Vetiver Brune, 18, District 10
"I can't believe it," Astel mutters under her breath. She hardly looks Vetiver in the eyes after what he said.
After letting slip he invited someone else into the alliance.
It's not that he planned on keeping it a secret, per se. It's just…he thinks he knew a reaction like this would come eventually.
He thought he could delay it. Talk her into it…slowly over the course of the day.
(Vetiver Brune has yet to master the art of socialization.)
"Astel, it's okay-" Owain tries.
"No, it's not." She doesn't let him. "An alliance is supposed to agree on the things they're doing, Vet. That's how it works. That's how we survive out there against them." Vetiver doesn't have to follow her hand to know she's pointing directly at the Careers.
His mouth drops to apologize again, or maybe to justify it. Maybe he wants to prove her wrong, tell her how resourceful Chaffinch will be in their alliance.
Instead, all the words get muddled in his brain and the best his voice can produce is a strange sigh. Which is exactly the opposite of what Astel wanted to hear.
"It's not any different than your alliance with Hem," Owain's voice is soft, but Vet hears every word.
"It's completely different!" Astel's voice is not soft. She leans in, and taking a tone from Owain's book, says, "Allying with Hem offers us more than anyone else here."
"Vetiver didn't do anything wrong, and if you think he did, you're a hypocrite." When Owain's words hit, Vet tenses up. He expects a reaction from her, a lash out, something.
Instead, her eyes just glare through the two of them, a calm composure washing over her.
(Vet doesn't notice the twitch under one eye.)
"Fine. I welcome Chaffinch into our alliance. Hopefully, his training score proves you right." Without another word, Astel finds herself at a station away from the boys.
Leaving Vetiver more confused than he's been since his arrival to the Capitol.
"Hey, don't let her rattle you," Owain says with a polite pat on the back. Vetiver twitches at the strange feeling of being touched, and Owain pulls away.
"I…thank you. I-" Words scramble through his mind, so many things he could say, but what's the right thing?
Time passes too quickly for Vetiver Brune to tackle it with words.
"I'm…gonna…" Owain's eyes fall to the training stations behind him, and Vetiver nods, allowing Owain to return to them without having to expense another word.
(What Vetiver would give to not have to expel any additional words. Is that why he's drawn to the strange boy? The boy who doesn't mutter a single word, yet expresses so much in his body language?)
It reminds Vet of his pups. At home, he's never been shoved into a corner because of a misunderstanding caused by words, or lack of words, or anything to do with words.
It's all left out in the open at home.
He closes his eyes and he can, just for a moment, surround himself with his woods. He can see Maverick and Roscoe and Fletcher and just for a moment, everything is calm.
(He can see his father too, and he can only hope Ellis holds true to his word of securing safety for his dad.)
Water pools in his eyes thinking about home. Thinking about the arena in the days to come. Vetiver Brune has shed blood. He's experienced loss. He will again if he wants to see that home again.
(But when he looks at Owain, at Chaffinch, hell even at Astel, he cannot imagine a world where their blood is on his hands.)
His eyes open and he finds Chaffinch at a survival station alone. Their eyes meet and the strange boy waves at his newfound friend.
Vetiver doesn't have to think before he finds his way to the station.
Dahlia Akhem, 18, District 8
The last day of training has fallen upon them all, and Dahlia can sense a shift in the air. It's the same shift that would happen before her crew would go on stage for their first performance of the night. Nerves would flow through most of the performers, despite the fact they had practiced their routines time and time again. Something about doing it in front of a new audience always sparked a slight fear for most of them.
Most of them. Dahlia has never quite experienced it.
So as the Careers and would-be-Careers lurk around and distract themselves with the little bit of training they can muster, Dahlia stands tall and with a confidence unseen from everyone else. It's that confidence that guides her to Amatus, as well as Choux who stands beside him.
"So?" Dahlia asks, arms crossed with a slight lean on one hip.
"So…?" Amatus mimics Dahlia's tone and the way she holds herself. It doesn't deter her.
"I believe I've not only impressed you, I believe I have impressed everyone up to the Gamemakers. Would you agree?" Dahlia asks.
"I wouldn't. But-that isn't to say you aren't amusing." Amatus glances over his shoulder in the direction Dahlia knows Eleanora is. "But so is she."
