rid from her face, but it's nothing Evette hasn't seen before. Unlocking the door isn't quite as terrifying as she imagined it to be, but Sanne stays put, the solitude of the bathroom too tempting to leave.
Evette steps in, heels hardly making a sound as she tuck the door shut behind her. "Ilan's looking for you. Five minutes until go time."
"I figured. I'll be out in a minute."
Likely, she'll need all five to muster up enough composure to make it through the next two hours. From far away, Sanne knows she could fake it well enough, but with all those cameras, all those watching eyes… how the hell is she supposed to get through it?
"I don't know if I can do this," she says shakily. No release of breath stops her chest from aching. "You know what they all think of me, that I'm this monster and I relished in every death and they adore it, that's the worst part, they love to think that I'm something terrible—"
"Hey," Evette says gently, taking both of Sanne's trembling hands into her own. "I know what it's like to think you can't face it, but you're stronger than you think."
"Am I?"
"Of course. You wouldn't still be standing here if you weren't."
She'd be dead. Sanne would have given up and let the fire consume her, too, rather than crawl out the other side.
"It's just one more night," she says, though she's unsure who she's trying to convince. "One more night of what they've made me out to be, and then it's over."
"It doesn't have to be that way."
"What do you mean?"
Evette swallows, still squeezing her hands. "This… this could be the last time you're ever here. We both know that. If it is, and if it'll eat you alive otherwise, don't let them have this be your last image of you. Don't be the inferno they crave. Be the candle-flame, the last match in the drawer, the light-switch when you wake up from a nightmare. Be good, because we both know that's what you are."
It's impossible to keep her eyes from welling, but Sanne blinks frantically in her damnedest attempt to keep the tears from spilling over. That's not what the audience wants to see, but it's what Sanne needs. If somehow she is going to make her way through this, it must be on her own terms.
No one gets to turn her into a villain. Not ever.
"Uh," Ilan's voice says from the hall. "Is everything okay in there?"
She laughs. Evette's thumb catches a lone tear before it can slip down her cheek. "You can come in," Sanne invites. He tries to look casual, not staring too hard as he catches sight of them, but whatever he does see is enough for him to offer his hand.
"They must want you all waiting," Evette murmurs. "Go on. I'll be right behind you."
She's done this before. She did this not very long ago herself. Evette knows all about the trials and tribulations and how to survive them, too.
Sanne grips Ilan's hand tight, easily pulled into the hall. "Bad day," he says quietly, less of a question and more of a statement.
"The worst," she agrees. "But we're still here, aren't we?"
Maderia Elvario, 18
Victor of District One
By all accounts and purposes, she looked every picture the victor.
If her mother could see her now, the smile on her face would be enough to chase away every inch of darkness and banish it to a place where it would never touch Maderia again. Her hands would frame her daughter's face and she would say how proud she was, say I knew it, baby girl, I knew you were always meant for this, you were so perfect—
She was.
The tributes gathered around her look nothing more than tired, exhausted by the day's festivities and even more unwilling to involve themselves in the festivities happening just beyond the fringes of the backstage area. Merride's voice is muffled, as if coming through a great deal of water, but the thunderous applause is enough to create a roar in her ears, each moment more uncomfortable than the last.
She has no idea if she's first—Maderia has been left hanging in the balance, whoever has the information too sick to put her out of her misery like so many others would kindly do. If it's Tova's name she hears, that takes some of the harshness from the first blow. The crowd will be warmed up, prepped for her arrival.
But first is an impression no matter who you are. No one forgets the look on your face or the way you walked out there because their minds were open, ready to absorb the very first thing they laid their eyes on. It was the exact thing she should crave.
Instead, she feared it. Much like the reaction from earlier, the crowd's mixed signals to her measly eight, Maderia had no idea what to expect. Thinly veiled politeness? Excitement? Disappointment?
She wouldn't be able to live with herself if they hated her.
"You look like you're about to hurl," Tova comments. They're side-by-side, both unknowing of which of them will be called to step forward first. Every other tribute lingers somewhere in the shadows behind them, stage-lights inching up against their fancy shoes.
She breathes in. "I'm alright."
"If something's about to come up, give me some warning so I can get out of the way, at least."
