Chapter 2: The Capitol
Getting to the Capitol was the easiest part in all this, especially since District Three was closer to the heart of Panem than most.
Hob said little to anyone, and the living Victors from District Three, Beetee and Wiress, weren't the best talkers regardless. What mattered was getting to eat better than ever before in his life, and knowing it would stay that way until the Games started.
As the mag-lev train sped through the pass cut between the mountains towering to either side of them, Hob spent over an hour in the bathroom. When the train pulled into the station, though he wore his shabby work clothes as before, Hob looked like a gentleman from the neck up.
The long, oval-shaped windows on the train were perfect for that. Just right for a rising star- Tribute or not- to make his first public appearance to the nation. Hob made sure to put himself in plain view. He waved. He even bowed to the crowds as he disembarked.
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That perfection in appearance and manners became Hob's standard. He had never planned to be so out in the open, so unable to work things in his favor the way he usually did. Yet his prep team and stylist followed up on his ideas perfectly.
Little was said between the two Tributes from District Three. Hob had never seen the girl before, didn't even know her name. He chose not to learn it now, either. No point, when only one of them could go home.
Hob wore nothing less than a proper black suit, trimmed with yellow accents, a black button-down shirt with a yellow necktie underneath. The shoes alone had to cost a fortune, and there was no need to get them shined- they came to him gleaming like grounded stars.
Out there, on the Avenue of the Tributes, Hob stood perfectly straight, his hair neatly styled with enough gel to choke that fat slob MacCready. The thought of getting even with MacCready pleased Hob immensely, but not enough to make him smile.
He waved to the crowds, bowed once to his left and once to his right, but he did not smile. Offering some warmth to the crowds, yet also an air of being almost unapproachable, seemed the right path here.
Seeing President Snow with his own eyes. That was something Hob had never expected he'd get to do. He'd always wanted a better life, though, one far above the modest start his birth had handed him.
Rumor said that the Snows had once fallen from wealth, only to rise again, stronger than before.
No reason why I can't just skip to the 'rise' part, Hob thought. It seemed fitting for the occasion, and it felt good to feel a lifetime of ambition coming back to him.
Hob knew he could work things to his advantage. He knew he could live.
No way was he letting the Mayor of Three get the last laugh in this. No way at all.
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Four days of hands-on training time. Hob wondered if it was supposed to be the punchline of a bad joke.
Still, it was enough to spend a little time memorizing some plants- mostly the poisonous ones. Nightshade sounded fun. And useful. Hob noticed the girl from Five, the one the careers called "Foxface," just flying through the little computer game they had. She'd likely know everything green in the Arena.
The District Twelve Tributes were a fun bunch. The boy looked pleasant, even harmless, but no one truly harmless could hurl a one-hundred pound steel ball through the air and knock over a rack of melee weapons like it was nothing.
The girl talked no almost no one at all. She plainly did not want to be here, but also seemed unable or unwilling to make any partnerships now. She did talk to the girl from Eleven, Rue.
Hob knew that if Rue won this year's Games, she would be the youngest Victor ever at twelve, the minimum age for the Games. He also knew that there was virtually no chance of that happening.
Yet she wasn't as helpless as she looked, either. Only Hob and Katniss from Twelve had noticed Rue hiding up in some netting while Cato ranted at the boy from Six about stealing his knife. Whatever the Arena this year was like, Hob resolved to look where a climber could go.
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There was only one solid chance of impressing the Career pack enough for an alliance. One chance, and Hob did not waste it.
While he was working in the nature-simulation area they had for practicing making fires and such, Hob focused his efforts on burying and digging up some weighted discs from the exercise area. They weren't the same as Panem's favored series of land mines, but not too far from one of the older models, either.
The sight of a Tribute from a random District messing around in the dirt over and over got the Careers wondering, though they tried to hide that. Finally, they sent Marvel, the showy idiot from District One, over to greet him.
