Olive had begun to lose all hope — to accept that her mother's and Theo's dreams were just that, dreams — and then she saw District Twelve's tributes. The pair was just as any other: afraid, wary, and analysing. But there was just one thing that made them completely different from the rest.
The girl, or more specifically, how the girl looked at the boy.
For the first time in years, Olive Navin Cresta saw something in the girl's eyes that she thought had been long-lost to everyone else. Hope. Perhaps it was a tiny flicker, but it went on rampage, like a lighted match in a pool of oil, the moment they landed on her district partner.
He, just like his partner, had a different demeanour. His kind upfront wasn't just that. The gentle look in his eyes was genuine. Sadly, fear and wariness clouded it whenever his eyes left the girl.
A match made in heaven, Olive thought before walking away.
It was all quiet for a while, despite District Twelve causing an uproar due to their incredible costumes during the Parade. Foolishly, Olive thought she wouldn't see any of the two again until they were crowned, as her mother had predicted.
But, oh boy, was I wrong. She ran her fingers through her hair while huffing to herself.
No one was usually on the rooftop of the Tribute Centre at night. Being with someone who wasn't either Annie or Finnick was strange. However, there she was, next to District Twelve's tributes. They hadn't noticed her yet, or so she thought, since they kept talking in the garden part of the rooftop about a seemingly serious matter.
"I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?" said the boy.
"What did he say?" the girl asked.
"There's a force field," Olive answered, feeling the need to press her lips into a thin line due to the embarrassment of outing herself. "Um, sorry. Basically, you can't jump, so don't try anything you two, or your families will get in trouble."
The girl shot up in a second, a murderous look in her eyes. "What do you mean? What'll they do to them?"
"What do you think they could do?" Olive answered simply, giving the girl a pitiful look. "They'll be fine as long as you don't do anything stupid, I swear."
"You're the—" The boy mumbled in realisation.
"Crazy Twin Victor?" Olive finished for him. "Don't worry, I get called that a lot. I am the oldest, Crazy Twin One, if you prefer."
Both tributes eyed her with suspicion. Of course, it would be strange to any tribute if they were approached by a victor and mentor for another district. Only Olive couldn't stay put on District Four's floor after seeing them. Much less, after part of her mother's and brother's dreams had become true.
"I'm so sorry it happened to you guys," Olive said, more to herself than them.
Their faces relaxed, more the boy's than the girl's. It was just like her mother said. The girl had a flaming spirit inside her, nowhere better represented than with the flames in the parade costume. The boy, however, was like a dandelion. He clearly calmed her only with her presence, though Olive was sure neither realised that fact yet.
"OK, you can say something, you know? Or just tell me to go away. This is really awkward." Her hands went to her hair once again, which still had sea-blue glitter from Cario wanting to play dress-up for the Capitol earlier in the day.
"Why are you talking to us?" It was the girl who spoke.
"Well, first, I wasn't expecting anyone to be here, 'cause normally there's nobody. Second, I thought it was time someone told you something different from, 'congratulations!', or, 'you're so brave!'." Olive paused, a smirk forming on her face. "I wouldn't know. I can't remember a thing from that time. But, you know, I feel disgusted every time someone says that in front of me."
"But, you're from Four, you're a Career," the boy tried to make sense out of things, which, unfortunately for him, wasn't working.
"If you remember my Games, you know I volunteered for my brother. Not that different from lover girl over there," Olive said, pointing at the girl, who froze upon hearing the nickname. "And don't think the cockiness of being a Career lasts that long. I'm not sure what Haymitch has told you so far, but he's probably right—don't tell him I said that."
"What do you mean, 'it doesn't last long'?" asked the boy, utterly confused.
"You'll see when you guys get out of the Arena." Olive's eyes almost gave away her true feelings despite her cocky up front.
"You guys?" repeated the girl, just as lost as the boy was.
"One person I really admire once told me, 'there's always a flaw in the system'. Will you find it, or will you end up like the rest of us victors?" Olive smiled. A genuine smile that showed him the pity she was bottling up inside her heart. "Let me tell you, neither is good. But, in the long run, one will mean freedom and the other slavery."
Footsteps approached, not from anyone she expected to see, either. Ron appeared on the rooftop, closing the door of the doom behind him as he marched towards her. Completely ignoring the two tributes from Twelve, he laid a jacket over Olive's shoulders and began to tell her off for leaving during supper.
"I'm twenty-two years old. Are you really lecturing me? You're not even my father, Ron." Olive chuckled, making Ron sigh.
"As if I were, OK? Let's go down. You've got surgery tomorrow." Ron placed his arm around her shoulders, trying to get her to move, but Olive refused.
"Another one! What for?" She exclaimed.
