NOTE: I have revised my TW/CW policy. Please scroll to the bottom of Prologue I for the updated version. The TW/CW below encompasses only those warnings which do not fall under the updated blanket warning.
CW/TW: Twyla's POV has a brief gender dysphoria mention, Maize's POV involves a creepy interaction where another tribute grabs her (nonconsensually but largely nonsexually).
Twyla Behring, 13
Remake Center, Capitol
D3F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Twyla sat on the exam table. The cold metal had at first been a relief from the pressing heat of the crowd that had enveloped her as soon as she'd stepped from the train, but she'd now been waiting for several minutes, the backs of her thighs chilling against the surface. She thought about moving, but remembered that the Peacekeeper had ordered her to stay put and not touch anything, and she didn't dare disobey.
She flinched when she heard the back door open, but was relieved to see three colorful people on their way inside. This would be her prep team, she knew. They greeted her effusively, all smiles and laughter, and Twyla felt like she had been given possibly the three friendliest cosmetologists in all of Panem. There were two men and one woman. The man with skin the color of the honeydew melon Twyla had been served on the train introduced himself as Crius. The other man, with a shock of pure white hair and a nose loaded with piercings, was Othello. Agnia, the lone woman, had violet hair and eyes to match.
Agnia led Twyla to a changing cubicle and instructed her to undress. She had never particularly liked her body, and in normal circumstances would be horrified to disrobe in front of three strangers with nothing but a thin curtain shielding her from their view, but this was the Capitol, and Delta, the District Three Escort, had warned her that it would happen. Twyla reminded herself that all of the other tributes were experiencing the same thing. She took off her dress as quickly as possible, avoided looking at herself in the mirror, and folded her clothes into neat squares.
Agnia took them and asked if Twyla had a token. She did—a dried rat tail given to her by one of the scientists long ago. She had to turn it over so that it could be inspected. Twyla asked how a rat tail could possibly be dangerous, and Agnia explained that tributes sometimes tried to sneak in objects that would give them an unfair advantage, like concealed weapons, so the Gamemakers now examined all tokens to determine if they could be used to benefit the tributes in the arena.
Twyla was ushered to a bathtub filled to the brim with foamy suds and told to get in. The warmth of the water seeped into her bones, and Crius started explaining exactly what would happen so she wouldn't be taken by surprise. He said that first, they were going to shampoo her hair, so that the conditioner could process while she was washed. They would cut, file, and paint her nails. They would rid her of body hair. They would style her hair, apply makeup to her face, and prepare her for her stylist.
Twyla's family wasn't the poorest in District Three, but there was never enough money to afford real bath products. The same uniform cakes of soap were used for cleaning dishes, bodies, hair, and clothes. She was a little surprised by how much better the Capitol products were, how the dullness she'd always attributed to her natural hair color had fallen away completely.
Agnia thoroughly scrubbed with her with a tangy-smelling gel that had tiny bubbles suspended in it. Crius attended to her toenails. Othello was using a tiny eyedropper to apply some kind of serum to her eyebrows, brushing it through with a tiny bristled swab that he called a spoolie. The bath gave her ample time to consider her strategy. Twyla had always been good at compartmentalizing, preventing her thoughts from overwhelming her by sorting them into neat little categories. Now, all of the boxes she'd so carefully created were swept away, replaced by a great looming catch-all bin: the Hunger Games.
Her mentor, Klicka, was not as helpful as Twyla had hoped. On the train, Klicka had encouraged Twyla to try her best to survive, but wasn't very helpful with constructing a strategy. Delta was doing what they could, but having two young, unassuming tributes, didn't have many sponsorship prospects. So far, the prep team's gossip was the most help she'd received. They spoke mostly to one another, not to Twyla, but she just had to pay attention and take mental notes.
The Reaping Recap had been scary but informational. Twyla had already committed to allying with Beemo, but they'd been on the lookout for other tributes to team up with. The tributes from Seven, Eight, and Eleven seemed like possibilities. The trouble with younger tributes was that they tended to lack strength and experience, so Twyla was a bit wary of assembling a team of people her own age, but that was also the risk older tributes would take on if they joined her. They would all have to rely on one another to pull their weight.
Twyla was a good leader. It wasn't something she had really considered herself to be, and she certainly didn't run her household—that was Aunt Bianca's job—but Twyla could take charge of a situation, remain calm, and see things through to the end on her own. Surely she could do that with other people? She tended to avoid making waves, especially with people older than her, but she also didn't want her opinions to be trampled on my older allies in a life-or-death situation. Who would she and Beemo be able to reasonably work with?
The benefit of the prep team was hearing what tributes she definitely shouldn't ally with. The Careers, of course, were out of the question. Twyla included Nikita and Jeremiah in that group. Apparently the District Five tributes had already tried to kill each other on the train, and as for Aspen, Twyla figured it wouldn't be a good look to team up with the rebel who fainted when she was Reaped.
Crius beckoned for her leg. She let it go limp and he draped it over a foam pyramid. He took a jar of thick, honey-like liquid and stirred it with a giant tongue depressor, then slopped some of it onto Twyla's shin and spread it out in a thin layer. It was warm and sticky. She was confused when the paper appeared, when he pressed it on top of the fluid, smoothing from her knee to her ankle to press out the wrinkles.
He ripped it off. Twyla shrieked. The paper took the goop, and her leg hair, with it. "Waxing," Crius explained. "You're quite lucky. Imagine being an eighteen-year-old Career boy and learning your chest hair has to go." Twyla wasn't exactly sympathetic to the Careers' plight, but she supposed she should be grateful that the waxing ended quickly. The prep team had decided her arm hair was so fine that it didn't really have to be removed, so the bath concluded. Lotion was smoothed into Twyla's skin, she was swaddled in a plush bathrobe, and then the prep team started in on her face.
It gave her plenty of time to think about her strategy, at least. The Tribute Parade was a golden opportunity to make a positive first impression on the Capitolites, but it wouldn't matter if she got a forgettable training score. She had to make the most of her skills. But what were her skills, besides following instructions and keeping her head down? She could get through hard things. She'd been doing it all her life, battling the neverending threat of burnout from school and work. She knew the Hunger Games wouldn't really overwhelm her the way years of toil without a break would, that she could break her plan down into steps, but that was difficult.
Maybe her prep team could help. She looked up at them as they picked at her skin, engrossed in the art of contracting her pores. "Excuse me," she asked, "Do you have any information about training?" Agnia smiled brightly at her.
"Of course. The Head Trainer, Orion Zenobia, is very good at what he does. Tell your Avox to wake you up early tomorrow. Really early. Be the first tribute to get to the Training Center and ask Orion for advice about what weapon to train with. Every year, almost none of the tributes, even the Careers, take the time to speak to him personally, even though he's available all day, for all three days."
"If he's so available, why do I have to arrive early?"
"Privacy. You don't want it to occur to the other tributes that they can just talk to him freely. Then you lose your advantage." Agnia withdrew a pair of tweezers from a cup of sterile solution and clicked them together a few times, like how Twyla's father sometimes clicked the tongs when he made dinner. "One moment. Please stay very still." With surgical precision, she plucked a few of Twyla's eyebrow hairs, which had apparently been sufficiently conditioned by the serum. Twyla waited for several agonizing seconds before Agnia decided she looked alright. "You have nice eyebrows," she commented. "Barely any asymmetry at all!"
"Thanks. You were saying—"
"Right! So, Orion usually gets overlooked. He's not attached to any particular station, so tributes don't realize they can ask him for advice. He patrols the room and relays information to the Gamemakers. The secret is that he's really, really smart. He can look at someone's body and see what they'd be good at. Tributes who ask him for help tend to get unexpectedly high training scores. Britta Morrigan comes to mind. A score of Nine for a tribute from Six. If Victoria listens to her mentor's advice, you won't be the only tribute seeking Orion's guidance."
"Should I bring Beemo?"
"Are you allies? Could be worth it, if you are. It's standard for district partners to show up together."
"I'll ask him. Are there any trainers I should definitely visit?"
"My girlfriend," Othello said. Twyla noticed how his smile brightened, how his eyes searched for her in the space. "She runs the sword station. It's a very important position," he bragged.
"I don't think I'll be using a sword, but I promise I'll say hi to her."
"You'd better. Alright. Get up, please. It's time to do something about your hair."