"Hey, kid," Marvel called mockingly. "Think playing in the dirt's gonna save you?"
"It will if you move one more time," Hob answered calmly, not even looking up until he finished planting his latest 'mine.'
"What?" Marvel frowned down at him, lifted his right foot as Hob pointed at the bottom of his shoe.
Reaching over, Hob brushed off the layer of mulch, revealing the weighted disc.
"Land mines," Hob said, locking eyes with Marvel.
The taller boy scoffed. "There's no way-"
"I can dig them up, move them, re-arm them?"
"Yeah, right. Sure you can."
"Where do you think the mines around the Tribute pedestals come from, genius?"
"Uh…" Marvel frowned. "I dunno. Three?"
"Put me on your team and they're yours. Blowing up anybody you want."
Marvel's expression went from contemptuous to thoughtful to uncertain in a few moments. He gestured back at the other Careers, who were watching with a degree of bemused interest. This little talk was obviously taking longer than any of them had expected.
"Well, Cato sent me over here. And Cato-"
"So you're just his yes-man? District One just does whatever Two says?"
That brought another scoff, more defensive than anything. "Like you'd know, dead kid."
"Put me on the team," Hob told him, speaking quietly and seriously. "I mean it. I've worked on these mines. After the Games start, they turn off automatically. But they'll rearm manually for anybody that knows what to do. Then whose gonna steal anything from the Cornucopia? We both know the Career pack's gonna take it in the first five minutes."
"That's right we are."
"So let's join up, Marvel. How about it?"
Before Marvel could answer, the rest of the Career pack showed up, curious as to what was keeping Marvel so long.
Cato, as tall as Marvel and even more physically imposing, the leader of the group. Clove, dark-haired and lethal, ready for the Games and well aware of that. Glimmer, content to come across as a ditzy, pampered princess to some, but no princess knew every weapon in the training room rack from the first day.
"Marvel," Cato said bluntly, "I send you over here and it's been two hours. What gives?"
"He says he knows everything about the land mines, they, uh, have around the pedestals." Marvel shrugged. "I dunno. He could know about them."
"Yeah, and he could be wasting your time, you idiot," Clove rasped, looking down at Hob with clear contempt. "Look at you. Playing around in the dirt. No wonder Two and One win every year."
"Did they tell you about the M773 Single-Stage Land Mine while you were at that fancy academy, Clove?" Hob asked, managing to dish the contempt right back while still offering one of his rare smiles.
"Single-what?" Marvel asked.
"The second something puts enough pressure on the little plate on top, it blows up. No chance of anyone keeping their foot on it and getting a specialist in to disarm it."
"We'll take him," Cato announced.
"Cato, you can't be serious," Clove objected. "This kid?"
"They did tell us the mines come from Three. He might be for real."
"And if he's not?"
"Then we'll see how smart he talks with three feet of sword in his lungs."
"Still wanna take your chances?" Clove asked Hob tauntingly.
"Sure." Hob stood, offered his hand to Cato. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Cato's serious," Marvel promised as Hob and Cato shook hands. "You better know what you're doing."
"Of course I do. You think I'd make a deal with anybody except the winners?" Hob asked, scoffing at the idea.
A little flattery thrown in ended up working just right. The Careers were good, but also arrogant, and Hob had managed to appeal to both sides of them. They were skilled enough to recognize ability in someone else, conceited enough that they loved hearing they were the best, no matter who told them.
There was no way of knowing if the Careers wouldn't just turn on him the minute the Games started. But from the way they talked to him after that first meeting, the almost-respectful way they greeted him over the next few days, Hob's sense was they'd bought it.
Perfect. It wasn't the first time one of Hob's detailed plans had worked. And provided he kept his nerve and wits about him, it would also not be the last.
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Hob strode confidently into the demonstration room, eying for a moment the wealthy Capitol type serving as the Gamemakers. Colorful styles of dress, even flamboyant, especially compared to the drab look of most anyone from the Districts.