It's not comfort; that's not Tova's style. If anything it's an attempt to disperse the bundle of nerves that have taken up residence within Maderia's stomach, but is Tova even that thoughtful? She's certainly never pretended to be in tune with Maderia's emotions before, nor has she addressed them or thought anything about it.
She had been with Aranza so much of the day that it was almost as if Maderia had faded away, like a ghost. She glances back quickly, finding the other girl far behind them, eyes fixated on the stage and beyond—but when she looks down once again, at Maderia, she smiles.
It feels like it's made of knives.
Maderia turns away. "Do you trust her?"
"I don't trust anyone."
"So why are we allied with her, then?"
Tova doesn't trust her. It doesn't sting like such a comment ought to, because if Maderia dared trust Tova herself then she would be branded a fool. Maderia shouldn't even be standing anywhere near her after what happened.
But if Careers put aside their quarrels in order to work together, then victors forgive the worst tragedies in order to win. She can forgive, for now, but Maderia doesn't have a hope in forgetting.
You just don't forget your own death, nor the person who caused it.
"Are you against the alliance?" Tova questions. "Or are you just jealous?
"Jealous of what?"
Tova shrugs. There's a twinkle in her eye that Maderia so rarely sees, a suggestion that can only mean she's up to no good. Typically she's better at hiding it. As Maderia learned the unfortunate way, you often can't tell she's about to strike until it's already happened.
This… this is much more blatant. She almost looks as if she wants to smile. An even rarer sight.
Would Maderia really mind it?
"Nothing, I guess," Tova says. "I just thought—"
"Let's get to it, shall we? Our first Victor of the Night, a tribute of District One… Maderia Elvario!"
Her stomach plummets. Tova's sentence turns into a hum under her breath; her hand drifts against Maderia's back, not pushing her forwards but with a clear intent in its placement. "Guess it's on you," she says. "Knock 'em dead."
"Isn't that your job?"
Tova grins. It's even sharper than Aranza's was, the true sight of a blade enough to knock the air from Maderia's lungs. She hates herself for seeing the wildness, even more for appreciating it. It's the sort of stuff Maderia was never meant for.
It's no wonder she's chasing after her.
"She's joking around," Tova realizes. "You must be alright after all."
"Trying," she says under her breath, letting the Peacekeepers that frame the stage's entrance wave her through as she finally musters up the courage. Her legs are shaking, but she forces each footfall to be firm, unwavering. She remembers her mother's words, all the coaching of someone who does this year after year—chin high, back straight, shoulders poised. You're a star, sweetie. Don't ever look like anything else.
And she is. The crowd roars. With every step the nervous tremble leaves her, replaced by something that, dare she say it, almost feels like confidence. She hasn't lost them. In fact, Maderia may be winning them all back in this very moment.
Merride holds out her hand with a flourish; her fingers are frigid when Maderia takes them, but she doesn't even flinch. "Maderia!" she announces, hardly audible over the cheers. "How lovely it is to have you here with us tonight!"
She smiles. Breathes. "It's lovely to be here."
And isn't it the truth?
Zoya Ossof, 16
Victor of District Five
If Clementine says one more time that he's going to be just fine, alright? Zoya may very well scream at the top of his lungs.
This really is a terrible idea isn't it, this whole alliance shtick? He doesn't know why any of them are even pretending, or if he's just the only one. Pietro gets on well enough with ignoring some of the more audacious claims that leave Clementine's mouth, and she doesn't seem bothered by the two of them, but still.
Zoya has a bad feeling, and it has nothing to do with Clementine leaning over his shoulder. Or, at least, not entirely that. Of course she's saying everything will be alright—as someone who likes to prattle on about themselves and their on-goings, Clementine will have no problem getting up on stage and doing exactly that for a few minutes. But Zoya doesn't like that. Not the small-talk, not the bullshit, not spending time with people he'd rather be a million miles away from.
Just because he can talk rapidly doesn't mean he particularly enjoys it. He doesn't have a chance to voice that sentiment, however, before he catches sight of Kai returning from the stage, slow gait and all. At least he's not about to fall on his face though, unlike Zoya, who Clem shoves so hard in-between the shoulders to get him moving he nearly catapults forward across the slick ground.