The Capitol's beauty standards had always been ridiculous to Olive. However, as she experienced in first person all the different beauty enhancements, her bafflement changed to hatred. Two years ago, when not a month had passed since her initial one-year transition plan, the Capitol felt entitled to 'help' her transition by introducing her to countless cosmetic surgeries.
It had been a miracle that the Capitol had been so fixated on reducing her waist, or enhancing her hips, that they had forgotten to dye her skin green, or tattoo her face. Real things she had seen multiple people do to themselves in the Capitol.
"I don't know, Piscia just told us." Finally realising the two teenagers' presence, Ron stared at them and said. "I'm sorry. About everything. Don't care what people say, this is not about luck or odds. Better start thinking of a compelling story to sell to the Capitol. That's how you survive."
The two victors walked away, leaving the tributes just as puzzled as five minutes ago. Ron kept his hand on Olive's shoulder until they were back on Four's floor, their tributes already in their rooms, which lessened their sense of guilt.
Librae welcomed them to the living room, a glass of water in her hand. Finnick sat beside her, staring at the bottle of water, just as surprised as Piscia or Olive were. Ron, however, smiled and walked over to Librae, kissing her head.
"Thank you for listening to me," he said.
"Yes, keep thinking that I did it for you," she scoffed.
"Even if it's not because of me, I'm very proud of you." Ron kissed her head once more, then sat on the chair beside her. "Oh, we just met Haymitch's tributes."
"Met?" Olive chuckled, taking a seat between Piscia and Finnick. "You gave them advice and left. The poor kids could say nothing."
Like a little kid, Ron stuck out his tongue at her and then folded his arms. "Well, there's no need to talk to them, is there? Even if one wins, the other will die. I would rather not know them, to have yet another face haunt me in my sleep."
Piscia sipped her tea quickly, her eyes glued to the table once again. It was a habit she had picked up three years ago. Like she was ashamed of something, or just didn't want to meet eyes with the rest of them at times. Mostly during the Hunger Games than during the Annual Visits.
"Liv," Finnick began doubtfully, giving her a worried look. "You don't think—"
"Yeah." She nodded, trying to cover up their interaction by adding. "I root for both of them."
Days passed by normally. The training days and the interviews had no incidents, except, perhaps, for Twelve's tributes. The love declaration, televised to the entirety of Panem, made everyone's eyes on the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve.
It could have been her imagination, but, as the boy got back to his seat, he nodded in Olive's and Ron's direction, as if thanking them for something. Olive nodded back, though proceeded to ignore the boy from that point on to concentrate on her own tributes.
Trying to be away from the television as much as possible, she talked the Sponsors into rooting for the girl, Four's only tribute left after the bloodbath. However, after a few days, the girl from Twelve, cornered on a tree, threw a tracker jacker nest directly at the group of Careers, killing Four's and One's girl tributes.
There was a mental fight that evening not to drink their sorrows away. More so from Librae than anyone else. Olive doubted whether to give up and join Haymitch's side, but the disappointment that her siblings would show if she ever did kept her sane for enough time to push down the urge.
Just like she deduced, two weeks passed, and District Twelve tributes were crowned as victors together. Their method had been as simple, yet as risky, as threatening to kill themselves with poisonous berries. There was no if in their threat, just the desperate desire not to kill the other, which got them their victory as a couple.
"Good luck, you'll need it," Olive muttered to herself as she turned away from the celebration to join the other victors at the train station.
Cario came to say goodbye, giving each a hug, since Piscia would accompany them until District Four, where they would record a few things about their 'talents' for the Capitol, before being left alone for another six months. Johanna appeared as well, her coping mechanism making her as unlikeable as possible for the Capitol people. Olive could only laugh, giving her a hug and the promise to see each other for President Snow's granddaughter's birthday celebration.
"You won't leave me hanging, will you?" asked Olive, smirking at Finnick mischievously as she mentioned the word 'hanging', which made the boy elbow her playfully.
"Oh, you know, if I get invited. Who could say 'no', right?" Johanna said.
"Definitely not us. We're victors. How could we ever decline?" Olive left her hands on her hips, her smirk not leaving her face.
"OK. You two are having way too much fun with this," said Librae while rubbing her forehead tiredly.
"Sorry, sorry, let's go." Olive focused on her friend one last time to give her a warning. "And you better write or call, missy. I barely hear anything from you."
"My life's not that interesting, Olive." Johanna rolled her eyes mockingly, then walked away towards her own train.
The clock struck midnight, making Olive get up from her bed to go towards the bathroom. Due to the stress of the Games, she had close to no time to see what exactly the cosmetic surgery had done to her.
She took off her shirt, revealing her bandaged torso. It was surprising that, despite the almost magical medicine in the Capitol, some marks of stitches could still be seen. The most present was on the left side of her stomach, which went from a barely noticeable dot to a deep brown line in the middle.