Impressing them was the next step in Hob's plan to get through the Games. To live.
He'd gone in planning to recite statistics of the M773, wow them with proof of his keen knowledge of that deadly weapon's design.
Instead, he almost instantly recognized the rectangular metal box with a black carry handle. It was finely-brushed steel, maybe even plated with silver, but it was familiar to him all the same. When you had made the prototype yourself, you knew a foldup crossbow when you saw one.
"Hob," he called out, bowing at the waist. "District Three."
"Just 'Hob'?" one of the men on the viewing balcony called. "Nothing else?"
"One name's all I need."
"Very well, then," the man nodded. "Proceed."
Hob wanted to ask how they'd gotten a crossbow he'd designed here so fast, how it could have even been made. Yet the resources of the Capitol were said to be almost limitless, especially for the purposes of running the Games. And quite a lot could get done in a short time if you knew the right people…
There was no sentiment behind the decision to aid him with a refined, Capitol-made copy of his compact crossbow. Hob had no delusions about that. But any doubt as to who had ultimately gotten this weapon here ended when Hob grasped the handle, squeezed the catch on the inside, and a small white paper card fell out.
Hob pretended not to notice it, but the design printed on it was unmistakable.
A lake.
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Last night before the 74th Annual Hunger Games. One last night. Tribute interviews.
Hob stood cool, collected, and silent in his yellow-trimmed black suit, hair well-oiled and smoothed-down, just the way he liked it. He had never allowed himself to show fear, or to let it control his actions.
This is where I shine, Hob decided. Get rid of me by sending me to the Games? No. You just made me a celebrity. You'll have to make a whole speech about me on the Victory Tour.
"What a night we've had already!" the man, the myth, the legendary Caesar Flickerman called out to his exclusive audience of a few hundred, and the cameras relaying all that sheer charisma to thousands.
"What a night, folks," Caesar said, sighing theatrically. "We've started off strong and seen the best One and Two have to offer us for another great year. But let's not forget Three, the masterminds. Twice in one lifetime we've watched them steal victory away. Twice. Will this year be the third? Three for Three?"
That signature laugh of his again. Caesar might have been a flamboyant boor sometimes, but he had style. He had all Panem eating out of the palm of his hand and he knew it. Right where Hob planned to be. He'd never stop at Mayor. Oh, no. He deserved so much more.
"So let's give a big Capitol welcome to… Hob!"
Heart beating fast in his chest, yet self-controlled as he'd always been, Hob stepped forward and into the eyes of all Panem.
I will do this. I will succeed. I will not be stopped. Not by anyone.
Applause, applause, applause. These overdressed fops just loved to clap for a bunch of kids come to kill each other for the sport of the lucky few, all right. Hob kept his solemn expression, looking out and over the crowd, like they were beneath him, despite his youth and thus his small size.
Gimme a few years and I'll be stronger than Cato, Hob vowed. Time for that later. All kinds of time.
"Well, well, well!" Caesar called out in greeting, doing this kind of half-bow to reach down and shake hands. "Tell me. How are you liking the Capitol? Come a long way from District Three, haven't you? Well, what's your favori-"
"Don't be a fop," Hob said, letting his annoyance show as stern disapproval.
In an instant, everything changed. The how-do-you-do-kid tone vanished, and Caesar answered, "I'd never dream of it. And by the looks of your choice in tailors I may have missed one of our fair city's great gems!"
"You wanna know where I got the suit?" Hob asked, cracking a smile at the audience now, as if bringing them in, Get a load of this. "He wants to know where I got the suit!"
That brought applause and laughter, as he'd hoped it would. Hob didn't actually care about any of these people, and he knew they certainly didn't care about him. But if they thought they did, they might spend money on that. Sponsors were everything in the Arena. They had the potential to rival even the strongest alliances.
"Young man," Caesar told him, "if you keep me in suspense any longer, I might have to cut things short and go look myself!"