Danny Maddox, 18
Remake Center, Capitol
D6M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Danny Maddox wanted nothing more than to return to a time before he knew what a full body wax was. It never would have happened if the members of his prep team, three women named Marian, with a mousy brown bun, Glinda, with teal tattoos all over her, and Persephone, with artificial pink nails, hadn't coaxed him into the warm bath.
Danny had always disliked the feeling of being pitied, but he hadn't picked up on pity from the members of his prep team (the same could not be said about what happened at the Goodbyes). All three of them were young, within one or two years of his age, and were utterly immune to his protestations. After taking away his token, a newspaper clipping about Cassidy Veyron, a famous criminal, with her signature scrawled over the article, for inspection, the prep team led Danny to a bathtub. They were sympathetic, but they had outlasted each futile argument about why he could get himself clean. "This is how things work here," Persephone had informed him. Eventually, he'd gotten tired of fighting and succumbed to their wishes. The water had felt really nice, actually, something that Danny would never admit to anyone.
While Danny soaked, Marian and Glinda dealt with his nails, which apparently needed a lot of work. First, they had to be trimmed into perfect ovals, and then the hangnails had to be gotten rid of. Apparently, the hangnails weren't being cooperative, so Glinda dipped his hands in a minty liquid that made them feel funny and then let them sit for several minutes to "process."
His time at the orphanage had consisted of cold showers once every two weeks, and he'd learned to time them to the second. If you kept the water on for more than four minutes, it would abruptly shut off, and if you still had soap all over you, too bad. You'd just have to wait a fortnight, and in the meantime, the harsh chemicals would make your skin feel slimy and give you a rash. The orphanage proprietor had also been known to thin the soap with industrial cleaning agents that "fell off the back of a truck," and so detergents and turpentine occasionally made their way into the supply, which certainly couldn't have helped matters.
The Capitol soap didn't hurt. It was the first thing he noticed about it. Soap wasn't usually pink and shimmery, at least in Danny's experience, but his mind somehow glossed over that and was just glad he wasn't in pain. Persephone washed his hair with a different kind of soap, which she called shampoo. It didn't make his scalp burn, which was surprising. She was gentle with his hair, which was doubly surprising. She applied a third type of soap (this one was called conditioner! Danny was learning so many new words) afterwards, and then left said it had to "process" too, but said she would wax him in the meantime.
At first, the wax wasn't bad. It was even warmer than the water, but Danny was confused when the paper came out. Why was Persephone plastering it all over the wax? (Danny's only experience with wax was of the paraffin variety: namely, petroleum jelly. He had assumed Persephone was talking about a similar moisturizing agent.) Then the paper was torn off, and Danny very nearly leapt out of the tub. "What was that?!"
"Wax." Persephone looked at him. He looked back. Well-trained in not making tributes feel dumb, she carefully asked, "What was wax like in District Six?"
"Clear or whitish. Greasy. You put it on your lips in the winter so they don't crack open and bleed."
"This is a different type of wax. It's a method of removing body hair."
"Oh. That makes sense." Danny hesitated. "It was p—surprising." (The word he'd just avoided was "painful." Even he wasn't that pathetic.) Somehow, Persephone figured it out anyway, without him even saying it.
"I know it hurts. I'm sorry, but we have a lot more to go. What do you want me to do next, your other shin or your calf?"
"Other shin." This time, Danny wasn't lulled into complacency. He recoiled when he thought she was about to take the paper off, hoping to ruin the waxing and retain some of his leg hair, inadvertently agitating Marian, who was painting clear liquid onto his toenails. Persephone paused mid-wax.
"The faster this goes, the easier it's going to be. If I don't get rid of it all, I have to wax it all over again." That was a strong enough threat to scare Danny into obedience. He reluctantly extended his shin. She grabbed the corner of the paper and yanked off the strip. He whined.
Danny bravely withstood the waxing of both calves, both forearms, both biceps, his chest, and his underarms (which had received a working-over with scissors first to reduce the pain). Then Persephone stopped. "I think you need a break. Why don't we fix you a drink, huh?"
Marian looked up. "He can't move. His nails are still wet." Glinda, who was flitting around in pursuit of a hairdryer and seemed to be the most junior of the trio, was wordlessly elected to snack duty. Danny submerged himself in the water as he waited. It was still hot, which sort of stung the newly waxed skin and sort of made it feel better. Warmth won out. Persephone decided it was a good time to rinse out the conditioner, which felt nice, and then Glinda returned with the hairdryer she'd been looking for and a pink beverage with a twisty straw.
He didn't know what it tasted like, but it was sweet. He understood that its purpose was to distract from whatever was coming next. He eyed Persephone warily. "What are you going to do?" The wax was still out. That didn't seem good.
"Your stylist's choice of costume has…minimal coverage. So we're going to be waxing your tummy and your thighs."
"Is that all?"
"It's not that minimal coverage, if that's what you're asking."
"How bad will this be?"
"Bad. One second, the water's too deep for me to reach. Mari, help me sit him up here, okay?" Careful to avoid brushing his nails, (oh, the horror!) they helped him up onto a folded bath towel on the tub's edge. Marian handed him his drink, which he'd set on the other side of the tub. Persephone returned her attention to him. "Again, I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt. I promise it'll be over in just a minute if you promise to stay still." She smeared a dollop of wax on his leg. He frowned.
She was true to her word. If painful, it was at least over quickly. Danny apparently didn't have enough back hair to bother waxing. He thought that was stupid, since he wasn't exactly lush with stomach hair either, but he was grateful for small mercies.
Glinda blow dried the hair on his head while Persephone applied a cream on the skin she'd waxed. Danny was shocked at the relief it brought, watching the redness fade. "Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome, Danny." She pulled the plug, letting the tub drain. Danny was given an aggressive toweling-off and then presented with a cushy bathrobe. "Now if you could scoot over to that chair, I'd really appreciate it." Persephone indicated a leather-backed salon stool in front of a white vanity. He heard a makeup bag unzip behind him, and Glinda brought an armful of products into eyeshot, arranging them in rows on the vanity's surface.
He sat. Persephone held up a pair of what looked like long metallic tongs and shook it invitingly. "What's that?" asked Danny.
"This is a flat iron. I'm going to style your hair."
"An iron?"
"It shouldn't hurt. But it will if it touches your skin, so please stay still. And try not to sneeze, so I don't accidentally burn your ear."
"Okay." Marian abandoned his nails and met Glinda. Together, they selected a few powders and creams to apply to Danny. Glinda dabbed something onto his face with a sponge. He wrinkled his nose at it. "What's that?"
"Foundation."
"What's it do?"
"Makes you look nicer." Danny fidgeted uncomfortably. He scowled as a brush tickled his nose. Persephone tilted his head to the side.
"What's your strategy for tonight?" she asked.
"My strategy?"
"For when you socialize with the other tributes. Have you discussed it with your mentor?"
"I talked with Fleet, yeah."
"And what did you decide on?"
"Mostly he wanted me to behave and observe the other tributes tonight. I'm not exactly the best at smalltalk, so I don't know what he thinks I'm going to do."
"Do you want allies?"
"Yes."
"You seem upset."
"Well, nobody wants me as an ally."
"How do you figure that?"
"I don't have any skills. I already pissed off the Capitol. What's even the point in allying with me if I'm just going to die?"
"Please don't cry, or it'll leave salt streaks and I'l have to redo all your makeup."
"Pipe down, Marian. Now Danny, it's okay. We'll find you some allies. What's your opinion of your district partner?"
"She's okay." Vica hadn't made too much of an impression on Danny. He was more interested in strong tributes like Jeremiah. He told Persephone so, expecting her to laugh.
"Talk to him tonight. It certainly can't hurt. But be cautious; he's a criminal." Danny immediately perked up.
"What sort of criminal?"
"An enforcer for a mafia family. Supposedly very famous in his home district."
"Famous? I have to talk to him tonight. Once I get my token back, I'll have to ask him to add his signature to it!"
"I still don't understand how you got Cassidy Veyron's autograph. Didn't you tell me how she robbed fifty houses in one night?"
"She's the best cat burglar in District Six. I found her and asked."
"Found her? Just found her? Did you run into her at the grocery store one day? Or, like, find her find her."
"Find her find her."
"Maybe that's how you're supposed to win the Hunger Games."
Aran Casteel, 18
Remake Center, Capitol
D5M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Aran had spent his afternoon in a part of the Remake Center few tributes had the opportunity to see: the holding cells. Apparently, there were cameras all over the train. The Peacekeepers had checked the footage, determined exactly who had attacked whom, and then decided that Amy and Aran were both trouble. They'd been restrained in wrist and ankle chains, like it was the fucking Dark Days or something, then plopped in front of the television for the Reaping Recap while the Peacekeepers administered medical care.