"I guess that's why you're conversing with me over her," Dahlia says snippily.
"You approached us," he reminds her. With a clear of his throat, he adds on, "Private sessions are today. Get a great score, and who knows, you may soon be standing where Choux is now. Besides me. If Eleanora scores higher than you, well, maybe I'll be having this same conversation with her a little later tonight. Best of luck, Miss Akhem." Throwing his dreads over his shoulders, he turns to bother the rest of the Career pack, leaving Dahlia alone.
Not alone. With Choux Macbeth.
"You seem ready for the day. Don't let him rattle that," she says with a half-smile.
"I am more than ready, my lady. I am eager for you to see what I have to offer." Dahlia relishes in her plan. It took no time for her to realize she couldn't simply just perform as she had become accustomed to doing in her District. She had to be bigger, better, she had to do more.
Lesser tributes would find that irritating, but not Dahlia. She loves this opportunity she's been given.
(No, not given. She's earned this. She's lost and killed and she'd love for someone to stand in her way now when she's so close.
She killed Dante when he stood in the way. She's happy to kill again.)
"Amatus' expectations are high. He's been impressed by that girl from Five," Choux's voice does little to break Dahlia's strong front.
It does everything to piss her off, though.
"What does she even have?" Dahlia asks, letting some poison slip through her tone. Choux smirks. It irritates Dahlia even further.
"I dunno. I don't really see it either, you know. But…I'm not the leader of the Careers." Choux leans back, too nonchalantly for Dahlia's liking.
Her individual session starts so shortly. There's nothing she can do now to adjust her own plan.
(That may be true. However…)
"What's she going to show, then? What are her talents, her strengths?" Dahlia asks, and she gets a sense that Choux enjoys the question.
(She gets a sense that Choux enjoys this conversation a little too much, but she's providing Dahlia with invaluable information about the girl from Five. About her strengths, the weapons she's drawn to most. Whatever her reasonings are, Dahlia accepts the help. Soon enough, this same girl will put a dagger in Dahlia's back if she leaves it turned long enough.
She doesn't plan to make a mistake as foolish.)
By the time Choux finishes laying out everything she knows, Dahlia has a plan.
They just have enough time to move over to the sickles and start sparing.
(Or at least, that's what people assume they're doing. No one is watching carefully enough to notice their technique is…off. That with each strike, the wooden handles become more splintered and the blade becomes more bent.)
(By the time they're called for their sessions, not a single sickle is usable.)
"I'll make sure the same treatment is given to the ones in the separate training room," she says softly. And although Dahlia understands, she's almost uncomfortable putting this level of trust in someone she met a handful of days ago. How long did she know Virginia before she opened up to her? Before she accepted help from her?
Leaning into someone else so fast…it's unnatural for Dahlia. Yet she has to remember how unnatural this entire show is. A challenge unlike any Dahlia has faced before.
Yet she'll succeed all the same. She has to.
Owain Fairburn, 18, District 7
Owain's mind rattles with the fight this morning. A "fight" doesn't even quite describe what transpired.
A misunderstanding doesn't, either.
He's conflicted. On one hand, he understands Astel's frustration. There are too many strong contenders to allow weak links in their alliance.
(On the other hand, as strange as the small boy is, he's clearly a survivor. Just like they all are.)
Owain pushes it all out of his mind. He only has a few hours to hone his craft for the private sessions that lie ahead of him. He has a plan, a plan he's quite confident in, but the more he contemplates it, the more he considers other possibilities.
He can't screw this up. He's only got one shot to show the world why Owain Fairburn should be crowned Victor.
"I did it," a voice snaps him out and his eyes fall to Exa. He's not sure if she joined him at the station or if she had already been there.
"What?" His eyes follow her own down to the training dummy that Owain doesn't recognize at first. Even recognizing it doesn't answer his question.
"I stopped the bleeding. I saved the limb. Just like you did." Her eyes widen with excitement, and Owain slowly pieces together what she's referring to.
The amputation dummy. The one that's limb couldn't be saved, according to the trainer. The one that Owain spent a few hours practicing on in an attempt to save the limb. He remembers his pride when he finished.