"And miss even a second of this?" Hob asked, gesturing around as though it were obvious. "All of Panem watches you, listens to you."
"It's true," Caesar nodded, as if agreeing with a friend he'd known for many years. "But I've had plenty of practice at this."
"So have I. We both know what we're doing. You wanna talk about it?"
"Hob," Caesar said, "there's nothing I'd like better." He reached out again, and this time Hob shook hands firmly, confidently, meeting the star's gaze without wavering. Caesar gestured invitingly toward the pair of blue armchairs. "Please."
Taking his seat and crossing one leg over his knee, Hob leaned back and regarded Caesar cooly, but not with hostility. He liked Caeasar in a way; talent recognized talent, after all. But he had to stay… aloof, to a degree. No need to seem too eager any more than seeming afraid. No, best to get it just right.
"So," Caesar began. "Hob. What's in a name?"
"No idea," Hob answered truthfully. "I'm just Hob. It's the only name I've ever had."
"Well, you carry yourself like a gentleman all the same," Caesar told him. "In fact, before the show tonight, that's what I heard some of the stylists call you. The Gentleman. I think you've made an impression already."
"Of course I have."
"You know, I think you're about the most polite Tribute I've interviewed," Caesar remarked. "And you carry yourself with a- a confidence you just don't usually see in someone so young."
"It's just who I am," Hob answered easily. "I'm thirteen, but I've always known manners are important."
"They certainly are," Caesar replied agreeably. "It's our hallmark here in the Capitol."
"I taught myself. I knew I'd be here someday."
"You knew?"
"Always. Isn't this where Panem's greatest are meant to be?"
That brought more applause. They liked that one. Hob had their attention now, all of them. Even Caesar. They were fascinated by someone this young having such an air of self-assurance. It didn't matter that it came from having always needed to look out for himself, that he would have died a long time ago in some street in District Three if fear, worry or doubt had ever gotten to him.
No. What counted now was that Hob carried himself well, had manners and confidence unexpected in a Tribute so young. That made him special. Remarkable.
"Caesar," Hob went on, "You know, you and I have something important in common."
The Hunger Games' long-serving Master of Ceremonies leaned in. "Tell me."
"We're both winners."
"Hob, I'll tell you something," Caesar answered, like they were sharing a secret. "When you first got off the train, I knew a handsome young man like you had potential. Enough to take the Youngest-Ever Victor crown from our own Finnick Odair. The score you received from the Gamemakers- I can't remember the last time we saw such a young Tribute score a nine.
Caesar gestured out to the audience. "I think that says all we need to know, don't you, folks?"
"You're as smart as you dress, Caesar."
"Well, I've been at this a long time." Caesar flashed his signature grin, then turned serious again: "Hob. You've got a plan. You know it, I know it, pretty soon all of Panem will know it. But the details. The- particulars. Any… hints for me?"
"Watch your step," Hob responded, as though it were obvious. Cryptic, yet plenty obvious if you knew.
"Hob, one last question. Let's say you come back Panem's youngest Victor. What's next?"
"I'll tell you then," Hob answered. "Don't forget that, Caesar. I'll speak for myself. I always do."
"I won't forget, Hob. Keep surprising and impressing us out there."
"I've never done anything else."
A/N: 12-24-2023.
Wrote this second chapter partly over November and into December 2023, finished it here on Christmas Eve. The idea of Hob in the Hunger Games came up between myself and AM83220 around 10 years ago, and being halted on some of my main writing projects for various reasons, I found the idea of starting another and at least getting it rolling to be appealing. If it helps overcome writer's block, hey, it helps.
I have no timetable for this or any of my other ongoing stories. Just writing when and how the 'muse' strikes me. I would say my goal would be to complete one or more of my stories in 2024, then another 1-2 in 2025, and so on. 1-2 each year as a minimum, but that entirely depends on my availability for writing.
Reviews are always appreciated.