The scars themselves weren't what bothered her. It was the story behind them. They hadn't been made while climbing a tree or being attacked during the arena. Those had been erased by the Capitol. Now they were only those from the Capitol's intervention in her own body.
"If you keep staring like that, you might dig holes in your own skin," Finnick said, leaning on the bathroom door frame.
"Better that than these damned scars." Olive put her shirt back on, buttoning it up without caring much if it was crooked. "You couldn't sleep?"
"You left. And I got worried." He approached, taking her hands off the shirt to button it up properly. "Is anything wrong? What's going through your mind?"
"I want peace," answered Olive immediately. "Everyone suffers. Some people die, and some people live with the guilt forever . . . But why? Who says that's how it works? Why do people have to die for anything to happen? Why does anyone have to suffer?"
"Well," he began, stopping his hands at the collar of her shirt, which he had left unbuttoned to let Olive breathe with ease. "Sometimes specific deaths are what people need to realise that something's wrong. Look at Piscia. Since that fight three years ago about Johanna's parents, she hasn't mentioned the 'honour of representing one's district' to the tributes again."
"I wish she could have realised without them dying," Olive muttered, not reacting as Finnick wrapped his arms around her.
"Sadly, that's not how it works." He kissed her forehead and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's go to sleep, alright? There's nothing we can do, anyway."
"OK," she said, following him to the bed, where she tossed and turned for hours until sleep finally made its presence.
"Katniss!" Twelve's boy shouted, though she didn't know from where exactly. "Katniss!"
As if she had opened her eyes, she saw not only the boy but Katniss and Finnick running up to them. They were running away while shouting for something or someone. Birds were behind them, supposedly chirping, since she couldn't hear a thing. However, before Katniss and Finnick could reach the boy and her, the two hit an invisible wall.
"Finnick!" Her hands pounded involuntarily against the wall, but there was no way to break it. "Finnick!"
"It's no use," muttered the boy beside her, his voice losing all hope. "We can't get to them. We can't . . . Katniss . . ."
While unconsciously battling the sheets, Olive woke up. It was close to dawn, perhaps half an hour before, but she couldn't go back to sleep, and neither did she want to. She stared at the ceiling, her hands intertwined over her stomach, trying to recollect everything that had happened. It had been a bad idea to forget her diary at home.
Her fingers traced the sheet over her stomach, feeling an overpowering urge to glance at her right to make sure Finnick was still there. She knew he was. It was strange, but she could feel his presence. Like she knew Librae and Ron were in the room across from them without having seen them going together. She just knew.
Nevertheless, the relief of seeing him unharmed and asleep beside her was like no other. His chest moved up and down rhythmically, and his head was slightly tilted in her direction, close enough to let her be centimetres away from his face just by turning to her side.
It took Olive a long time to leave the cosiness she was engulfed in, to go to the restaurant car. Her dry mouth was begging her to drink something, preferably water, but she would settle for anything.
The doors swung open to let her through and encounter the only person she wasn't expecting to see in clothes far from their usual ones. Piscia sat at a table, twirling a glass of wine between her fingers. She wasn't wearing any flashy clothes or a wig.
Her real hair was secured half-heartedly with a hairpin, letting some of it fall onto her shoulder. Contrary to the extravagant colours she always wore in her wigs, Piscia's hair was pure black, to the point it shimmered blue under the light.
"Oh, Olive," Piscia muttered nervously, her eyes travelling everywhere except Olive's.
"Hi," Olive said, taking a seat beside the escort. "You couldn't sleep?"
"No, dear. Lately, that's become difficult." Piscia sipped from her mug and showed Olive the water bottle beside her. "You want some? Water is important for beauty sleep."
Olive accepted with a soft laugh, drinking a glass of water before pouring more. "Thank you. By the way, I love your hair, Piscia."
The escort smiled at her. A soft smile she had never seen before. It wasn't the typical Piscia used for the Reaping, or while at the Capitol. There was no exaggeration, nor gave Olive a sense of forcefulness. It was genuine happiness.
"I was too exhausted to put my wig on," replied Piscia. "And I'm getting tired of it, too. They're heavy, you know?"
"The price of beauty," Olive recited with a playful smirk, which apparently did not work to keep the good mood.
Piscia's face fell, and her eyes stuck to her glass again. "Your price is greater than mine." Finally, she raised her eyes. "I know you don't like the surgeries, Olive. I'm not blind or deaf. So why? Why do you put up with it?"
Not caring for possible cameras lurking or eavesdropping on their conversation, Olive left the glass on the table and locked eyes with the woman. "Piscia, remember that chat we had years ago about how you would feel if they took your niece away?"
"Yes," she answered confidently.
"Imagine they did that, or worse, because you refused to continue being an escort."