Finnick blinks slowly. He huffs like he'd rather be anywhere but here, and Thames can't help but feel annoyed. He's the one in a life-or-death situation; Finnick survived his ten years ago. Surely he could put some more energy into this. He's slumped back in the chair, observing Thames with his head in his hand. The purple bags under his eyes give the impression he got punched twice and is freshly bruising.
Thames is starting to get frustrated with the silence permeating the room. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his hands to stop himself from walking out. Brita laughs at something in her quarters, probably said by her mentor, and Thames leans back and looks at the roof. He sighs loudly. Finally, after several more minutes, Finnick stirs.
"Humbly confident."
"Pardon?" Thames asks. Finnick huffs again.
"That's your angle for the interview with Ceasar Flickerman."
It's not innovative, but that will work in Thames' favor. The last thing he wants is to embarrass himself on national television by trying to be charismatic. He imagines himself galavanting around the stage like a peacock, like Ceasar Flickerman. He bites his lip, cringing at the hypothetical.
"So," Finnick says. "I'll pretend to be Ceasar. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you need to answer them like you're-"
"Humbly confident?" Thames finishes.
"Exactly."
Finnick starts with pretty simple questions: how does Thames like the Capitol, what would his family think, etc. At first, Thames is grateful he doesn't have to pretend to be someone he's not. By the end of the first half hour, Thames is planning to jump from his platform early. Finnick reprimanded him, telling him his answers are too blunt.
"You gotta give Ceasar something to work with," Finnick says. Thames refrains from arguing that he's paid to make something work. It's his job. There have been some pretty rough interviews in the past.
For the second attempt, he oversells it and comes off as a good impression of a dickhead. Finnick squints to avoid cringing. He tells Thames to stop trying so hard. They work on it for three hours. Finnick asks him every question under the sun. Some of them are incredibly niche, things Ceasar would never ask, like his favorite topic in Mathematics or what age he liked being the most. Thames is blinking back tears when Doran Keefe hobbles in to inform them it's dinner time.
Finnick sends him to his quarters to wash up, and he sits on his bed for ten minutes longer than he probably should, watching the window and recharging his social battery.
The brilliance of the Capitol is difficult to ignore. Rainbow hues fall across the apartment floor, the setting sun's rays bouncing off the glass buildings. Thames wants to like this place. He wants to appreciate it's beauty. But there's a sinister feeling beneath everything. The luxurious apartment is a final lap. The food here is from the workers in the districts, and they'll never get to see the mouthwatering meals made from their backbreaking labor. Their kids might if their name gets called at the Reaping.
The streets look lively, even from up on the fourth level of the training center. A few people are just trying to get home, but most of the crowd is celebrating the games. They parade across the streets, waving streamers and blocking traffic. It never ceases to amaze how self-absorbed the people of the Capitol are. They look crazy, even for Capitolites. With a jolt, he notices that several are wearing ginger afro wigs.
They're dressed up as me.
The streets below glitter with Capitol people sauntering around, draped in golden netting. They've taken their own creative liberties with the design. None of the outfits are what his was. He sees a couple of dresses, a toga, and even a guy in netted underwear. They're walking on the dirty pavement with bare feet. He grimaces. Back in Four, tons of people walk barefooted. The difference is, the only thing on their roads is sand. He can't imagine the Capitol avenues are clean, despite what the Capitolites think of themselves. He swears he saw some needles on the ground during the tribute parade.
Dinner is an ordeal. Tomorrow is the final day before the arena, and Thames can feel the anxiety digging into the pit of his stomach. They'll spend hours preparing for the interviews, the interviews will happen, and then they'll return to the apartment and sleep to get up early the next day for the games.
He can barely eat. He keeps biting the skin off his lips. He keeps telling himself that the inner alliance will have control of the Cornucopia, but the hundreds of ways it could go wrong are in the back of his mind. What if there isn't a Cornucopia? It's a Quarter Quell; there's no telling what tricks the gamemakers will pull in the arena.
Finnick shovels the main course down his throat and disappears. He says a vague goodnight to the air on his way out of the room. Ol' Doran Keefe (he won the thirty-ninth games) comments that he didn't even wait for dessert. Thames looks across the table at Brita to see if she's also wondering what's wrong with Finnick. She doesn't seem to have noticed.
None of the mentors seem particularly concerned, except for Barret Davies (seventeenth games). He's doing a poor job of hiding his uneasiness. He drums his fingers on the table until Seabrooke snaps and 'suggests' he has an early night. He gets the message.
After that, they all feel like having an early night. Doran says they'll have to spend the whole day tomorrow getting ready for the interviews. He jokes that he had a harder time prepping for the interviews than he did winning the games. Seabrooke glares at him. Thames takes that as a sign to escape to his quarters.