Amy actually required more treatment than Aran. The injury to his throat was a deep puncture wound, but Amy had missed the important bits. Aran had been told there was little that could be done for him until they got to the Capitol, but eating and talking could make it worse, so he was forbidden from doing either. Ravya and the mentors had argued about whether the tributes' injuries ought to be camouflaged. Ravya said that visible evidence of violating the no-fighting rule could affect the sponsors' willingness to help them, but Dot, Amy's mentor, had launched into a vehement lecture.
She thought that Aran and Amy were both awful people and neither one of them had behaved well enough to be worth the effort of trying to salvage their reputations. "Have the Peacekeepers march them through the crowd," she had suggested.
"Oh no!" Ravya had cried, "Then they really will attract the wrong sort of attention!"
"Good," Dot replied. "They deserve to be punished." Amy, whose throat had not been injured, argued this point, but Ravya eventually caved. Aran had been marched to the hospital wing of the Remake Center, where a nurse with skin the color of hollyhock injected him with something that immediately knocked him unconscious. He had woken up cuffed to a gurney in the Tribute Jail with a creamy, barely-there scar where the hatpin had speared his larynx. There was no more pain. Even the little jabs to his arm were miraculously healed.
"Good. You're awake." The cell had a frame of iron bars, filled out with shatterproof glass. One of the six Peacekeepers guarding Aran's cell from the outside had noticed that he had come to. The Peacekeeper unlocked the door. Two more Peacekeepers entered with stun batons drawn. Aran was momentarily freed from his restraints. Then his arms were wrenched behind his back and re-cuffed. He wasn't fitted with a hobble chain, but one ankle was placed in a cuff, the other end of the cable wound around a Peacekeeper's hand. A leash, to prevent him from running.
The Peacekeepers led him through a maze of white corridors until they reached a much larger hall. A series of labeled doors passed along his right side, beginning at D12M. They stopped at D5M. Aran was brought inside, where his prep team awaited him. There was a man, a woman, and a third person.
The bathtub featured five D-rings: two for his ankles, two for his wrists, and one for his neck. The threat of being collared cowed him, and he obediently allowed the Peacekeepers to chain him to the tub. He was deprived of the usual spa treatments the other tributes received, further punishment for fighting, but he was still thoroughly bathed. Aran had no true home, no anchor point other than Aisling Piesterzak's dark bedroom. It had been a long, long time since he had a real bath.
This one even featured hot water and bubbles. The man on the prep team, a stereotypically ditzy blond, was in charge of washing Aran's hair. He practically cooed over him. Aran disliked being infantilized, but he remembered that the man could have the Peacekeepers either unshackle him or add additional restraints and held his tongue, even as a bowl of warm wax was brought out. "I'm sorry, dear. This is going to hurt." He patted Aran's head, like he was a dog.
He took hold of Aran's leg. It was difficult to fight the waxing, being tied up and all, but Aran still tried to shrug him off. It didn't work. The paper went on, and the hair came off. It was upsetting to think that the other tributes at least had the ability to resist the process, whereas he had to stay still. The man talked at him as he worked. "Legs, underarms, and your beard, that's it. I know it's not fun." He offered another head pat. Aran ducked to avoid it. He lifted Aran's arm up, exposing his armpit, and applied a thick coat of wax.
"Put my fucking arm down," Aran demanded. He tried to tug it away, but the man chided him.
"You can hold it there yourself or I can have Ceres hold it there for you. You're not getting out of the waxing." He looked like he was going to pat Aran again, but he didn't. Instead, he applied a strip of paper to his armpit and ripped. At the last second, Aran twisted away. The paper didn't take any of the hair off. The man didn't even look irritated. Instead, he beckoned over the woman, Ceres, who leaned over Aran.
"We have to keep you still," she said, and then she grabbed Aran's wrist.
He bit her on the shoulder. She yelped. One of the Peacekeepers lunged forward and struck him hard across the face with a stiff-gloved hand. Pain bloomed in Aran's cheek. The man from the prep team stepped in front of Aran protectively, chastising the Peacekeeper. They argued for a moment: "You can't beat him!"
"He can't be allowed to injure his tribute team."
"I'm quite alright," Ceres assured the Peacekeeper. "There's no reason to harm my tribute." They went back and forth a few more times. The Peacekeepers eventually produced what Aran had been hoping to avoid: a collar. It was fastened around his neck, rather tighter than was comfortable, and chained to the tub, with barely an inch of room to move. Two more Peacekeepers led Ceres out of the room. Was she going to be hurt? Aran didn't particularly care.
The man on the prep team ran a washcloth under the cold tap and pressed it to Aran's sore cheek. At the work camp, the guards chose prisoners to take their frustrations out on. Aran figured out that hitting other inmates was a way to get on the guards' good side, so he himself had never been singled out. The last time he'd been well and truly smacked was his run-in with Cian Piesterzak, the one that had resulted in Aran's work camp sentence in the first place. Then, he was surprised by how much it had hurt. The blow from the Peacekeeper had been much worse. He looked up at the man from the prep team appreciatively and received a pat, with some bonus hair ruffling.
He decided it was tolerable. Was this what his life had become? Succumbing to the whims of Capitol cosmetologists in exchange for a reprieve from the pain the Capitol Peacekeepers inflicted upon him? And speaking of Peacekeepers, they were coming towards him again. They unlatched his wrist cuffs from the D-rings and locked them onto his collar. He was given elbow cuffs, which were fastened to the available D-rings.
Five minutes later, Aran was puffy-eyed and crying. The armpit waxing hurt. The removal was patchy, which meant that the prep team had to take several passes to fully get rid of the hair. Normally, it would have been cut close first. However, the Peacekeeper had gruffly informed Aran that his trimming privileges had been revoked. "Can't risk you taking the scissors and attacking someone. Consider it a consequence of hurting people." The third member of the prep team, a person of indeterminate gender, was doing something with his toenails as the man waxed him. He used the washcloth to dab at the tears rolling down Aran's cheek.
"Underarms are all done," he soothed. "Shh, they're all done. We'll put some cream on them, okay?" The Peacekeeper scowled.
"No cream for this one. He's nothing but trouble." The man seemed ready to argue this point, but backed down.
"Sorry, Aran. No cream." He gave him another apologetic pat. "We're going to be working on your face now. Just going to get rid of that stubble. Stay really still for me, okay?"
As it turned out, warm wax on a freshly-slapped face was deliriously painful. The waxing was over quickly, though, and then Aran was turned over to the person responsible for makeup. They came to him, so he could stay shackled, and they showed him his face in a hand mirror. He had expected blood, but there was none. Just a big, ugly pink mark that soon disappeared under a layer of foundation.
His hair was blow-dried and gelled into place, a base coat of makeup was applied to his face, and then there was a knock on the door. The man patted Aran. "Your stylist is here!"
Maize Bono, 15
Remake Center, Capitol
D9F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Maize had spent her afternoon being aggressively groomed by three colorful people named Marzia, Mortimer, and Pierre. They gave her a bath, waxed her sparse leg hair, and swooned over her bouncy red curls, which they decided to leave untouched for the time being. Some stylists preferred a more hands-on approach to hairdressing and makeup. Hers was one of them, a tall olive-skinned woman named Genetrix.
Maize had always found the Tribute Parade sort of entertaining. The real purpose was presenting the sponsors with a good look at the tributes' physiques, but she rather liked the costume showcast. The tributes' outfits were meant to represent their districts' industries, but the stylists sometimes made an effort to flatter their charges.
The Career stylists had an easier time. It was difficult to make a hard-muscled, lithe, classically handsome boy look bad. Whether they copped out and put him in an expensive suit or did something more adventurous, like covering him in diamonds, he would still be fit and conventionally attractive. It was a cinch to enhance a tribute like that, but Maize would need a truly flattering costume to garner positive attention. The Tribute Parade was a place where outlying tributes could make a splash.
Maize was lucky. Genetrix had crafted a beautiful sundress of wheat stalks, soaked and woven into an actual garment. She was given a beige slip to wear underneath and protect her from the scratchy bundles of grain. Her district partner, terrifying Jeremiah, was going to wear a wheat shirt with burlap overalls and a wide-brimmed wheat hat. Maize was presented with a coordinating burlap kerchief for her hair.
