"I promise you I did believe
That we would last like evergreens
Growing tall despite the cold
Planted in each other's souls
Oh, I'm sorry, Adeline
I'm sorry 'til the day I die."
Avarette "Ava" de la Lune, 29, Head Gamemaker
She skips the parade. Not because she doesn't enjoy it; in fact, it's one of the only occasions where she doesn't have to do anything. Ava from a few years ago would have luxuriated in the brief respite. Now, she's grateful for the few extra hours she has to work.
What has she turned into?
For so long, the Games were an afterthought. No one saw them, so why would it matter if the Arena was shabby or shining, the buildings pristine or peeling? Usually they found a forest in Nine, where the villagers would complain of shrieks but chalk it up to folklore.
Now, both folklore and frivolity are things of the past. Ava has to be, of all things, serious. Dedicated. Overworked!
And worst of all, inattentive to her baby girl.
"Mama!"
"One second, mi cielito! Mama's busy..."
They don't gossip about Ava now. They're too scared of her. That should make her deliriously happy. Instead, she hunches over her computer and sculpts the time into something usable, stretches hours into days until they're all she can think of. She has become an artist, for Panem's sake! An artist of time...
And, like her dear Chalet, she's becoming a bit loopy. Sleep isn't something she really does anymore.
"Mama! What doing?"
"I'm working."
(She used to be young. Not so long ago, the days were as easily spent as worn pennies, and time felt like an endless thing.)
"What?" Stelle is old enough to walk but not quite ready for complete sentences. Still, questions are her favorite pastime.
"I'm designing a land," she says gently. "Like the magical places in stories."
"Really?!" Stelle hops up onto her lap, curls bouncing. "You fairy?"
The fairy of death... that's what she is.
"Kind of, mija." She laughs gently. "Why don't you go see Nanny Bri?"
(She never used to trust the nannies.)
"No! Only Mama." She snuggles close to Ava's chest, blocking the screen. Ava blinks, trying to bring herself back to the real world.
How did she get so serious? She rubs her baby's hair, making her giggle, but Ava feels anything but joyful.
"I'm sorry, babygirl..." She wraps Stelle tight, feeling suddenly like she's woken up from a trance. "I'm so sorry."
When Ava was young, a boy broke her heart. Really, it's a silly story, garden-variety. Far too basic for Ava's refined tastes... She should've been above it, and there's nothing to be done now—
Besides, he left her with Stelle, her world.
And he's gone now.
She has to work, it has to be perfect...
What if Stelle was chosen for these very Games? What then? Would she be color-coding the children's names and smiling gleefully at their backgrounds? Would she do anything to stop it?
Stelle's too young to understand, but soon she'll have questions. Questions Ava won't know how to answer, because she doesn't know the answers herself.
"Mama?"
She can't stop now. She might've once been able to, but she needs the money, and Stelle, Stelle—
Sometimes you need to make sacrifices for the ones you love. Even if that means distancing yourself from them.
Ava picked herself up after he left, pressing against the tattered remains of her heart and trying to staunch the flow of regret. Stelle, with her vulnerable cries and her golden-edged smile, a child just like the ones she sends to their deaths every year...
But it's not her, is it? She's the weapon, she's the handle, but objects must be wielded. It is their owners who are blamed for their crimes, not the blades for their craftsmanship.
And as long as Ava hones her edges to the sharpest caliber and keeps spinning straw into gold for the Capitol, nothing bad will ever happen. And she can feel blameless, because she can always remember that this is for her Stelle, her star.
If only the words didn't ring so false, like the first bell that signals the Games every year. If only the words were enough to ward off the guilt.
Someday, she will have to explain to her baby. Someday, she will have to give more and more until there's no stone of corruption left unturned, no limit to the violence.
But Avarette de la Lune has always been a master diplomat. She can manipulate herself into forgetting what it feels like to watch a child die, and she can harbor these paper-thin illusions and she can keep working. She can do it until it kills her.
It's the only way.
...
Sammy Kalakari, 18, District Four (He/Him)
The Capitol is so awash with color that it aches to look at. And yet Sammy cannot tear his eyes away from the mother-of-pearl tiles and the tangerine skies and the lurid signs... swathes of violet and daffodil and other colors he can only hope to name. And it's all spread out before him. Almost as if it's been waiting. Calling.