He remembers teaching her the basics of his techniques. He didn't think much of it, after their session. It's a complicated procedure, and the girl isn't a medic.
Yet, here she is, having done it after all.
"Nice job," he says, his mind still putting the pieces together.
"I doubt fifteen minutes is enough time to show it to the Gamemakers, but, at least I know I can do it. I mean, we both can, but…" her words trail off and her eyes fall to the pair of Twelves about a dozen feet away from them.
"You never know what might happen in the arena. Don't let the value the Gamemakers assign to you shift your focus."
(His words may be directed at the small girl but it's a lesson Owain needs to accept as well.)
"I wish I could bring it all back to my district. So much sickness…so much unnecessary death. It's all so preventable, y'know?" Exa sighs heavier than should be allowed for such a young girl.
(He was young too, when illness fell over his town. When he became the last Fairburn at only eleven.
If he doesn't return, how many more will fall to that same fate?
He wonders if Exa is thinking the same about her own home.
He can't think about Exa. He can only think about himself.)
"Best of luck, today. Although it doesn't seem like you'll need it," he offers a soft smile with his words and Exa reciprocates.
(Something Astel would never do.)
(It's too late to change that now. He's with Astel and Vetiver, and somehow Chaffinch. And this girl has found her own group, and if they cross paths in the arena, well, Owain knows who he'll choose every time.)
"You too," the girl gets up to join the Twelves, as Owain had predicted. His eyes move from them to his own allies. Then, they fall the Careers, other allied outliers he's less familiar with.
In doing so, he can't help but wonder which of them will die at his hands.
Owain Fairburn is a healer, not a killer. Finding himself here, where death is only a means to an end, goes against everything he's ever held true.
Yet if he pushes past all of that, he can see himself back here in less than a month, and with his newfound wealth and influence, he can make anything happen in his home District.
(Maybe he can make things happen in other districts, too. Maybe in Exa's district.)
He knows she would appreciate that.
Exa Behrens, 14, District 6
Exa has spent her entire life being put down.
Six put her down any chance it got. Taking away her brother is just one of the many ways it plays games with her.
Reaping her for the Hunger Games is certainly another.
She's used to being ignored; she's used to not getting her way. In a way, she has come to expect it. It makes the rejections slightly easier to swallow.
She's making leaps and strides in the damn Capitol of all places. With a world of resources at her fingertips, she's already learned so much.
If she comes home, she'll be paraded around. Her winnings will be praised until her last breath. The mayor will have no choice but to acknowledge her.
He will have no choice but to help her stop the wave of death from overtaking everything she's ever loved.
Ironic, isn't it? Sending Exa to a death match is the only way anyone would spend a moment listening, really listening to the things she says. Owain listened, and that led her to learn a million new things. Aizen listened, and somehow she found herself working alongside him and his District Partner.
(If she dwells on it too long, she gets sad at the extreme lengths those with no influence have to go to to be offered a smidge of the rewards everyone else seems to come across so naturally.)
Aizen and Mori seem to fall into the same category as Exa, those afflicted too young with the weight of the world. Others, like the Careers, have likely never felt that same agony.
So she does her best to push those intrusive thoughts aside and take in as much information as she can with the limited time she has remaining. Owain has moved on elsewhere, which Exa understands. Just because he was willing to help her learn doesn't mean the offer extends further than that, and she's okay with that. Besides, she's noticed the alliance he's fallen into. Yeah, Exa is okay with her own.
Not that Aizen and Mori are flawless by any means. Mori, despite being two years younger than Exa, intimidates the teenager more than anyone else.
She may not love the prospect of working with Exa, but she'll do anything to keep Aizen safe, and Exa has no intention of bringing harm to him.
Her attention falls back to Owain. What she would give to bring them both back to her District. Instead of saving lives, the two of them will be pitted against everyone else in the room.
Wasted lives. Wasted potential.
She has to focus on herself first and foremost. She may not be able to make a difference in the lives of those around her, but she thinks about the change she has the potential to bring home. That's enough to keep her going, to keep her fighting against the odds.
(She really can't consider an alternative. Putting it in her mind makes it too real.)
"Exa?" Aizen's soft voice snaps her out of her head.