Mortimer made her up lightly. Concealer was dabbed on her blemishes, blush was cast along her cheekbones, and pastel eyeshadow and gold tinted-mist brought warmth to her pale face. Brown mascara made her eyes look bigger and wider. The makeover concluded with a coat of pinkish lipstick and a smudge of reflective gloss.
Genetrix slid a pair of espadrille sandals onto her feet, adjusted the bow on her kerchief, and smiled. "You look very pretty, Maize," she said. Maize knew what that meant. It was time to get acquainted with the other tributes. She was afraid that her social anxiety would strike again, ruining her chances of making allies, but it wasn't as though she had much of a choice.
Genetrix led her through a back door, a gentle hand sitting between her shoulderblades. The prep team scampered after them, taking careful steps in high heels. Maize was glad her sandals had only a slight lift. She didn't want to wobble and lose her balance during the Tribute Parade. Suppose she fell out of the chariot?
"We don't want you to come into contact with any non-staff Capitolites or other tributes before it's time," she explained. Jeremiah and his entourage popped out from a door nearby. "Except for your district partner, that is." They walked to an elevator bay. There were two elevators, one for Jeremiah's team and one for Maize's. Genetrix brought Maize and her prep team into the left elevator.
The ascent lasted a few minutes. Genetrix led the team down a hallway. She pushed open a door to a catwalk connecting two buildings. Then the group entered a second elevator and descended again, then spilled into a massive room from the rear. Tributes emerged from hidden entrances around the room with their stylists, dressed in some of the most eccentric getups Maize had ever seen. She saw Jeremiah. Some of the tributes were finding their district partners. It was less daunting to face the others if you had at least one familiar face by your side, but Maize had a feeling he wasn't in need of as much courage as she was.
She searched for people she recognized from the Reaping Recap. The boy and girl from District Seven had seemed too strong to accept her as an ally, but they weren't nearly as out of reach now, dressed as logs. They were about her age. Careful to avoid bumping into things that could damage her brittle wheat dress, she made her way across the room to them. "Hi," she croaked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Maize, right?" The boy looked friendly and open, considering the circumstances.
"Yeah. And you're Thomas?"
"I prefer Tom. And this is Brielle." Brielle gave a little wave.
"This is kind of awkward," she said.
"I agree," Maize said. "Aren't you sweaty? That latex looks awfully hot."
"It's okay, I guess. The squeaking is more annoying." Brielle raised her arm in demonstration.
"Is your dress itchy?" Tom asked.
"There's a slip underneath so the wheat doesn't touch my skin," she explained.
"I wish my team was as thoughtful as yours was. Talk about bad, poor Tom's stylist is making him go naked under there." Brielle gestured at his wood-patterned latex bodysuit. Maize shuddered involuntarily.
"Sorry to hear that. So, um, are you thinking of allying with anyone?"
"I definitely want some, yeah, but no promises. Or hard feelings, I hope. You seem nice, it's just—"
"You and Tom are fighting for your lives here. No room for altruism."
"Thanks for understanding."
"Yeah. My district partner's the big one." Maize tilted her chin towards Jeremiah, who was in deep conversation with a tall blonde boy.
"What's he like?"
"He's from a crime family. He hasn't tried to hurt me or anything, but he's dangerous. I'm not expecting much help from him."
"District loyalty only goes so far. I like Brielle, but if I was the strongest tribute here, I can't imagine I'd stick around very long." Brielle made a face at Tom, more in jest than in actual concern, but Maize was worried. Maybe she was just paranoid, but what if Tom was warning them of his plan for winning the Hunger Games? She decided to change the subject.
"He's not the strongest tribute here. That'll be the Careers." She looked to where they were gathered in a knot at the center of the room.
"Which one of them do you think will win?" Tom asked.
"You sound like a cynic," Brielle chided.
"I am a cynic. I'm betting on Tybalt."
"The little one hasn't smiled at all. She scares me."
"Nascha?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe she's just not as murder-happy as the others. Nathaniel looks tough as fuck." Maize startled a little. Had she heard right? Tom snickered at her shock.
"Brielle has the worst swearing problem I've ever seen." Brielle bopped him over the head with the bundle of foliage she'd been given for a shawl.
"Tom's a goody-two shoes. I'm a chef. It comes with the territory."
"That sweet auntie of yours doesn't mind?"
"Kiarra's the one who taught me!"
Maize decided she liked these two tributes. Maybe it was that she had been desperately craving friendship for fifteen years, but Brielle and Tom seemed like good people. Then Brielle got distracted. "Oh, I think I see the Threes. I've been meaning to talk to Twyla. It was good meeting you, Maize. Talk to us at training tomorrow?"
"Sure!" She shook Brielle's hand, which squeaked in its latex prison. Tom smiled.
"See you, Maize!"
Bolstered by this interaction, Maize felt a little less afraid. She drifted over to her team, who fussed over her for a few minutes. "Your mentor should be around, but I can't find her," said Genetrix. "I'm sorry, dear."
"Don't be. Mae's mean." It was true. Mae Lowland had a drinking problem, an attitude problem, and a lack of interest in Maize's problems. At least Kingsley, the escort, had been friendly.
"Go find some other tributes to chat with. It can't hurt." Genetrix gave her a tiny nudge forward.
She meandered through, passing perilously close to where the Career mentors stood. She was expecting them to snap at her like junkyard dogs, but they seemed no different than the other mentors. They weren't half as intimidating as their tributes.
Suddenly, someone touched her shoulder. She about jumped out of her skin, then flushed at her overreaction. It was only the Five boy. He smiled at her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Aran."
"I'm Maize."
"Did your district partner abandon you too?"
"I wouldn't call it abandoning. We just won't be working together." Something darkened in his expression. From the approach to his charming smile, Maize was starting to feel like something about him was a little bit off.
"I see. My district partner and I didn't have a pleasant start either."
"Oh."
"She attacked me on the train."
"That's too bad." Maize tried to slip away, but he caught her wrist.
"You have lovely eyes."
"Thanks. Um, could you give me my arm back?" He leaned in closer, crushed her wrist tightly in his hand.
"They remind me of my ex-girlfriend." Maize was torn. Should she try to yank her arm away? Would that make him angry? Would he try to kill her in the arena if she said she wanted to be left alone?
"Please don't touch me."
"Oh, I'm the leader of this alliance." He pulled her closer, just a few inches from his face. He licked his lips.
"I'm sorry, but I don't believe I agreed to enter any alliances."
"Whether or not you believe me doesn't matter. You just have to obey me. Now, promise that you'll never speak to Tom and Brielle again." He brought his other hand up to her neck. Maize sensed danger.
"Leave me al—"
Aran let go of her arm, but only so he could punch her in the stomach. She froze, seeing it coming, but unable to make herself move.
The wind was knocked out of her. She fell, the crisp wheat of her dress crunching as it hit the floor of the staging area. The back of her head thwacked against the concrete. She tried to scream, but she couldn't find the air. Aran loomed above her, cocking back a leg in preparation to kick her. She let out a defeated wheeze as a burly man entered her field of vision, heading for Aran. Before Aran could do anything else, the older man intercepted him, wrapping his arms around his torso and hauling him away. "Peacekeeper!" he shouted.
Someone knelt down over Maize, a woman with dark brown skin and hair. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Maize lay on the ground. She coughed several times. "Six. Who are you?"
"I'm Petra, one of the District Two mentors. Lura's got Aran under control. It doesn't look like you have a concussion, but let's wait for Flossie anyway."
Tom Leary, 16
Backstage in Chariot Loading Area, Capitol
D7M
July 1, 329 AEDD
It had been a strange day for Tom. It sucked, the whole being chosen for the Hunger Games thing, Brielle making Willow leave him alone, meeting his mentor on the train, experiencing an incredibly wasteful grooming process at the hands of his prep team, being stuffed into a horrible, skintight piece of plastic. Seeing an honest-to-goodness fight break out was the cherry on top.
Tom liked Brielle. He couldn't tell if she was naive or just willing to overlook the red flags for the time being, but she didn't get on his nerves like Willow once had. She knew when to shut up, he realized, and that made it easy to get along with her. He wasn't used to this friendly boy-next-door sort of ploy, but it was helping him make a good impression on Brielle. At the Justice Building, she'd latched onto their similarities and decided they should ally up, and well, who was Tom to stop her? He'd always had a hard time making friends. At his core, he was a loner. But it was easy to be this sociable, charitable version of himself with Brielle.