He tries to look away, but he is suddenly drowning in it all—the lack of color in the Kalakari manor was stifling. How could he have ever lived off the monochrome tones and faded grays? Did he ever call that enough?
But no, this is wrong, all wrong. Once, Sammy had admired a butterfly for its jewel-tone wings. And Tayna Waterloo, mayor of Four's metropolis, turned him away like he'd committed a sin.
The next day, they'd ordered all flowers removed from the manor's premises.
Now, he finds himself paralyzed by the scope of the beauty around him, unable to comprehend it. Unable to allow himself such indulgence.
"Hey!" His District partner touches his shoulder, surprising him. "Doing alright? You look a little green."
Their hand is warm, and Sammy cannot remember the last time someone gave him such a friendly gesture. He curled up in his room for the entire train ride, afraid to look out the window—now he feels his father's voice nagging him. It's time to face the music. What kind of coward runs away from colors?
Malibu is spectacular, in that aesthetic way that sunsets are. Their eyes sparkle with humor and sympathy, and—
"Your hair!" Sammy blurts before he can stop himself. He quickly covers his mouth, blushing.
Their hair is the most alarming color of turquoise, dark brown at the roots but blooming into the blindingly bright color like a fireworks display.
(Or perhaps it's just bright to Sammy. He hasn't seen a fireworks show since the business trip with his aunt and uncle in Eight. The trip with Donna.
The trip where he lost and loved and became someone else. Or no one—he doesn't know.)
"Something wrong with it?" Malibu's eyes glint with challenge.
The other kids are slowly filing into the waiting room with its stained-glass windows that overlook the city. Sammy blinks, trying to slip his persona back on. The boy who is so careful with his words, so nicely arrayed. The boy whose head is hollow and vacant because he's said "good day" so many times that the words have lost their meaning.
"No," he says quickly, as Malibu watches him. "Not at all, it's just..."
There's a girl in the crowd. A girl standing next to a grubby-looking little boy who is bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Sammy sways, accidentally falling against Malibu. "Whoa!" They give him an appraising stare. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were seasick. Or did you have too much to drink?"
"Who is that girl?" he says breathlessly, pointing her out among the sea of color.
"I don't know, but I think she's the one who..." Malibu's gaze flits away, zeroing in on a stately-looking young woman, standing slightly apart from a younger boy. "Be right back!"
And with that, Malibu bolts across the room, leaving Sammy to stare.
"Donna," he whispers.
She looks older, warier—if that's even possible. And so angry, like a storm fast brewing. Sammy always liked that Donna showed every feeling on her face. Afterwards, when his parents weren't looking, he'd practice his smile in the mirror—his real smile. Just so he could remember what it was like to be by her side.
Kids jostle against him as he stumbles through the crowd, losing all semblance of decorum. "Donna!"
Her name is enough to invoke memories. He used to take her hand and dance in circles until they got dizzy. He used to tell her about his parents, how they took everything beautiful from their walls.
Her eyes would ignite like twin flames and Sammy could see it like the glare of the midday sun. Such rage on his behalf.
(Why would she tell him that his parents didn't love him? They're doing everything right. They want what's best for him. Wishing for more is the worst kind of ,trayal to everything they've done for him.
But would good parents barter their children away like tithes in hopes of staying in the Capitol's good graces?)
Before Sammy can reach Donna—though what he planned to do, he can't say—a group of stylists swoop in.
"Get in order of Districts. We'll start taking you back."
Sammy stands again beside Malibu, who has a dreamy sort of glaze over their eyes as they watch the girl—from One, he now realizes. Sammy wants to ask but can't quite figure out how.
(His parents used to tell him not to ask stupid questions.)
The stylists begin taking them away, and Sammy concentrates very hard on anything but Donna. Donna and her rare smile. Donna and her firm grip when she used to squeeze his hand... dazzling, devastating Donna.
They take her away soon enough, and Sammy closes his eyes and wills his mind to empty. But soon enough, he can no longer ignore her shouts.
"You can't! You can't take it, it's mine and you've already taken so much... aren't you satisfied? Isn't it enough that you took my life?"
He knows her voice like the rhythm of the waves. The other kids rustle; some laugh. Without a word, Sammy breaks from the line and rushes toward the door, still ajar.