"Hm?" Although her tone isn't indicative of it, she's thankful for the distraction. The last thing Exa needs right now is to spiral into self-doubt and existential dread.
"We're…going to eat before our sessions?" It takes Exa a few seconds to understand his question.
"Yes. I'd be happy to join." Her smile does little to ease his tension, and Exa just equates that to nerves for the upcoming sessions. And interview tomorrow. And bloodbath the next day.
Her eyes fall on the Twelves as Mori leads him to the cafeteria, carefully blocking the Career's line of sight to the small boy. It's little things like that Exa notices from Mori. The way she stands, so Aizen can't see the full scope of danger. The way she puts herself into conversations he's so desperate not to have, despite her own reclusive tendencies.
Most of them are here on pure accident. Some of them chose to be here. Yet, there's one thing they all share: a reason to fight.
Mori is fighting for Aizen. Aizen is fighting for them both. Davidson is fighting for his sister. Owain is fighting for himself. Exa is fighting for the ones that can't fight for themselves. The dying and deceased. Her brothers, the ones who remain and the ones who left too early.
Over the next three days, Exa just needs to show the world that her fight is the one the Capitol should support the most.
Easier said than done.
Reagan la Fey, 17, District 11
The days have crept by Reagan so much so that she still hasn't quite coped with the fact today is her last opportunity to train for the Games. Despite giving it her all these last two days, she feels no better prepared than she did when she arrived.
In all honestly, no amount of time could prepare her for a fight to the death, but isn't that what her entire life has already been? A fight for survival? A fight against those who would rather watch her fail than lend a helping hand?
She hopes it will be the last time she has to steal from the Ire's estate. Sally warned her once. Isabelle warned her the second time. She just wants to feed her dying mother. Anyone else would do the same.
Face to face with Isabelle, Reagan never felt so powerless.
"You broke my trust three times. And so, it will take three to garner those consequences," Isabella tells her.
The pieces fall into place. Everyone that Reagan had ever loved, taken away by a cruel and selfish woman.
She sees red, and when her vision clears, she sees herself shove Isabelle Ire.
She couldn't have seen the well behind her.
The echoing screams followed by her body's contact with the stone floor still haunt her dreams.
All of that suffering would be for nothing if Reagan can't pull through. Her only remaining mother is counting on her. She can't fail her again.
If her experience back home taught her anything, is that going at it alone probably isn't going to yield the best results. She figured a potential alliance would be more obvious to her, but the days pass and she realizes how far that is from the truth.
She's just starting to think it's her. She's the problem. She's the unapproachable one. She's the one making it difficult for everyone else.
Maybe it's a good thing. The last three friends she had died because of her. She's barely coped with that. Could she cope with losing more friends? Stabbing them in the back? Having them stab her in the back?
"Shut up," she mutters to herself, glad no one's around to hear it.
As the tributes begin to cluster together in preparation for the private sessions, two stand out to Reagan. One of whom she met the other day and sparred with. The other, only vaguely familiar to her from the reapings and the Chariots. Both wearing unusually concerned expressions.
What has Ozzy gotten himself into? Reagan remembers how she felt when he first approached her. She was irritated and partially confused, but by the end of it, she appreciated the company and the things he taught her, whether they were intentional or not.
So without giving it much thought, she walks over and joins the two boys. The other one is the first to notice her.
"Hello?" His words come out as more of a question, but it's enough to get Ozzy's attention.
"Reagan. Are you ready for your session?" Ozzy asks.
"Sure," Reagan says. "Is that what's got you too worked up? The sessions?"
Neither of them must've expected a question like that, as their reactions are quite telling of that. Ozzy glances at the other boy, silence echoing around them.
"I didn't think so," Reagan whispers.
"Ozzy-" the other boy starts with.
"What have you gotten yourself into?" She asks a question she's rather familiar with. One her mom had to ask her on more than one occasion.
Except, when asked, Reagan would go on a tangent about how what she was doing wasn't bad or against the rules and why it was actually a good idea and her mom would eventually have to stop her in her tracks or she'd talk all day.
These two just continue to glare at each other, with no risk of spewing out their entire life story to her.
"It's probably better for you if you didn't know," the other boy says. To most, this would be a perfectly logical response. Most here wouldn't further inquire, just in the off chance it hurt their chances in the arena.