Maize had been nice too. Weak, thin, probably not ally material, but nice nonetheless. So when the ruckus began, Tom found himself emotionally invested. There was a brief kerfuffle, unrecognizable in the colorful crowd, and then someone yelled "Peacekeeper!" and a whole regiment of them practically descended on the speaker, stun batons at the ready.
They came away dragging the Five boy. "You again!" one snarled. They spirited him away and formed a barrier between the rest of the crowd and a body on the floor. It had curly red hair and wore a wheat dress. A woman, one of the mentors, crouched over her. "Someone bring me Flossie Merveilleuse!" There was some confusion as Peacekeepers dispersed to track her down. Eventually, one of them came back, leading a man with tattoos and a woman in a smart navy pantsuit.
"Madam Tribute Coordinator!"
"This way, Miss Merveilleuse!" She made her way over to Maize, the barrier parting for her. She spoke in hushed tones to the mentor. Was it Maize's mentor? Tom didn't think so. Near him, Brielle and the District Three tributes looked on.
"Do you think she's alright?" he whispered.
"I hope so," Brielle said. The tattooed man walked into the circle with a second man, taller and huskier than him. Maize sat up. It looked as though an introduction was being made. A third man walked into the room, looking very proper and put together. He strode over to the barrier. Every Peacekeeper in the room snapped to attention and saluted.
"At ease," said the man. He waved a hand. "Battalion 4, Divisions A through D, dismissed." The barrier dissolved as the Peacekeepers melted away, returning to their positions at the edges of the room. It was almost frightening how quickly they disappeared. "Genetrix Ortiz, Mae Lowland, please report to me at this time." One of the stylists walked over, clearly in awe of this man.
"Who is he?" Tom asked.
"Nikolai Fassnacht, the Head Peacekeeper," said Beemo, the Three boy. "Very well regarded." Tom certainly understood why. He'd lowered the chaotic energy of the room and restored order almost instantaneously.
"Do you think we can talk to Maize?" Brielle asked.
"Let's find out," Twyla suggested. Together, they walked towards her. She noticed them almost at once.
"Are you okay?" Tom asked. He didn't really have to feign the concern, which was concerning in itself. This wasn't the time to get attached to people.
"Detective Cannon thinks so." Maize smiled at the tattooed man.
"Flossie and Nikolai are going to give him another 24/7 Peacekeeper escort. He won't be able to hurt anyone else." Another? Tom thought. What happened to the first one? But apparently none of his new allies noticed that detail.
"Until we enter the arena," Beemo said, without a note of challenge in his tone.
"Right." Detective Cannon didn't seem pleased, but Tom felt that his anger wasn't directed at Beemo's caveat.
"At least your mentor was right there to help," Brielle offered.
"My mentor hates me. I don't think she's even here right now. The Career mentors saved me, if you can believe it." Tom had no particular love of Careers, but he decided that maybe the grown-up ones were alright.
"Isn't that what the Peacekeepers are here for?"
"It's hard for them to see through the crowd. And it happened so fast. One moment, he was touching me, and the next I was on the ground."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. And Genetrix says my dress is fine. It was scary, though."
"I'll bet." Tom saw the Head Peacekeeper on his way over.
"Miss Bono," he said, "I sincerely apologize. Aran Casteel, the tribute who attacked you, had already been assigned a Peacekeeper escort, as he had already been involved in multiple physical altercations. Somehow, my men failed in their mission of supervising him and preventing any potential harm to others. I assure you that I will thoroughly investigate this matter and provide him with a new guard detail."
"Thanks," Maize said, visibly embarrassed.
"It's the very least I could do. Of course, young lady. And, by the way, where is your mentor?"
"I'm not sure. On the train, she refused to advise me when I requested help planning for the Parade. I haven't seen her since."
"Well, in that case, I'll discharge you into Ms. Ortiz's care. Please do not hesitate to alert any Peacekeeper if you feel threatened or come across anything you believe may be dangerous."
"Thanks," Maize said again. Tom watched as the Head Peacekeeper left. His promise had been very reassuring, but Tom was quite sure that if Aran wanted to, he could find myriad ways to make Maize's life hell in the arena.
"Please be our ally!" he burst out, surprising himself.
"Yes," Twyla urged. "Safety comes in numbers." Maize looked at them sadly.
"Aran tried to force me to agree to never talk to you again."
"That doesn't mean you have to listen," Brielle said.
"No. But it does mean he might hurt you if I don't do what he wants."
"He's trying to divide us," said Beemo. "There are five of us and one of him. Following his directions just tells him that his strategy is working."
Maize shrank. "Well, it is working. I don't want anyone in danger because of me."
"Maize, are you sure?" Genetrix asked.
"I wish it wasn't like this. But yes." Tom and his allies, after a few more unsuccessful attempts at persuasion, wandered away. And something in the pit of Tom's stomach dropped.
For years, Willow had been telling him that he'd understand her lectures about love someday. He'd know it when he saw it, she said, and now that he's inexplicably become attached to four strangers, he finally realizes what she meant.
Haylia Boaz, 17
Backstage in Chariot Loading Area, Capitol
D2F
July 1, 329 AEDD
Disruption means nothing to Careers. It was one of the first lessons Haylia was taught in the Academy, back before she and her girlfriend decided to go their own way. While the rest of the room was busy expressing concern for the little Nine girl, Maize, the Careers were busily debating Pack dynamics.
At the very beginning of the mixer, Aran, the Five boy, had approached them and demanded to join their alliance. Six identical, disdainful sneers told him the answer, but Haylia glared down her nose to deliver the verbal "no." And then Aran had proceeded to creep on Maize and try to beat her up when she proved too smart for his dirty tricks. Meanwhile, the Pack had promptly glided over to Nikita Valeta, and in unspoken agreement, welcomed him into the Career Pack.
Everyone wondered the same thing: who would become the leader? Haylia didn't care to, but Tybalt had expressed interest in the position. Haylia and Tybalt had managed to reconcile some of their differences on the train, and Haylia had gleaned some valuable information. Tybalt was dangerously reactive. He waited for a catalyst and responded to it. He didn't say he wanted to lead until Nathaniel announced his interest, which led Haylia to conclude that he was only invested in making sure nobody else was bossing him around.
So Haylia backed him up. To win him over, and because district loyalty demanded it, but also because she wanted to know how Nikita felt about his former district.
"Tybalt," he agreed, and that told Haylia a lot. That he was treating himself as another District Two tribute and displayed the same sort of district loyalty characteristic of Careers. He wasn't overly bitter about not being the true District Two Male. And he wasn't like Tybalt, feeling threatened by another's leadership. There were seven Careers. There wouldn't be a tie. It all rode on District One.
"I vote Nathaniel," said Nascha.
"So do I," Orpheus agreed. Haylia understood why. If District Two had upset the delicate balance between Career districts and gained the advantage, it made sense for the ones to back District Four. Nathaniel grinned, his authority secure. He was already being backed up by Odicci, who Haylia had particular respect for. Odicci was using the same strategy as her, avoiding the responsibilities of leadership and the dangers they brought. Instead, she was becoming the deputy to someone else.
The Career Pack seemed strong this year. It wasn't without its problems. Orpheus was a flirty type who'd already hit on each of the other Careers, to varying reactions. It didn't strike Haylia as creepy, since Orpheus had respected her disinterest. They had all quickly realized that Nathaniel was not gay and that Nascha was not looking. Haylia caught Tybalt's pained smile and was unsure how to interpret it. She made a mental note. She would have to deal with it later.
They discussed weapons. Four of them used a rapier as their primary weapon, including her. District One's Academies didn't teach backups. District Two's did, but she and Tybalt had privately agreed not to reveal this. Odicci used a trident and a scimitar. Nathaniel used a spear. Haylia already knew that the Gamemakers would create a rapier shortage in the arena. Nothing better than a weapon scarcity to create tension in the Pack early. It would also ensure that if Haylia and Tybalt hid their backup abilities, they would be forced into revealing themselves early. She decided to preemptively get in front of this by quietly outing herself and Tybalt as able to use throwing knives and a machete, respectively, also. Nikita volunteered that he had been trained on the javelin and the crossbow.
"Nobody can use their backups in training," Haylia stressed. "We need to be able to surprise the other tributes in the arena." Nathaniel agreed with her, so it was settled. They would use their rapiers in the Capitol, with the possible exception of the private sessions. That was a discussion for later.