Tomorrow, they'll spend the hours leading up to the televised interviews being preened and glammed for Ceasar Flickerman's show. If he has to sit in a chair for eight hours as Capitolites buzz around his face, he wants to be as well rested as possible. Two hours later, he's still staring at the roof. He's not sure why he even tries. He kicks the blankets off himself in frustration and sits up.
He weighs his options; lay in darkness for hours while his stomach does backflips with anxiety, or creep out of his room and watch the television. He decides on the latter.
Brita had the same idea as him. She's spread across the couch on her stomach, one arm hanging off, touching the floor. The entire room is lit up blue from whatever's playing on the television. Her glassy eyes move from the screen to the hallway.
"I wouldn't mind the company."
Thames shrugs and joins her on the couch. The program is about two married couples exchanging spouses.
"What is this," Thames asks.
"It's a study on how dynamics change between women who have married women."
One of the wives is sobbing because her new spouse forgot her medication at the store. Her neon green mascara is running down her face like rivers.
"It's hard to take them seriously with all that colorful crap on their faces," Thames says. "Doesn't seem like a study to me."
Brita throws up her arm. "You know how they like good television here."
The longer he watches, the harder it is for Thames to hate it. It's, unfortunately, kind of good. He feels like he understands the Capitol a little more.
He gets lost in reality TV. Everything has a different premise, but it's all the same beneath the layer of new paint. All about the drama. Neither he nor Brita notices how late it's getting until Meditara and Seabrooke stand a meter away from the couch, wrapped in fuzzy nightgowns.
Seabrooke's arms are folded. "You'd rather watch the mindless Capitol shows instead of sleeping?"
Thames yelps in fright. Brita scrambles to find the remote in the couch cushions.
"We couldn't sleep," Thames says. He braces for Seabrooke to lose her cool again. Instead, the victors look at each other, exchange nods, and Meditara disappears into the kitchen. Seabrooke comes to the couch.
"It's okay to be scared, you know."
"I'm not scared," Thames lies.
She gives him a look. "If you're not, then you're a psychopath. Being nonchalant about a fight to the death isn't as cool and collected as you think."
Meditara returns to the room and hands them a cup of hot chocolate before she lowers herself onto a recliner next to them.
"You're both a bundle of nerves, so talk." She says. "Talk through your feelings now so they don't distract you in the arena. Usually, we tell the kids we'll look after them in the control room, but obviously, we can't for you."
She sits back in the chair and crosses her arms in front of her chest. Thames lowers his face into the hot chocolate, hoping to avoid this conversation. It's not that he doesn't want to talk; he just… can't. He can't grasp what he feels and how to say it.
"It's so scary knowing we're going to be completely alone tomorrow," Brita says. "I don't trust the Twos, and I hate the Ones. I wish we could abandon the alliance, but we would be basically condemning ourselves to death."
Meditara leans further into the recliner and looks at the roof. He notices the depth of the stress lines beside her eyes for the first time. "You could abandon the alliance."
Thames and Brita look at each other.
"Seriously?" Thames asks.
"Ultimately, the choice is yours," Seabrooke says. "But if you don't trust the rest of the pack, maybe it would be best to split off. If they find you, they'll be ruthless and will make your death painful, but if you feel the decision is right, then no one can stop you. They might kill you anyway, so splitting could be the right idea. The Ones are unreliable this year."
"We could kill them before we leave."
"You could, but you'll be stuck in the arena for much longer without the alliance regularly eliminating the fodder. I don't really think you have it in you to kill needlessly, anyway. Even if they're annoying, the pack is protection."
"It wouldn't be needless, though," Thames says. The three ladies all turn to look at him. He becomes suddenly interested in the wall beneath the television. "It will give us the upper hand if we're the only two with access to the supplies. Everyone else can just starve to death."
Meditara raises an eyebrow. "Do you think the Gamemakers will let the Quarter Quell be so uneventful? They'll force you into combat."
Brita puts her face in her hands. "I don't know if I can do this. I'm not ready to die."
Meditara bites her lip. Thames makes eye contact with her, and she gives him a sad smile. It's supposed to be reassuring, but it's like she's looking down on him. He's hit with the sudden thought that at the end of this, she'll go back to District 4 to the luxury of the Victors' Village. He subconsciously puts a gap between them.
"Do you know who else said that?" She asks him.
"Who?"
"Annie Cresta five years ago. A fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair ten years ago; sitting in this apartment, both weighing the possibility of their own death. I remember saying those words to Mags thirty years ago, also in this apartment. I can't imagine how many of us have uttered those words."
Thames sinks further into the couch. It might swallow him whole if he leans far enough. He's miserable. He hates it here. He hates the Ones. He hates the girl from Eleven and the boy from Ten who hate him back. He hates the stupid Capitolites and their pompous faces and accents. He just wants to be home.