Reagan, however, can't think of a reason not to.
"What if I could help? Then, the argument could be made that it would be better for me to know, wouldn't it?" Reagan says. Ozzy just laughs.
"Maybe she can help, Mishra."
"No one can help," he snaps back.
"Aww, that's not fair," Reagan crosses her arms. In reality, she doesn't care about the dangers they're referring to. It can't be any more dangerous than the Gamemakers or the Ires.
"Aleida is helping. You took his offer without thinking twice," Ozzy says.
"He caught us. I panicked," Mishra replies a little snappy.
"And now I've caught you," Reagan sighs. "Look, I don't care if you do or don't involve me. But…we all need every piece of help we can get. And, I know Ozzy can fight. I'd like to fight next to him, not against him."
The boys look at each other as if they can read each other's mind. Reagan wonders if that's the secret they're hiding. The thought amuses her.
"It's a deal," Ozzy says. Reagan smiles, relief washing over her,
Sally Ire taught her that going at it alone leads to the worst outcomes. With them watching her back, she intends to make it out alive, and back to Sally,
Reagan la Fey has decided the only good Ire is a dead Ire. If she leaves one mark on the world, knowing she caused the downfall of the Ires is good enough for her.
Roman Euroka, 16, District 9
It's the last day for them to train.
Roman has done a good enough job learning and picking up a few new skills. He's by no means as prepared as the Careers, but he's almost prepared enough.
Almost.
Per his mentor, he's been instructed to avoid hand-to-hand combat for the first few days. It wasn't too hard for him to do that, not with so many other stations to keep him occupied.
This is his last chance.
Leaving Tamin behind at another station, Roman moves to the trainer and asks to spar. The trainer begins to walk him through some basics, but Roman shakes his head. The trainer, as unsure as he may be about this new participant, takes a spot across from him. As the two of them put on some pieces of safety gear, a sense of familiarity overtakes the boy.
The adrenaline that flows through Roman is identical to what he felt the first time he was in the fighting pit all those years ago. Excitement, determination, and a desire to survive.
No, not just to survive. To live.
This time, Roman doesn't plan to lose the fight. He takes the first swing, catching the trainer off guard. He doesn't aim for anything that would hurt, but the unexpectedness of it alone starts him off strong. That's all it takes for the trainer to take him seriously. He retaliates with a swing of his own, but Roman is prepared and dodges it easily.
He tries to keep his advantage with an undercut, but just barely misses contact. It leaves his chest wide open, an opportunity taken by his partner. The force is strong and makes Roman stumble back a foot or two.
He won't lose.
He regains his stability and takes a moment to create a strategy. It's not easy, with the trainer taking every opportunity he can to retaliate punches. Roman's fought many fights like this before. The first fight he won went a little similarly to this one. His opponent started aggressively, throwing punch after punch to sike Roman out, to wear him out. In the end, he only wore himself out, and expecting little from the scrawny Roman, was completely unprepared for a strong retaliation.
One. Two. Three- The trainer leaves an opening, a small one at that, but one just big enough for Roman to get the advantage.
He takes it, and he doesn't back down. One swing after another and he never gives the trainer a moment to rest.
"I yield," the words that slip from the trainer's mouth stop Roman in his tracks.
"Good fight," he says, holding out his hand for a shake. The trainer takes it, smiling proudly at the teen boy in front of him.
As Roman returns the safety gear to the station, Tamin walks over to him.
"Where the hell did you learn that?" he asks quietly as if the secret is still kept.
(Roman notices the eyes that fall on him. He's made a scene. The exact thing his mentor wanted him to avoid.)
"District Nine," he responds, ignoring the eyes that fall on him.
He gets so caught up in his fight, that he doesn't realize they are being called to prepare for private sessions. Roman and Tamin are the last to join the rest of the tributes in the designated waiting area, which means there are no free spaces.
Roman finds the next best space, a table with only one other boy around his age. Roman recognizes him from District Six, and he offers a half-hearted smile as they sit around him.
"Are you ready for this?" Tamin asks. "You should've saved that fight for your session."
"Yeah, maybe," Roman replies nonchalantly. There's a lot of things Roman should do. In the end, he doesn't dwell on it.
