"But I still wake up, I still see your ghost
Oh, I'm still not sure what I stand for..."
Signet Graymore, 19, President of Panem
It's cold here. That's all he can think of. It's easier to focus on the physical; it takes the edge off the numbness.
He hasn't slept in so long. He wouldn't want to; it feels disloyal.
The air hangs thick with the smell of baking bread and underlying fear. Kids watch each other from opposite tables, which groan beneath the weight of the food.
He used to tell his sisters stories of a candy house where children languished behind bars, fattening up for the witch. Now, he can scarcely look at the feast spread throughout the room.
There's no way to get out of it this time. He's running the dinner, as he was supposed to last year. It's just that he'd been so afraid during the Sixteenth Games, flinching from his own shadow.
(Now, he has so much more to fear. And yet, the idea of announcing the Games again makes his stomach turn.)
He lurks in the doorway for a moment, watching avoxes weave through the crowd. Someone ought to free them, but not everyone can be so lucky to join a revolt.
A revolt that doesn't exist. An uprising that can't stop the poison coursing through Sibella's veins. Guilt is sharp and acidic inside Signet's chest; he should stay with her always, like he has been, but Ava was busy and his advisors told him that it would be good to show his face.
There's no delaying it. He walks fully into the room, pulling away from the edges where he'd been hiding. As he passes by, kids fall silent. The boy from Six stops staring at the Tribute from Four's blue hair, the boy from Four stops staring at the girl from Three, and the girl from One stops studiously avoiding the Four Tribute's gaze. There's a substance to these kids' lives, a certain soulfulness that makes Signet think of his own memories, of poets and pastries and sisters who stay together.
They're all looking at him now. He makes his way to the front, focusing on the movements of his feet, and only when he's behind the podium does he dare to look up.
Twenty-four pairs of eyes—⠐⠎⠓⠪ more intimidating than any distant nation. He's not really been before them in this way, not until now, and already his neck prickles with sweat from the heat of the hundred platters. He clears his throat, to no avail.
"Hello, my friends." He ⠩⠙⠝⠄⠞ have said it that way... are they really his friends if he's sending them to die at this very moment? "I welcome you cordially to the Capitol. I've come to give you a few items of information."
He's choking on the falseness of his words, the way they feel in his mouth, sticky and sluggish like caramel jammed in his teeth. He can distinctly feel some of those eyes judging him; some aren't even looking at him anymore, doubtless tired of the Capitol's civilities.
"You all likely know ⠱⠁⠞ the Games entail. But you must understand the gravity of the situation; my hope is that I could—could prepare you for it, in a way. You... very soon, all but one of you will be dead."
To Signet, there's nothing more broken than silence. He doesn't understand why people think of it the other way around.
"It disheartens me to tell you this—" (Not enough, not enough...) "—but this is necessary punishment for what the Districts took. Before you face these challenges, we will try to make you as comfortable as possible. The Capitol will be overjoyed to meet you.
"And though many of you do not know of this tradition, we will be continuing the deliverance of letters, which you may write to anyone of your choosing, even myself." He allows a brief, fleeting smile to cross his face—this tiny act of rebellion begun by Pericles McMaster is being reborn, no matter what the advisors say. They can't override him, not in this. "We will collect them during your last night with us. Remember that your faces will be displayed for the entire country, and if the Capitol views you favorably, they may reward you."
He takes a deep breath, fighting back the countless protests collecting in his chest. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you. Enjoy your meals."
He stands there for a moment, hands stiff at his sides, then hurries to a corner table. The temptation to place his head in his hands and pour ice across his face is almost irresistible. Instead, he folds his hands and pretends to be intact. All the while, the splintering inside of him becomes unbearable.
What made him think that he could make any changes in this country without repercussions? His sister's perilous state should be enough to prove that. But it's not even the hopelessness that disturbs him the most; it's the fact that words of empty placation are becoming easier and easier.
Every time he speaks ever-so-sweetly about death and punishment, something inside of him dies just a little.
And the spark within him fades.
"Excuse me?"
Signet lifts his head, alarmed.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I deduced from the fact that you were seated in this area, rather than privately, that you would be open to conversation."
He just keeps gaping at the young woman in front of him, coming to his table at the same time that Naya Illumina encountered him last year.
Is this going to become a regular occurrence?
"My name is Sera Velasco, District Five. And you are the President."
He finally meets her eyes; light brown and brimming with curiosity. He can see the gears of her mind ticking. "Y-yes," he stutters.
"And you did say you would make us as comfortable as possible..."
"Of course... Miss, I think there's been a mix-up—"
"But you can help me." She leans forward, insistent. "Can't you?"
"I've begun improving the environment, if that's what this is—"
"No." She crosses her arms. "Nothing like that. I'm a private investigator."
Signet's heart leaps. "A detective? You?"
"I might seem young, but I'm actually quite qualified—"
"No of course, I'm only two years older than you, you realize."
"Yes." Her eyes narrow. "Will you help me?"
Now he's the one with tiny gears whirring behind his eyes. He thinks of the unknown poisoner, of his sister...
"Only if you help me in return."
"Mr. President, I have no obligation—"
"I know, but it's... well, it's an unsolved murder. Cases are your specialty, no?"
For a moment, they sit in suspended silence. Then a tiny smile spreads over Sera's face. "I will do my best. Under one condition."
She leans in close, and they have a small transaction of mysteries, shared words too quiet for the cameras to pick up. Just as he's preparing to bid her goodbye, awash with new hope, a young official comes running into the room, the door banging against the wall in his haste.