Neither he nor Brita can think of anything to see. Thames can't bring himself to talk to the victors, with the hot frustration burning through his limbs. They could sit here all night with him, but it doesn't change the fact that it's guaranteed they'll be back home with their families in a few weeks. Thames has a twenty-three in twenty-four chance of being lowered into the ground around about then.
The four of them sit silently for a long time. The victors let them mope, drinking their hot chocolates in misery. Meditara ends up turning on the television to a stupid kids' program. Thames loses himself in the mindlessness of Capitol programming. It follows Venus, a girl from the upper echelon of the city, who yearns for a 'simpler' life. She train-hops across Panem, exploring the districts, ending each episode with a lesson about kindness, sharing, or other crap like that.
The portrayal of District 4 is bordering offensive in its inaccuracy. The Capitol seems to think they're all barefooted, golden-skinned triathletes. The set they've constructed lacks the ragged shacks and clotheslines decorating the shorelines. In the same episode, Venus travels to District 8. It's not as luxurious as Four, but Thames has a feeling the Capitol hasn't portrayed Eight accurately, either. Based on what he's seen during games coverage, it's unlikely the roads and factories are that white.
Eventually, Thames' eyes grow heavy. He puts a thin, pink blanket over a sleeping Brita and moves to his quarters. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep.
He dreams of his parents. They look exactly the same as they did six years ago, on the day they died. Pa's sun-bleached beard, the scar running across Ma's left arm. His lip trembles agonizingly as it always does when he sees them in his dreams.
The dreams started a few weeks after their death, but they're less frequent as the years have passed. It usually means something when his subconscious manifests it. The 'something' is lost on him, though.
"Why are you here?" He asks. They're in his old home, but his voice echoes as if they're standing inside a cave. He looks around the room, at the pictures on the walls, the line of shoes at the door. His shoulders tense. The faces of the people in the frames are warped and blurry. The only part of them perceivable is the color of their skin.
His parents' eyes bore into his face as if drinking up his entire presence. As he stares back at them, he can't help but be reminded of the ghost stories the oldies tell to scare kids. Wails bouncing between the sea caves and cliffs, calling for help that will never come as they're bashed against the rocks and dragged below the waves.
It's like this every time. They watch each other, unmoving, until his parents turn and leave through the backdoor. He'll follow them out, only to be consumed by darkness, and he'll wake up. That last part only began happening a few years ago. When the dreams started, his parents would just stare at him until he woke up crying.
"How are you, my son?"
His heart leaps as his mother's mouth moves. His brain can't process the action, and he tries to stutter out a response, but his mouth just opens and closes like Guppy.
"How are you, my son?" His father asks. He reaches out for Ma, and the two of them join hands. Thames' throat feels like it's closing up, and his eyes sting like his tears are backed up in his ducts. He tries to talk to them, to ask them literally anything, but nothing but air comes out. He panics.
The room feels like it's closing in, and the scenery outside is slowly warping like the pictures. He can tell the dream is ending, this is usually how it ends, but this is the most the dream has progressed in years. He tries to call out for them, but still, nothing comes out. His heart begins to race. He needs to talk to them. When he takes a step forward, they step backward. He starts towards them, reaching out to try and stop them, but they disappear into the darkness of the door behind them.
His eyes snap open, and he's met by the darkness of his quarters. He swears he feels the shadows of his parents in his room, but the more seconds that pass, the quicker their presence flees. Like wet sand between his fingers. He lays there, breathing through his nose, forcing his pounding heart to a steady pace.
He glances at the digital clock beside the bed. It reads 4 AM. Still two hours before the alarm sounds. His eyes flit to the corner of the room again, landing on nothing but the wall. No shadows, no faces.
"Don't be stupid," He whispers to himself. 'Ghosts' are stories the old sailors tell the kids in Four to keep them away from the ocean. They're not real. He keeps the blankets around him, protecting him from whatever his brain is convinced is in the room.
The city slowly comes to life in his window, rising with the sun. His alarm sounds at six, and he drags himself from the sheets before Finnick can knock on his door. Seabrooke is surprised to see him up so early. The two of them have breakfast together. Though he barely has an appetite, he forces himself to eat. He'd rather take on today with a full stomach. Brita, as always, is bright-eyed and ready for the day. She does push-ups in the kitchen, drawing an eye roll from Thames.
At seven, Generosus comes in with a long bag. There's a hazy square of plastic in the middle. It's hard to make out what's inside, but whatever's in there looks good quality. The prep team trails in behind his stylist like lost lambs.
Generosus gestures at them. "What are you standing here for? Let's get to work."
They set up all their things in his room, and Doran drags one of the chairs in from the dining room table.
"I'll leave you to it." He chides. He wiggles his eyebrows cheekily.