"What is the meaning of this?" He opens the door and strides through the room.
One of the stylist's assistants looks up, outraged. "You've no right to—oh. My apologies, sir."
His father owns the ports and his mother owns everything else. They know him. But Sammy can't care less; he's looking at Donna, wearing the dress.
The one he bought her.
It's not fancy, not by a long shot. The gentle-faced stylist is speaking to her soothingly, but she's thrashing in his grip.
"You spindly little punk," she snaps. "I could take you, easy."
Sammy doesn't miss Chalet's small smile, the one he tries to hide.
"Let her keep it." Sammy's own voice, echoing against the walls, frightens him. "I don't see why not."
Donna looks up, and Sammy can see her swallowing back a curse. She grits her teeth. "What are you doing here?"
"I was planning on that, anyway." Chalet smiles even wider—Sammy feels a prick of jealousy for all that get to smile without reserve. "But thank you for the suggestion."
"I don't need your help!" Donna is still with shock in the loose circle of Chalet's grip.
Sammy can't think of a single thing to say. He ducks his head. Turns away—fear is bright and sharp inside him.
Donna's voice gentles, just slightly, or maybe it becomes brittle like fallen leaves. "Wait—don't you have something to say?"
Sammy smiles sadly. He missed that fierce tongue. If Donna's voice was a color, it'd be the healthy green of a snake's skin.
Still, his parents always speak truth—he's always been a coward.
And so he leaves Donna behind a second time, knowing it can only be what's best.
...
Nylon Singh, 17, District Eight (He/Him)
It's warmer beneath the sun in the Capitol than he'd expected. Perhaps because of the factory's chill and the smog and the spent matches they used to cling to for any kind of sustenance; but here, he's not shivering. Here, the light is easy and plentiful.
And it's all he can think of, the sun on his skin. Because the deepest part of himself has already succumbed to hopelessness.
His mother told him that nothing could separate them. And nothing has—not his father's death, not the hunger, not the fact that his mother has worked three jobs for nearly two decades. They survived the rebellion and the starvation, the pain and the drudgery...
But now he's proving his mother wrong. She can't find him here. They don't have a television, and the public one is staticky enough to turn anything illegible. She won't be able to trace him, not anymore.
He will never forget the tears in her eyes as he held her and told her he would come home again. There comes a point where all children must grow up; for Nylon, he cannot remember a time before. His mother worked from dawn to dusk each day since he was born, leaving him to stumble upon the newness—and harshness—of life. But early on, Nylon knew one thing.
He would be nothing without his mother. And he would do anything in his power to keep her safe.
There will be one less mouth to feed, at least. Perhaps his mother will be better off without Nylon to deepen those wrinkles around her eyes. But she loves him, as difficult as that is to fathom. He shivers, despite the sunshine.
Will this break her? He'd never forgive himself if—
"Excuse me."
The girl standing next to him on the chariot flips her glossy sheet of black hair, smacking his face in the process. He looks up, vaguely disgruntled.
"You're blocking their view."
Nylon frowns at her. "Aren't I part of... never mind. Where would you like me to go, princess?"
He'd much prefer not speaking to her, but something tells him she won't stop nagging her until he does his district partner's bidding.
"Just... Uggh." She pushes him sideways and he complies with much reluctance. "There. Now they'll be able to see me."
"Terrific."
It's bad enough that the stylist poked and prodded him for close to an hour, getting all that 'dirty District upbringing' out of him. It's clear that the stylist over the first four Districts is much more experienced, and treats his Tributes kinder, too—just another way for the Capitol to show that the outer Districts will always deserve less.
Now he's wearing something like the designer outfits he used to make, only much more exaggerated. The irony isn't lost on him; his mother always says he's destined for greater. Now he parades garishly toward his death.
And all the while, little girls are chastising him for simply standing there.
A long time ago, he felt prepared for the Reapings, as if it'd be easy to walk up there and barter a few weeks to the Capitol in exchange for some storied prize. But last year, everything changed.
Watching the Games felt like some kind of reoccuring dream; to wake up, drowning in the blankets, grateful that it's over... only to realize that it never ends, not really. Not if the Capitol has anything to say about it.