"I don't know what to show. I don't know what they're looking for. Aleida, my mentor, he wasn't too helpful in that regard," Tamin says as his eyes fall on the tributes that sit around him.
"Just do something to stand out," he's so quiet at first that neither Tamin nor Roman can identify where the voice came from. Roman's eyes fall on him first - the boy from Six.
"I guess, yeah. I just don't know what would make me stand out," Tamin says after some time.
The boy is quiet, contemplating. Roman realizes - he recognizes him.
"Davidson, right?" The boy seems surprised at the sound of his name, but he nods. "Last year, you had…" A sister in the arena. Roman doesn't dare speak the words out loud.
"Yes. Harleigh." Davidson's eyes meet Roman's, and he adds, "And you volunteered for your brother, didn't you?" Roman nods.
"I…don't know if I would have. I'm sorry," his voice whispers those last words, and Roman knows he's not talking to Tamin or himself. He's talking to his sister.
"That's…okay. We do what we can for those we love. She wouldn't hold it against you," Tamin chimes in.
"I hope not. Sometimes I'm not sure."
"She probably would've been mad if you did," Roman says. "I think my brother was."
"Vitali Ignatia, District One." The overhead speaker cuts off the trio as the private sessions begin.
"So, Davidson. Any more of that advice before I'm called in?" Tamin asks. Davidson shrugs.
"No pressure. We…could have more time for that advice. I'm sure it would be helpful in the arena," Roman says slowly, his eyes falling onto his ally to ensure he's not overstepping. Tamin nods, not a hint of annoyance showing on his face.
"Yeah. I'd like that," he says, smiling for the first time since the boys sat down.
With only days to spare before the fight begins, Roman's fears inevitably grow. Yet with these two by his side, he's just starting to believe in himself more and more.
With his siblings waiting for him when he gets home, there's nothing he wouldn't do to keep his promise to return.
Ellis Winslet, Victor of the 75th Hunger Games, District 10
Ellis has called Anthony Pallas every single day since Vetiver asked him. He's called, left messages, spoke to the mayor's secretary, and yet hours continue to pass without an answer. Each passing minute, each call then ends in a voicemail worsens the dread that has pitted itself in Ellis' stomach.
He's too late. He failed Vetiver, just as he failed his wife, his son, and his grandchildren.
How the hell will he tell the boy?
He just begins to contemplate the bottle before the phone rings. Ellis hasn't moved this fast since the arena.
"He-hello?" Desperation seeps through his words and he doesn't care in the slightest. If there's just a chance he can help his mentee…
"Mr. Winslet," the mayor's apathetic voice does nothing to sway Ellis from his goal.
"Hi-yes I've been trying to get in contact with you for a few days," Ellis stumbles over his own words. He can't lose this call.
"Ah, yes. My secretary made me aware. Apologies for the delay in returning your call. I figured you would be…preoccupied with your tributes."
"Yes, that's actually why I'm calling. My tribute, Vetiver Brune, he's worried about his father. I'm not sure if you heard my message-"
"I did." His voice is harsh and direct, and it takes a lot for Ellis to hold his composure.
For Vetiver.
"Good. That'll make this conversation quicker." Now or never, Ellis. "I wanted to secure his safety. As far as I understand, he was not present at the reaping-"
"He wasn't. He's in custody now. His execution will be carried out in two days." Execution? Ellis, like everyone in the Districts knows the punishment associated with missing the reaping.
"As I mentioned in my message, he was only acting on official duty from the Capitol. His pelt quotas, enforced by you, have only risen in the passing years-"
"I'm hearing a lot of excuses, Mr. Winslet. He was aware of the risks when he accepted the terms of his work contract. He was also aware of the reapings, as it falls on the same day every year."
"Mr. Pallas, please. You and I both know the delivery of badger pelt is invaluable to the Capitol, correct?"
"I am well aware of the importance of my District's commodities, Mr. Winslet."
"And you and I are both aware the quotas and quality the Brune family deliver surpass and exceed every other pelt provider in the District. With Vetiver here in the Capitol, and the Brune father sentenced to execution, well, you and I both know Capitol citizens' patience is limited on their desires for product."