Haylia took stock of her allies. So far, none struck her as particularly dominant. They all seemed evenly matched. They agreed on when to meet up the next morning in the Training Center. It was more powerful if they all appeared as a united front, and that meant traveling together. Careers were not solitary creatures. During training, they would be chatting and strategizing on a constant basis. Nathaniel was expected to occasionally summon them for impromptu meetings, and they would come when he called. The more they resembled a well-disciplined unit of Peacekeepers under the watchful eye of their squadron head, the better.
Haylia thought of Nikita, who had been an actual Peacekeeper. He would be able to provide the rest of them with valuable information about life in the outlying districts. Not just informing on Aspen, his district partner, but on the probable courses of action that the outlying tributes would likely take. He had been taught about the other districts extensively during pre-deployment drills.
Thus far, Haylia had enjoyed her time in the Capitol. She and Tybalt had been given generic Roman-inspired gladiatorial costumes, a classic District Two favorite. Nascha and Orpheus were given skimpy outfits in luxury fabrics. Orpheus had a red velvet vest with gold buttons, a gilded bowtie, and very, very tight black leather pants. Nascha had a slinky backless dress of velvet, with leather accents, and huge black platform heels. Haylia thought the inspiration was probably moviestar, but it came off more as stripper. It made sense for the Capitol, she supposed, but it wasn't very creative. District Four was draped in artificial sea foam, like Aphrodite rising from the ocean. Clever, she thought.
Haylia felt sorry for Maize, despite it all. Her mentor wasn't around. The Career mentors had needed to step in. Not that the Careers themselves would be standing up for Maize, but Haylia decided to personally prioritize killing Aran. Petra had quietly alerted her to the fact that Aran had managed to escape his first Peacekeeper detail. On the train, he and his district partner had fought, and he had bitten a member of his prep team while she groomed him, like a badly-trained dog. If he could outmaneuver half a dozen expert Peacekeepers, it was best to get rid of him as soon as possible.
Nathaniel was assembling a kill list. Haylia petitioned to put Aran at the top and was relieved when Tybalt agreed. At least he could rein in his contrarian nature when it interfered with the prudent choice. "Who's next?" Nathaniel asked.
"His district partner," said Nascha. She was the quietest member of the group. Haylia liked her immediately and was pleased that Tybalt seemed to have the same reaction.
"Why her?" Nathaniel asked.
"My stylist told me that she attacked him. If you're willing to attack someone like that, how strong must you be?"
"Could she have been wrong?" Tybalt asked, a good deal more respectfully than he would have if someone else had provided this information.
"Maybe, but it doesn't matter. If I'm right, we take out a threat early. If I'm wrong, oh well, the outliers all have to die at some point." Haylia noticed that nobody rushed to assure Nikita that Nascha had meant the other outliers, which spoke volumes. They all considered him a Career, which meant this was a particularly honorable Pack. Haylia had really lucked out with her allies. No petty bullshit beyond Tybalt's standard petty bullshit. No territory disputes. No rivalries, at least not yet. They were doing okay.
"Jeremiah next," Orpheus said.
"I agree," said Nascha.
"Shut up, Orpheus," Tybalt snapped. Maybe Haylia had spoken too soon. She turned to scold him.
"Hush," she ordered.
"Why Jeremiah?" Nathaniel asked.
"He's not interested in allying with us, because he hasn't approached us and asked to join, but he has approached other tributes. Look at him. He has three allies. He's forming a counter-alliance, and a counter-alliance led by the most physically formidable tribute here is a problem."
"So you think some punk plucked from the unwashed masses of District Podunk is more physically formidable than me? Just say I'll get a seven in training. Fucking asshole, Orpheus."
"Tybalt!" Haylia barked, but he continued.
"I'm not going to be talked down to by a guileless twink who Volunteered because he has the hots for everything on two legs!" Frantically, Haylia seized him by the shoulder and hustled him a few steps away. He pouted at her like a sullen child.
"Tybalt, what the hell is this about?" He shook himself free of her grasp and glared past her, flushing.
"Leave me alone, Haylia." He said it with surprising tenderness, which meant it wasn't just braggadocio. Something about Orpheus had genuinely touched a nerve.
Haylia softened. "What don't you like about him?"
"None of your business." Tybalt's cheeks burned and he set his mouth in a hard line, and oh, it suddenly all made sense. Haylia stifled a laugh with the realization.
"You're mad because he flirted with Nikita, aren't you?"
Orpheus Adello, 18
Backstage in Chariot Loading Area, Capitol
D1M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Tybalt was marginally incorrect in his assertion about Orpheus's motivations. He was merely a guileless twink who Volunteered because he was searching for true love, and he had succeeded. In the books he wrote, he often discussed love at first sight, the magical moment when two strangers became one heart. He'd read just about every romance novel in the Academy library. There were many ways to describe the sensation, apparently. Falling for someone like a ton of bricks, or making electric eye contact. One author used the word "sizzling," which, at the time of his reading, he had appreciated.
But Orpheus now knew that Cassiopeia Beal and the sizzling Bride in Cerise had been wrong. When he coaxed a laugh out of Nikita Valeta, the world slowed to the cool speed of glaciers. Goosebumps had risen on the backs of his bare arms. According to the novels, it was absolutely mandatory for every new pair of star-crossed lovers to imagine one another naked. Orpheus had always assumed it would be a bit like an awkward sex daydream, but instead, he received a vision of Nikita's muscular back and found himself wondering what the crook of his neck smelled like.
No amount of careful Cassiopeia Beal readings could have prepared him for it. He didn't immediately want to see Nikita naked, but his chest throbbed at the thought of never getting the opportunity to hold him.
Nascha had poked him in the ribs. "You're spacing out." It was in Orpheus's nature to flirt, and the other Careers had been harmless fun, but none of it had felt real until he'd gotten to Nikita. One wink and perky "hey handsome!" had produced a giggle and Orpheus wasn't sure he'd been emotionally present since. At some point during the argument over leadership, he'd found a reason to touch Nikita's arm and, beneath the gray jacket, found it just as dizzying as the laugh. He'd caught a warning look from Tybalt and backed off, but he knew that wouldn't last long.
He wondered what Nikita's parade costume was. His stylist had made him wear the jacket and a pair of gray pants to cover it, but he had the usual prop pickaxe and hard hat with a headlamp. Aspen was dressed as a regular coal miner. Why had Nikita's stylist chosen something different? When Orpheus asked, Nikita laughed again. "You'll find out," he promised. "It won't disappoint."
He heard Flossie Merveilleuse's voice coming out of a public address system. "Tributes, chariot loading begins now. District One ready, District Two on deck, please." Reluctantly, he followed Nascha to the low track. His prep team performed a few final touch-ups, brushing fresh makeup onto his face and adjusting his clothes. He was instructed to enter the chariot, and Nascha followed. He stood on the left side, she on the right.
"Time to impress them," she smiled. Orpheus got the feeling that she was ready to turn on the charm. So was he, ready to win over sponsors as soon as possible. The red velvet was a good omen, the exact shade of his favorite color. The odds would be in his favor. They stood together, waiting for the cue.
"Send the first chariot," Flossie commanded, and an aide made a clicking noise at the horses. They trotted forward. Orpheus grasped the handrail to steady himself, watching as the horses whisked the chariot out from beneath the building's archway and out through City Circle. Banners with each district's emblem waved from posts, and Orpheus saw video of himself on screens mounted along the roadway. He waved at the stands of eager Capitolites and watched as the onscreen version of himself waved back. Roses tumbled in great showers from a million outstretched hands. He caught enough to make a bouquet and held it up. He blew a kiss to the crowd, which erupted in cheers. He heard his name being chanted, and Nascha's.
The chariot pulled into position beneath the Presidential Balcony, where Willoughby Shakira would soon emerge to address the tributes and the nation. The screen view switched to Tybalt and Haylia in their costumes, looking radiant and eager. Camera shutters flicked open and closed. He caught a glimpse of the special viewing box where Pandora Mink and someone that definitely wasn't Ivan Cardozo were streaming live commentary. He'd watched her on television all his life. Now he was the subject of her analysis.
District Three's tributes wore lab coats and safety goggles, a realistic, if unexciting, depiction of the district where new technology was conceived and manufactured. They didn't appeal to the crowd as effectively as the Careers had, but they made an above average effort. Odicci and Nathaniel, who followed them, achieved the usual level of success.