The Games come back time and again and there's no way to evade them.
Nylon knows that now. Even if he used to think it was merely something that happened to other people. Not him, never him.
That's what they all say, right? The rebels and the factory workers who get beaten for little more than whistling. The urchins who get picked up because they can't sleep on the streets, but there's nowhere else for them to go. So they become forgotten, lost in it all, and no one says a thing. What could be done about it, anyway?
But he always managed to avoid it. It was him and his mother against the world, and they were winning.
Why, then, does the sun feel so glaring, the outfits so grating? Because, in a way, he's still winning, isn't he? There's food and clothes and connections for him now. There's a chance.
But why should it matter when, somewhere, his mother is crying herself to sleep?
The Capitol cheers for the procession of children they will never see again. Nylon watches the Sevens with holly in their hair and streams of false, glittering vines, which will likely become the Capitol's next holiday decoration. The Sixes, dressed in pitch—black like the Victor before them. The Nines in their swaying grass skirts and the Fours, both looking vastly uncomfortable and affronted in their dolphin costumes.
Why should any of it matter? How could one call this a victory if the glamor is enough to make Nylon's eyes ache, like his teeth did after too much sugar on the train? All of it is poisonous and corrosive.
But no one seems to know or care. They all go on laughing and revelling and cheering like it's some kind of game—
He lets out a bitter laugh, one that earns a look from Princess Girl. Of course it's a game. This isn't some big revelation. Nobody else is surprised by it, so there's no reason for him to be, either.
That settles it. He'll learn all he can in training and he'll fight to go home and he won't talk to a soul. As long as nobody speaks to him—as long as he doesn't have to kill someone—things will go off without a hitch.
But Nylon is not stupid. He hates talking to people. The idea of murder is as repulsive to him as any monster. And yet, he knows that something has to give.
His mother has given and given for the sake of his life. She has worked herself ragged for his well-being.
It's time he gave a little himself. And if he must reduce himself to do-still to keep her well, he will grit his teeth and carry on. And his mother will smile and hold him close and tell him that they finally made it.
"I'm here, Mama. Like you always wanted. And someday, you will be too."
...
Flint Kayode, 18, District Twelve (He/Him)
It's amazing how quickly one can adapt to almost anything. Flint knows this very well, having scraped together the ashes of his previous life in the Merchant's Quarter, lived in riches and rock-bottom and everything in between. He's lucky. Some people never see the sky beyond their poverty.
But it scares him, almost, how easy it is to adapt to the Capitol. He listens to the stylist fuss over the calluses on his hands, the ones he's earned from many a thrown punch and his fair share of work. Her hands are marble-smooth, he notices, and part of him wonders if she truly doesn't understand the idea of poverty. She suffers from her own kind of ignorance, and Flint knows it's not the individuals here that cause problems—it's the system itself.
Still, it's awfully strange to think that he could be miles from Rufus. Rufus, who built an empire from a thousand lies. Rufus, who pulled the threads of Hanoch and Flint's hearts until they were frayed.
Rufus, who'd offered to adopt Flint and bring him here. Flint still relives that moment, wondering if he'd ever considered leaving it all behind, if even for an instant. Does that make him a monster, too?
He can't fathom it, this idea that misfortune can live in the same house as joy. Perhaps it has always been Flint's best trick, his easiest default—to be optimistic, to find the bright side. He's made friends with his mentor Yomi, who is an utter delight, though he only met her for a few minutes. He's politely declined the very charismatic Eleven Tribute after they tried to sell him her shoe—he has to give her credit for spunk. And he's tried, and mostly failed, to make conversation with the beautiful and elegant Elysande St. Clair.
Evidently, she's from one of the richest and oldest families in Twelve. He knows how that feels—having money and always wondering when he'll lose it. Trying to get comfortable and wondering when the house will collapse.
Since when has he dwelt on such awful things? He's Flint Kayode, for Panem's sake. Sadness is a poison easily avoided for him—he can cure almost anything with laughter.
(He can't think of those things, like losing and being lost. It's not productive; it's not right.)
"Get out of my way."
Flint jerks his head up, knocking the stylist's hands away as she tries to fix his hair. "Sorry," he says quickly, but he's distracted by the small scuffle up ahead.