Why is she even jumping the line to ruin his day, anyway? Can't she go bother someone else?
Hopefully by the time he returns she'll have fucked back off to her spot—for now Zoya is busy trying to plaster a smile on his face, and he's sure it looks more like a grimace. If the crowd cares for it, they show no indication.
He can't help but fixate on the way Merride reaches for him, her words in one ear and out the other. Her fingers reach for his fake ones, the frigid metal, and she smiles all goofy-like. 'Cause this is funny. Right, he forgot.
Zoya decides right then and there that if he has to be out there, he's going to make it everyone else's problem. He didn't play along with their sessions. He royally fucked their arena.
Why would he cooperate now?
"I'd rather have my real ones," he says cheerfully, smiling for real. He hasn't even sat down yet. Merride's fingers twitch around the contraption, and Zoya struggles to imagine the pressure it would emit, plopping himself down before she can give him proper instruction. Anything to free him.
"As I can imagine!" she says, offering a polite laugh. "Though I'm sure you're ever so grateful for the doctors that helped to give you some use of motion back.
"That's me, super grateful." Zoya pulls back his sleeve a tad, too, exposing the spiderwebbed pattern of pale burns that smatter his forearms, knowing full well the camera will focus on them.
Kai had danced around it all, the injuries and the fucking cancer and he had acted like it was all fine, but that's not Zoya's job. No matter what he did in that arena, this place was the one that chose not to help them in the aftermath. If they're so afraid to look it in the face, perhaps they should have considered that sooner.
Merride reaches her hand over to him again. "Mind if I take a look?" she asks.
"Yes, actually."
And oh, she doesn't like that. He has no quarrel with her, really. Merride seems like a bit of an airhead, but she's bubbly and positive and she hasn't quite worked out what to do when things don't go her way in just two short years. She hasn't learned how to deal with Zoya.
Then again, has anyone.
"Sorry, Miss Whitlock, you seem like a nice lady and all, but this?" Zoya draws a circle around the room with his forefinger—the one that he still has, anyway. "Not my thing. Hope that's not a disappointment."
"Well, you wouldn't be the first person to sit opposite me who hasn't dreamed of being up here," she says. She laughs again, too, like it's all better. "You don't exactly seem like the shy type, though, so what is it, exactly?"
"What is what?"
"Why don't you like being up here, Zoya?"
Because it means expectations. People looking on. Watching. They end up wanting more, too much, shit you can't give them. Parents who think you're destined for the highest-paying job at the company and a boss whose expectations went through the roof the day you met him and fuck Danil for running while he had the chance, for deciding freedom was better than pressure, Zoya should have gone with him even if it meant ending up in the damn gutters—
"Zoya?"
"You all want too fucking much," he tells her. "All of you. And you're not going to get it. Not from me, not from whoever wins this shitfest. You'll be sorely disappointed, and I'm not going to apologize for it anymore."
He's done it so many times in the past. Sorry mom and sorry dad and fuck you, Timur, while we're headed that route, your job isn't all it's cracked up to be and truth be told, he's just so damn tired of it. When does Zoya get to fucking rest?
Not now, clearly. Merride is staring at him, and there is none of the upset that someone in his position would wish for reflected back in her eyes. If anything, she's stunned, and that's more pathetic than anything else.
No matter how much of a disappointment Zoya turned out to be, at least he's not blind. He'd rather die one, too, and he's almost certainly going to, but at least it will be on his own terms. Zoya has never played the games right. He cheats or he moves too far or he smashes the board into little itty bitty pieces without thinking of the repercussions first.
But he can always say he's played it his own way. At least he has that.
Hawke Rabanus, 18
Victor of District Ten
"After all this time and we still seem to know so little about the enigmatic Hawke Rabanus," Merride exclaims. "You're not exactly the talkative type, are you?"
"No."
"Not to anyone?"
"No."
"Well, I'm sure we can work around that!" The audience chuckles with her, living in blissful ignorance of how badly Merride failed to get him to talk the first time around. She didn't crack him the first time, and she won't get any closer during this.
She just doesn't fucking get it, but do any of them, really? They fail to realize that they don't really care if Hawke offers up speech or not. Regardless, someone still coughed up enough money to send him those bullets. They care about the violence of things and who is willing to commit it, not a few faked words uttered on a stage.