Aran and his district partner were dressed as horrible silver things, but with a start, Orpheus realized that they had both been shackled to the handrail to prevent any further fighting. They were unpopular with the crowd. District Six's tributes were in costumes even more revealing than Orpheus's own. They had been given tiny black lycra shorts. The boy was shirtless but the girl was granted a black triangle bikini. Their arms and legs were painted to look like railroad tracks. It was a horrible kind of inventiveness, Orpheus decided. It wasn't another sad mechanic getup, but it might have been even worse. It certainly wasn't winning them any favors with the crowd, although the girl seemed to be making the best of it and cheerfully waving to her fans.
District Seven wore the usual wood-grain latex bodysuits. District Eight resembled piles of dirty laundry, an unsuccessful attempt to showcase the variety of textiles produced there. District Nine wore rather pretty wheat and burlap outfits, whereas District Ten had been dressed as actual pigs, with little headbands and little gloves to look like trotters. Utterly humiliating, and pointless. District Eleven were dressed as lettuces, but what was that in the background?
Beside Aspen, in her drab miner's outfit, Nikita was shirtless. And pantsless, as well, except for an itty-bitty pair of denim bikini bottoms to cover the important bits. He was naked and covered in a ruggedly masculine dusting of shimmery gray dust. He hefted his fake pickaxe above his helmeted head.
The crowd gasped in amazement, transfixed by the Career standing before them. Nikita's stylist had intended to separate him from his district partner, and had done so very, very effectively. He glittered like the ore itself.
Orpheus fixed his gaze on the Presidential Balcony, where a young man stepped out as the chariot halted, flanked by Eurydice Shakira and Nikolai Fassnacht. He stood for several seconds before beginning his speech.
"Good evening, Panem. As Pandora Mink has graciously communicated to you all, President Shakira, my father, is ill this evening, and as the Interim President of Panem, it is my duty to perform our annual sacrament for you all this evening. It is my honor and my privilege to welcome the tributes of the 329th Hunger Games to the Capitol, the heart of the Panem, which we hold so dear. As we were reminded this morning, three hundred and twenty-nine years ago, our forefathers wrote the Treaty of Treason as a means of closing out the brutality of the Dark Days. The twenty-four tributes standing before us are a beacon of hope and a representation of why Panem endures. May the odds be ever in your favor. We thank you for your courage. We thank you for your sacrifice."
With the final resounding syllable, the crowd sprang to its feat in rapturous applause. No change had resulted from the presidential shift, just business as usual. The chariots pressed forward again, disappearing into another tunnel, and Orpheus clutched the handrail, simultaneously in awe of the ceremony and relieved that it was over.
The chariot returned to its dock, and Griffin welcomed him back onto the platform with open arms.
Nikita Valeta, 18
District One Suite, Capitol
D12M
July 1, 329 AEDD
Nikita had never been one for daring outfits, but he was beginning to change his mind. The energy of the Capitol had been electrifying, reaching out and touching him. His fellow Careers embraced him at once, and he rapidly assumed the role he was always meant to play, shaving the first digit off of his slot label. D12M.
As soon as his stylist had used some sort of wipe to instantly remove the shimmer dust from him, he was sent off to the Career meeting, which was taking place in the District One suite at the Remake Center. In fresh sweatpants and a tank top, he felt much more comfortable. Aspen had crisply informed him, in front of the Career Pack, that he was not welcome to sleep in the Twelve suite. She demanded that he room with one of his new friends. Secretly, he was glad for her rudeness. Orpheus had immediately extended an offer, and Nikita felt an unusually strong inclination to accept, and now, sitting among the loungewear-clad Pack, he was in his happy place.
They were debriefing with the mentors, who had all confirmed the gossip Nascha's stylist had relayed to her. Orpheus reported that both Aran and Amy were handcuffed during the Tribute Parade, and the mentors outright told them why. It was an open secret at this point that District Five had produced a pair of psychos, and Nascha had been graceful enough to not preen about being right. Really, Nikita struggled to find fault with his allies. Tybalt might have been a little overly prideful, but really, he could live with that. The Careers might have rejected him outright, or harped on the bonus part of bonus Career, but they all saw him exactly as he wished to be seen.
Aspen had been the most puzzling source of friction. Nikita had never considered the sheer amount of resentment that a single person could carry. He took psychic damage around Aspen, whose forcefield of hatred was flexible enough to touch any part of his bruised ego. She often passed by saying nasty things just to get a rise out of him. Sometimes he devised a snappy comeback in time, and sometimes he didn't.
Nikita was used to being unwanted. He had subconsciously assumed that, as an outlier Career, his mentor would be thrilled to have a skilled and coachable tribute, one that could be trusted to follow their sage advice. He hadn't expected to be the loser of a horrible two-person popularity contest in which everyone clamored for the girl who was mean as shit and fainted from surprise when she was Reaped. How Aileen's use of the Career mentors' distaste for her as a bargaining chip to pawn him off on Yew, who made it clear that he wasn't about to put forth a whole lot of effort to save Nikita's skin. And sure, maybe it hurt a little more than he let on, but he wasn't going to let that stop him.
The Career mentors said they would look out for him. He'd missed out on the opportunity to have a mentor of his own, but reuniting with Petra Floy had been a massive relief. She'd been proud to see how well his injury had healed. As the Careers began to tire, hoping for an early night and a good night's sleep, the tributes and mentors started trickling away to their own chambers until even Griffin, Admira, and Nascha had turned in. Nikita was left alone with Orpheus, who turned off the living room lights and led him to a massive bedroom. Nikita had enjoyed the bedroom on the train, but this one featured even more splendor.
Orpheus kicked his shoes into the corner and took off his hoodie. Nikita wasn't sure why it made him blush to see that Orpheus did, in fact, have muscles. All Careers did, but something about Orpheus's personality didn't suggest that he was the type to spend hours in the gym, working to sculpt his abs to Adonis-like perfection. And speaking of which, was that an Adonis belt Nikita saw, the deep V-cut framing his happy trail?
Fuck, he was still blushing. And he was staring. His new bunkmate was going to think he was a pervert and send him back upstairs, where he would be at the mercy of Aspen and her rages.
"Nikita." Orpheus sat on the edge of the bed, patting the sheets. "Come on, I'm tired." The bed was large enough that they didn't have to touch each other. He laid down on his stomach, but he could sense Orpheus's warmth, and that made him feel funny, so he scooted away and drifted off, an island in the bed's white cotton sea.
Heart pounding with primal fear, he jumped awake to Orpheus's voice. He sensed the stickiness of tear tracks on his face, the sheets tangled around his legs. "You were having a nightmare," Orpheus explained. "Are you alright?" The details had already disappeared, but Nikita recognized the feeling of being hunted.
"Yeah. Don't know if I can get back to sleep, but I'm fine."
"Wanna make pancakes?"
The question caught him off guard. "Do I want to…?"
"Do you want to come to the kitchen and make shitty box mix pancakes with me? We can put chocolate chips in them." Wondering if he was somehow still dreaming, he allowed Orpheus to lead him through the door, padding across the marble floors in his bare feet. They came to the kitchen. Orpheus turned on the light above the stove. The voice-activated ingredient portal sat, built into the wall, awaiting instruction.
"Pancake mix. Eggs. Milk. Chocolate chips. Whipped cream. Powdered sugar. Butter." In about two minutes, a neat basket of the requested items popped out of the service window. Orpheus found a pan and a plastic turner and melted down a cube of butter over medium heat while Nikita whisked the milk and eggs into the yellowish powder that had come from the sealed sleeve.
Ten minutes later, powdered sugar decorated his face like glitter, appearing in sparse snowdrifts across his cheeks. Orpheus had a smear of chocolate by his eyebrow and Nikita felt strange when he wiped it off with a damp paper towel.
They ate loaded pancakes at the kitchen island and talked about their siblings. Nikita learned that Orpheus's little sister was named Eurydice, just like President Shakira's wife, and that she was training to be a doctor. He shared about being the eldest of five siblings, one of whom was achieving success at Morrow Academy and frustratingly persistent in his comments that he'd outlasted his brother. His favorite, Alek, was fourteen, artistic, and a little too enthusiastic about following in his footsteps and becoming a Peacekeeper. He caught himself worrying: "...it's just hard, and there's an amount of trauma. It wouldn't be good for him, but I can't expect him to understand until he's seen what really goes on. We're the same like that. I don't like taking people's word for it."
He'd grown embarrassed, since it was a lot more emotionally vulnerable than he'd anticipated, but Orpheus hadn't harped on it. "My sister's brilliant," he said. "She's got the same sort of determination as me, but she's doing it for the greater good, and she genuinely enjoys it."