Thames is made to sit on the chair. While Cardea massages shampoo through his curls, Levana gives his nails a quick go-over. His eyes feel heavy. Cardea's hair treatment feels like magic, and every rotation she makes with her fingers on his scalp causes his eyes to get heavier. The smell of lavender lulls his muscles to relax. The tension leaves his shoulders. He fights sleep as long as he can. Next thing he knows, he's opening his eyes.
"How long was I out for?" He asks, rubbing the stiffness from his neck. He's thankful he didn't dream of his dearly departed parents.
Cardea, who's sitting off the side while Amos moisturizes his skin, gives him a fond look. "Only a few hours. Meditara told us to let you rest, so we were gentle with you. You should be well rested for the games!"
Thames' stomach spikes anxiously at the reminder of the games. Amos decides Thames' skin is good enough and calls Generosus in from his coffee with Doran. The preps exit the room so Generosus can finalize the look and add any finishing touches to the outfit. He pulls the outfit from the white bag. As Generosus slides the fabric over Thames' skin, he can't help but remark on how light it is. Generosus sees the look on Thames' face.
"I wanted you to be able to move freely in it," he says.
He leads Thames to the floor-length mirror and steps back, allowing Thames to admire the work. His outfit frames his lean, muscled body well.
It's a white shirt with drapey sleeves that flow over his arms. A long, black leather skirt goes to his shins; leaving space for his heavy, black boots to be seen.
He's pleasantly surprised at how handsome he looks. It's a sophisticated outfit, and it makes him seem polished and in control. Generosus has done his research because it's nothing like Four on that Capitol program. It reminds Thames of all the good parts of home. The sea breeze ripping through the fabric of your loose shirt, the sturdy black boots the boat crew wear during safety checks. Even the bands on his arms are similar to the ones they make at home as children out of split rope.
"Thank you," He says to Generosus. "It looks amazing. Seriously. How do you understand Four so well?"
His stylist bows his head. "When you work for District 4 as long as I have, you learn things. I've done all I can to help you; it's up to you to impress the audience now."
Generosus leads him back into the vanity chair. The prep team comes back in and pull out their makeup kits. It's nice to be pampered, even if it's sort of wasted effort. They particularly like his lips and eyes, emphasizing both with light makeup. Cardea compliments his eyelashes.
It's quick work, and when Finnick comes into the room, he smiles slightly. "You look good, kid."
Thames thanks him. Amos finishes brushing at his jaw, and then the preps are packing up and rushing off to get good spots for the interviews. They barely squeak out goodbyes.
"Any advice?" Thames asks Finnick on the elevator down.
Finnick thinks for a moment. "Just have fun."
Thames is a bit taken aback, but he supposes it makes sense. The interviews have no stakes this year. Caesar's show is held in front of the training center. There's a stage set up, and scores of Capitolites watch from crowds on the road or are hanging from balconies. There's a steady stream as everyone files into the avenue. Several people are dressed as tributes. He sees cardboard signs with district numbers or names of tributes. There are a few 'Thames' signs, but most are paired with Brita. He assumes they're just District 4 supporters. Amaryllis has the most supporters by a landslide. No doubt thanks to her brother.
Finnick clasps him on the shoulder and wishes him luck. Thames watches him leave. Once Finnick is out of sight, he turns to the other tributes. Only the guys from each district pair are here. Thames is surprised, but then he remembers how much better the female tributes usually look in the interviews compared to the males. He guesses they've got a higher bar to hit. Thames unwillingly trudges over to Glitz and Adriano.
Adriano nods to him. "Lookin' good, Reed."
"You too." He says. It's just niceties. Sure, Adriano looks cleaned up, and all that, but his outfit is generic. A shiny dress shirt, black pants, and accessories. He and Glitz actually look quite similar; the only difference is that Glitz's top is gold, and Adriano's is silver. Thames feels a little better knowing he looks the best out of the inner-alliance guys. Glitz sneers at Thames in what might be his idea of a greeting and turns back to face the crowd to 'people watch'. Adriano rolls his eyes. He and Thames make small talk until the girls arrive. Amaryllis, Beatrice, and Brita look stunning. Especially Amaryllis. He tastes a bitter jealousy in his mouth; everything seems lined up for her to win the games. She's got the skills, she's got the angle, and she's got the supporters.
Once everyone is here, they're lined up in district order, female then male first. The twenty-four of them file onto the main stage under the gaze of lights and the eyes of the entire nation. A woman leads the line to the line of seats just off to the side of Ceasar's chair, and goes around double-checking the pronunciation of everyone's names. She disappears for a few minutes, and when she returns, she counts down on her fingers.
"Going live in five… four…" she puts down the fingers one by one. She clenches her hand into a fist, and the camera lights switch on.