Dead silence fills the air for so long that Ellis is almost convinced the mayor already hung up. A rustle of some paperwork in the background keeps Ellis on the phone.
"Missing the reaping is punishable by death. If the District were to find out I allowed a transgression as such to slip under the radar-"
"What if it didn't? Say, Mr. Brune was present. Late, possibly. Stationed in the back, easily overlooked. And…say a fine was paid for that tardiness. I'm sure the District would understand. After all, the continual delivery of those pelts certainly keeps the Capitol pleased."
"I want the fine paid tomorrow."
"Consider it done."
"Then stop wasting my time." A dial tone indicates the end of the conversation, yet Ellis' arm stays in place. As if something as simple as returning the phone to its holder will kill Jonquil Brune.
He just saved his life. Ellis isn't familiar with that feeling. For the past three decades, he's only known loss. Loss of his friend and mentee in the arena, when she shouldn't have been there in the first place. Loss of his entire family, when all he had to do was protect them. Failure after failure and bodies continued to pile up on his doorstep.
When the phone does eventually land back in place, he breaks down into tears.
He did it. He saved someone.
His son would be proud.
President Pitheart, The Capitol
"How the hell are we just finding this out now?" Orion Pitheart slams his fist down on the wooden desk. Weaker desks may have split with how much anger that one hit possessed, but not this one. Made specifically for the president.
(For the man with too much anger pent up.)
"The Ignatia family was determined to keep it from getting out, and with their influence in One-" Calix begins before she's cut off.
"I don't care who his damn family is. I shouldn't have to find out from one of our nurses two days before he goes into the arena!" Pitheart collapses back into his seat, the tension in his head expanding with each passing second. Calix notices this and takes his headache medicine out of the drawer for him. He doesn't acknowledge their actions as he takes more than double the recommended amount.
"Alert Head Gamemaker Anthou, and the interviewer, Adrian. No one else. I don't want this getting out. I want Mr. Anthou to ensure the sanctity of his Games, while also ensuring this boy doesn't appear to die from a damn papercut. And tell Adrian I do not want some tribute with a big mouth to reveal this secret during the interviews." Orion rubs the pressure spot in his skull, wishing it to go away.
"Yes sir," Calix says, writing down their to-do list.
"Is there anything else, then?" he asks. Calix wishes she could say no.
"Nausicaa Halcyone's absence has been noticed. Particularly by Aleida Edevane. I believe word of the District Five lockdown will reach him soon."
"Good. Let him panic. It'll make him slip up. I want information from him before I wring his neck." The president smiles as if everything he just spent minutes yelling about has so perfectly dispersed.
"Which…they were asking if you still wanted to visit our…visitor." Calix's words are careful, like saying them out loud makes them more real, or puts him in more danger.
He's screwed. From the moment the phone call was made with the tip about his location, he was screwed.
So why does Calix feel so conflicted about sitting by idly?
"Of course I do. That's my next stop." Orion adjusts his tie and stands from his desk. "You're dismissed."
Calix grabs their things and leaves the president's office. They release the breath she didn't know she was holding for so long.
Are those tears?
They wipe them away and move further throughout the building. Things are shattering around her and she doesn't know how to make them stop.
You wanted this, remember? You wanted to be here. Reminding themselves this doesn't make a difference. Maybe it's because she had an idealistic view of the job. Maybe because she didn't know how big of an ass Orion is until they spent too much time with him.
His obsession with the failed rebellion, with those involved, has gone on too long. He's won, but he's pushing it too far.
And people are suffering for it,
Calix closes their eyes. Things are happening around them, and things have been happening around them since they became a member of the Hunger Games team. It's something she's wanted her entire life. She volunteered to help with the search for the rebels.
Yet seeing the effect it's had…
It's shown them one thing: she's powerful. She can make a change. It just has to be the right change.
With her notes in hand, they continue with their to-do list. But in the back of their mind, things are stirring. And one thought sticks.
Let the Games begin.
yippee more subplot!
Thank you Em for your help with this chapter I hug you
last day of training in the books...
next chapter will be split between the private sessions and score reveals. i will keep private sessions as interesting as possible I hope and we will have POVs from Amatus, Choux, Eleanora, Tamin, Bazooka, and Mori.
happy holidays!
~moose