The girl from Two appears to be berating a younger boy from One, who has evidently run into her. His outfit seems very cumbersome to Flint, his arms weighed down with jewels. He was carrying a bouquet of gems, each flower delicately crafted from shiny stones ranging from violet to rose-red. The bouquet has now tumbled to the floor, spilling its gem-petals every which way. The One boy is kneeling, helplessly attempting to collect the scattered prop.
"Sorry!" His soft voice carries with anxiety.
"Watch where you're going." The Two girl scowls down at him, and Flint feels indignation flare up inside him.
Heedless of the calls from his stylist, he jogs across the Remake Center, intent on intervening. The boy looks as if he's about to cry.
"There's a lotta space in this room." Flint gives Two a polite smile, but his fists are rock-solid at his sides. "Why don't you find somewhere else to hold court?"
The girl gapes at him, outraged, but the head stylist passes in that instant.
He smiles serenely at both of them. "Is there a problem here?"
"Is there?" Flint smiles at Two. "Tell him."
Flint watches her assess her reputation against a small conflict, feeling the barest trace of guilt. It's not her fault she was raised with the notion that anyone beneath her was simply an object to be trampled, a stepladder for her progress.
But that doesn't pardon her actions.
She glares at Flint, but he doesn't blink in the face of her anger. Finally, she breaks his gaze and stares at Chalet. "No problem. I was just leaving."
Chalet smiles at the younger boy, still on the floor with his mouth agape. "Don't worry. I have extras."
He bustles away, leaving them alone. Flint smiles down at the boy, kneeling in front of him. "What's your name?"
The boy hesitates, then looks up at Flint. "Asphodel. But you can call me Del, if that's easier."
"Del." Flint turns the name over. "Nice to meet you. I'm Flint. Just Flint, no fancy three syllables."
Del laughs, his eyes sparkling with sudden joy. "That's okay. I like your name better than mine."
"Aww, you're too kind!" Flint extends his hand, and Del takes it hesitantly, allowing Flint to pull him to his feet. He sways for a moment, and Flint takes in his thin, underfed figure. "You okay?"
"Of course." Del smiles. "Just the travel."
Flint can relate. "I got a little nauseous myself. Isn't every day you get to ride on a Capitol train."
Del smiles. "Exactly."
Flint keeps his hand on Asphodel's shoulder, just in case. "Hey, I was wondering... would you like to be friends?"
Del's face lights up. "Really?"
"'Course! You're not gonna join those Careers, are you?"
Del glances over to where they've started congregating, already talking conspiratorially. "I guess not."
"You're with me, then." Flint smiles, patting Del protectively on the shoulder.
"I... I can't give you anything for saving me. I'm sorry—"
"Hey..." Flint crouches a little so he can be level with Del. "There's no debt. Just regular human decency."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure. But there's no need to thank me. I'm lucky to have someone like you on my side."
Sometimes, it's where you least expect it that you find something wonderful. Flint has always known that community is stronger than almost anything else. Voices as one can bring down even the oldest of regimes.
And now he's found a voice, no matter how soft, to join his cause. A boy from One who bears scars Flint never expected to find in the most privileged District.
He's learned that everything has a double side. Hidden tragedy is just as common as hidden opportunity. But Flint has always been one to lean toward the light, find solace in the brighter side of life. And just because a few bigots have decided to capitalize on children's lives, that doesn't mean the light dims. It just makes it harder to find. And since Flint has already found two friends, with four more days and twenty more Tributes to meet, he'd say that his odds are pretty high. You could even call it silver lining.
And Flint has learned not to trust the fleeting glint of silver in the corner of his eye, ever since Rufus and his determination to mine an ore of silver, which ended in nothing but a plume of coal dust.
Still, this hope is made to last. And Flint is determined to soak up every last ounce of joy he can get.
He'll need it for the days ahead, and the battle he's bound to win.
...
Sweet Adeline Pt. 2 - Avriel and the Sequoias
Helloooo my friends! Happy March to one and all, I have nothing to say as usual haha! I hope you enjoyed these parades! Next chapter is the Night of Parades with Linnet, Arya, Elysande and Rivel. Thank you guys again from the bottom of my heart for reading and being generally amazing! Let me know something that's happened in your life lately, if you so desire! Have a beautiful day,
Miri