"I know I asked you this the first time, but I'm still convinced you're not being truthful," she pushes, wagging a finger at him. "There's no one back home you'd like to get back to?"
"No one."
"A sibling we don't know about? Perhaps a partner?"
As if he'd waste time with people that would only drag him down. "No one."
As more and more time passes, these short, equipped answers are beginning to bother her. Merride has been unsettled tonight. Confused about the One's alliance, about where the Two's stand, about Zoya Ossof snapping right back at her to the point where she could hardly collect herself. And now she's dealing with him.
Sutton told him to do more—no, practically begged for it. He's already such a good contender that a bit of playing along would shoot him to the stars, that's what Sutton said.
When he said do more what he really meant was be like Robbie. Because Robbie had smiled and lounged like he was comfortable and he had eaten up the applause when Merride had mentioned their little… altercation earlier, parading about like it actually meant anything. Hawke couldn't remember the last time he truly despised someone so much.
That could all change tomorrow. If such non-existent fate was smiling down upon him, it would end.
When he finishes, he's thought ahead enough to take Merride's hand when they stand, no matter how much more desirable it would be to refuse her. The clapping that erupts upon his exit is more polite than anything else, but at least Merride looks thrilled. If she realized that the end was going to be as much of a mixed bag as Ten was, he doubts she'd be so jovial, but he's not about to burst her bubble.
Let her find it out the hard way, all on her own. Sometimes you have to let people trip and stumble for them to really get it.
Most of the tributes previously lingering backstage have vanished—Eleven and Twelve remain, of course, along with a few of their allies and mentors, but for the most part has enough room to walk without interruption, a blissful departure from the state of things earlier. Sutton peels himself away from the wall in silence to start after him, silent as a shadow in his clear despondency. It's as if he thinks Hawke incapable.
He's already done this once, and he did it his own way; why does Hawke have to change his supposed narrative now?
Hawke pulls at his tie the second the elevator door closes behind the two of them until the knot loosens. "I know what you're thinking."
"You don't."
"You wanted more out of me."
"That's not all of it," Sutton says. He leans back against the elevator, releasing a dejected sigh. "You have no idea what it's like, year after year, to see people just give in and accept their fate. To not try."
"You think I'm not trying?"
"I think you're not doing enough. You won because you were killing to do what had to be done, sure, but also because of luck. You were in the right places at the right time. You never got swarmed. People are rarely so lucky as to get out as unscathed as you."
How Sutton is spinning that as if it's a failure is beyond Hawke's comprehension—no one got the jump on him. While Robbie was bleeding out on the ground, half-hysteric in his own pain and ramblings, Hawke could stand tall and exit that horrorshow of his own volition.
He is trying. He is not resigned to anything.
"You're alone," Sutton tells him. "No one is handing you a gun this time, though even that didn't matter much. You missed, remember?"
It would be a crime, certainly, to pummel his mentor into nothingness. That certainly wouldn't help matters.
"You're not helping either," Hawke says pointedly. The elevator stops, luckily for the both of them. Any longer trapped here and things could have gotten much uglier. Robbie would never let him live it down if he found them both bloodied and beaten.
But Robbie isn't going to live, period.
"I know," Sutton says. "Like I said—you're alone."
There's no use in letting his anger flare out anymore than it already has today. After tomorrow morning, he doesn't have to see Sutton or any of these people for a good while. And when he gets back, they'll be the last thing on his mind. He can distance himself from all of them once again without a care in the world.
The thing is, Hawke isn't alone right now, and it's nightmarish. He didn't think it could be so terrible.
Soon he'll be alone once again. After so long, even trapped within the arena, it'll feel more like freedom.
That's all he truly wants now.
Poll's still up, for anyone who wants to participate.
Yes I'm very much aware that calling this an 'interviews' chapter is the stretch of the century, but guess what? It's been seven years and I still hate writing them, so you get what you get for the sake of my own sanity.
I'm in a bit of a writing slump atm (and by that I mean I'm not writing right now), but I sincerely hope to get back on the train starting next week. No promises currently on the speed of updates increasing during the Games, but I'm also not shutting it down either. We'll see where I end up in the next few weeks and go from there.
Until next time.