"Are you close?" Nikita thought guiltily of his least favorite, Grisha, whom he hadn't missed one bit when he was on deployment.
"I guess? We get along, and we keep in touch." Orpheus filled the sink with hot, soapy water and took Nikita's empty plate to clean.
"That sounds nice, having one sibling. It was always loud, growing up. My mother did a good job with us, considering there was a lot competing for her attention."
"Maybe it's time you have someone's full attention."
"Don't torture me. My mentor's already determined to ignore me."
"I wasn't talking about him." Orpheus drapes the damp dishtowel over the side of the sink, pulls the plug. He washes and dries his hands, wiping them on the towel. "We should get back to bed."
This time, it's almost painful to resist Orpheus's warmth, but he's still worried that Orpheus is going to think he's weird if he chooses to lay down right near him when there's all that empty space. He rolls over onto his side, accidentally brushing Orpheus's shoulder. He freezes, backtracking. "Sorry, I swear I didn't mean to touch you, I don't—"
"Are you sure about that?" There's a taunting glint in his eye, and Nikita realizes that he's in bed with a boy, who is shirtless, and has another one of these bizarre, Orpheus-induced blushing episodes.
"I swear I'm not staring at your chest!" he blurts out, and does such a bad job of passing off the lie that Orpheus actually laughs. His heart sinks. He's about to be evicted from the one refuge he's found so far, whatever space exists between him and the nice boy who made him pancakes in the middle of the night when he had a bad dream.
"Come here," Orpheus says, and he puts his hand on Nikita's back and pulls him into a hug, which is really nice, actually, and Orpheus's chest is all cozy and warm.
He's blushing so hard that the blood's drained out of his brain and into his face, apparently, because all he can think of to say is, "That feels nice," and Orpheus actually grabs him and rolls him onto his other side, so he can feel the pressure of Orpheus's chest against the back of his tank top.
"Go to sleep, Nikita," he says, and Nikita's pretty sure his voice sparkles.
Linus Cannon, 51
Capitol Forensic Science Center, Capitol
Detective Chief Inspector of Panem
July 1, 329 AEDD
Linus Cannon stood in the morgue doorway. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and cuffed at his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos on his crossed arms. A leather briefcase sat at his feet.
"Mr. Cannon," the coroner said, "Glaring at the copy machine won't make the tox report print any faster." Linus bristled, shifting his glare to the coroner, who shrank under it. Linus wasn't a particularly large man, but the tension in his wiry frame, the muscles pulled taut at his shoulders, had made him imposing.
"I'll wait right here until it does," he snapped.
Linus had spent days piecing together the fragmented clues, arranging and rearranging the sparse trace evidence he had to go on until it told him a plausible story. His morning had been squandered at the meeting with the Shakiras, in which Willoughby had stormed off and made his son the acting President. Linus had been working long into lunchtime, on the cusp of a breakthrough, when his obnoxious brother-in-law had called: "Ivan Cardozo's just dropped dead. You go find Nikolai Fassnacht and do as he tells you." Linus had asked for context, clarification, but Willoughby, in true Willoughby fashion, hung up on him.
Linus had long ago obtained his university degree in forensic science and criminology, had become employed as a lab technician and had, through good luck and hard work, been promoted to Detective Chief Inspector of the Capitol, a position he had resigned from in shame after a messy public split with his wife, Mae Lowland. Although he had lost his job, he had not lost his faculties, and upon his sister's request, he had been happy to whip out his credentials and start picking apart the mystery.
Something strange was going on in Panem. First the Peacekeeping shenanigans, then the explosion, the shooting, Megaera Arkinnian's fingerprints, and now Ivan Cardozo's death, and Linus was sure that they were somehow connected. The Capitol had been without him for too long. He never should have abdicated his position. His former subordinates had whispered behind his back, said he was looking for an out, that the job was too stressful for him.
Yeah, right. Since his departure, the department had gone to shit. Linus had attempted to avoid it by using the Gamemaking lab, but the matter had grown too large to be dealt with surreptitiously, so Linus now found himself at his old workplace, disgusted by the way things had declined. The new Detective Chief Inspector seemed to exclusively hire Peacekeeping dropouts, men too stupid and desperate to do anything but blindly follow orders. Linus was particularly angered by the presence of his former high school bully, who had somehow become a coroner and attempted to once again browbeat him into submission.
This time, Linus stood firm. Nikolai Fassnacht (now that was someone Linus could get behind!) and Willoughby (bless his loathsome little heart!) had created a new position, Detective Chief Inspector of Panem, which oversaw the Detective Chief Inspector of the Capitol and directly reported to Nikolai himself, and appointed him to it immediately. They'd given him the security clearance to match.
Ivan Cardozo had died at the Tiger Lounge, a popular uptown bar. Flossie Merveilleuse, who he'd been having lunch with, was in a state. Nikolai had put Linus in charge of handling the crime scene while he consoled her. They couldn't afford to have the Tribute Coordinator out of commission on the opening night of the Hunger Games, and in the time it took for Nikolai to deal with her, Linus learned a few key pieces of information.
Bystanders had witnessed Ivan suddenly begin coughing loudly and make the universal choking sign, which was abnormal. His death was being treated as a suspected poisoning, but most poisons didn't set in immediately. Flossie reported that she'd seen him pale and go hoarse, but that did tend to happen when Ivan got all dramatic, as he'd been doing with her. That was more consistent with poisoning, and the other patrons probably hadn't been paying very close attention to him. The most important clue was the cocktail Ivan had been drinking, since that was the most likely source of the poison.
The glass, as well as Ivan's corpse, had been brought to the forensics department for analysis. Linus needed to determine what poison had killed Ivan and if it had come from his drink. It had taken hours for the testing to be completed, the toxicology report created, and the beverage thoroughly inspected. Linus didn't trust the coroner, or possibly another official, to fudge the results. There had been a lot of subterfuge of late, and the coroner had already offered four different reasons that Linus really ought to step out and stop being so protective of his documents.
For four years, the coroner had done his best to sucker, hoodwink, and bamboozle Linus into behaving in accordance with his whims, but in the decades since graduation, Linus had become very difficult to bamboozle. He hogged the printer, fending off all other employees who wanted to use it, until it had finished feeding out the last paper. It contained twenty pages of detail, but everything Linus needed to know was summarized on the final one. He flipped to it.
None of the poisons in the database had been present in Ivan Cardozo's blood or the glass. He turned to the section listing the official cause of death. Respiratory compromise, it said. It did check out with the symptoms that Flossie and the bargoers had described, but something nagged at him. Ivan was a young man in good health, dying under suspicious circumstances. He might've been poisoned by some niche, unknown substance, but that was so unlikely that Linus could temporarily discount it.
If there was one thing he'd learned as a detective, it was that there was always a simple solution. There was something just out of reach, some easy explanation that wasn't occurring to him.
He didn't let the coroner catch on to his uncertainty as he placed the papers into his briefcase and stalked off into the night, past the merriment of the masses. Since Pandora normally worked with Ivan on the Tribute Parade commentary, there really ought to have been a statement put out, but Willoughby had absolutely refused to tell the public until a conclusion had been reached. Instead, Pandora's husband Alecto was rolled out as a "special guest." Will would also be administering the normal Parade address in his father's absence. Willoughby had thrown a second fit upon learning there was a crisis he had to sort out, but, hesitant to leave it to his son, he had stepped in as a regent of sorts and left management of Ivan's death to Nikolai and Linus.
Pandora had been so unhappy, too. Alecto had been supposed to stay home and look after some Avoxes for a rescue project. Flossie would have been much more suitable, but even if she wasn't reeling from her friend's death, she was allergic to the spotlight.
Allergic.
Hey y'all,
Well, it's been a few weeks since the last Prudence and Gumption update, but here I am with the Tribute Parade! And yes, we are doing train ride fights and tribute parade fights because Aran is my problem child. Oh, and our Career Pack is enjoying a delightfully uncomplicated, drama-free relationship compared to the PAG crew, so you're welcome for that. Also, sorry for picking on Maize. I'm sure we're all having a fun time figuring out who bumped off our favorite blackmail merchant, Snake Bitch Ivan. Do we think Linus is yay or nay? I'd love to hear your thoughts on the new TW/CW system. Stay tuned for the next chapter of dystopia, when we give the kids weapons and see what happens!
—LC :D