"Mr. President!" The man's voice pitches high as he hurries forward.
And the world gives way beneath him. "What is it?"
(Not again, not again...)
"Your sist—"
That's all he needs to hear, he's up and running. No matter that the Tributes cast worried looks after him; no matter that he sends a tureen spilling gravy across the tablecloth. He's in three moments at once, and all of them in a hospital room.
His sister lifts her head a fraction from the pillow. "S-signet... where—"
"I'm here," he whispers through tears. "I'm here."
(His father was a man of steel, loving as he could have been, which was not all that much.
His mother, gone before she could have left her mark, her only legacy the longing that Signet still clings to.
But this... this is different.)
"I couldn't... find you." She reaches up a weak, pale hand. He grips it in both of his own.
"I'm so sorry, Sibby... I'm here. I'm right here."
Sicily is sobbing, holding her sister's head between her hands. "Please, Sib. Please just rest," she whispers. "You can do this... it's okay, just a little longer, and you'll be better—"
(This is what happens to people who fight back. Who try to make changes.
They remain unscathed. But their loved ones are crushed.)
Sibella gives one final cry—a broken, anguished sound.
And then her head falls back against the pillow and she is gone.
Signet's passion, his hope, leaves along with her.
...
Arya Steele, 18, District Two (She/Her)
Arya was born with a taste for violence.
Her childhood may have been a bit irregular, but it's not something she's ever thought to be ashamed of. Other children of her station studied poetry and hosted little tea parties, learning social graces and pointless societal constructs. Arya stole her family's weapon prototypes—there were enough lying around—and took to sharpening her skills. Come morning, she was up and running out into the grass, taking her journey across the District at full pelt. She chased the boys away and polished her weapons to perfection. And she never once longed for more.
(Except for Thena. Thena who disrupted the neat lines of Arya's mind with her beautiful, sloppy chalk. Like some careless child... and yet.
Opposites don't coexist in Arya's mind; contradictions aren't possible. But Thena. She's the exception to everything.
She was.)
The Games dropped into Arya's hands at the perfect moment. She'd been pursuing strength and honor and brutality for ages. A part of her had even hoped for the violent nature of the Capitol's extravaganza.
While other kids scrambled for a physique that was only one year in the making, Arya cultivated her ten-year regime. And she waited.
But her first day at the Capitol has been long and lackluster. Arya's not a quitter but she doesn't mind a bit of analytical critique. The President is one of the very people she loathes, giving that empty-eyed speech without even seeming to care. He wouldn't even look her in the eye, and people like that are always lacking ambition.
Ah well. She doesn't need the President for anything; his flimsy motives are not her concern.
But the President isn't even the only problem. She's been waylaid by outer District kids and forced to wear admittedly gorgeous costumes—an angle she's willing to work with, albeit with some reluctance. And her District partner is... how to put it delicately? Ah, never mind.
He's an idiot. He'd surely kiss the feet of anyone who offered him something greater, one of those students who suck up to their masters out of mere hope for reward. And not to mention his infuriating habit of trying to speak to her.
"Are you hoping to join an alliance?"
She glances up, annoyed. He's certainly obnoxious, and of no use to her. Unless...
Oh, why not?
"You act as if I'm not going to lead one myself. I'm not one to beg for scraps."
"Of course." He smiles lazily. "Although... this is a bit awkward. I was going to lead the Careers."
"Were you?" She twirls her fork absently. "Under what credentials?"
He blinks at her. "Seriously?"
"Do I look like I'm smiling?"
"No; I just figured this was your only expression. It's rather unbecoming, by the way."
Arya narrows her eyes. "Oh, that's funny, I didn't hear you. I was thinking about how easy it is to knock someone's teeth in. How quickly a smile can be marred." She touches her glass. "How convenient that I have such weapons at my disposal."
Zean stares at her, unintimidated. "You wouldn't dare."
"By whose assessment?"
"The Capitol's. You'd be disqualified."
"What will they do, kill me?" She laughs coldly. "That's rather the point of the Games, unless you missed it."
Zean stares her down. "The Games are a championship of honor."
"And you think I don't know that?" In a blink, she's grabbed his wrist across the table, applying pressure without even blinking. "How long have you been training exactly? Perhaps a year?"
"I don't see how that's—"
"I could wield a sword before the Games even left the ground. And I'm nobody's lapdog. If you think you can—"
"Excuse me?"
Arya glances over to the seat beside her, annoyed at the interruption. She takes in the sizable group watching the small scuffle.
Oh. That's interesting.
It shouldn't cause complications, unless the cameras catch wind. This doesn't exactly favor her 'stylish and suave' look.
"I only wondered if you could pass the salt. Your arm seems to be blocking it." The boy from One, no older than thirteen, gives her a modest smile.
She glares at him, taking a surprising leaf from Zean's book. "You must be joking."
He shakes his head. "No, actually."
Beside the boy is the girl from One. She gives a graceful shrug. "You've garnered quite the audience, Steele."
Arya takes a breath. She's not used to this much social practice. Still, this One girl... she's got an air of dignity to her that Arya can appreciate.
"I suppose you have some training behind you?" she asks the girl, completely ignoring the little one.
The girl gives a half-smile. "Over ten years." (Verify later.)
Arya tilts her head, the only sign of her approval. "We have ourselves a deal, then. Assuming you're smart enough to join me."
"I'd say that being trained in two Districts marks me as more than intelligent."
"And me?" Zean looks up, and Arya can tell he's trying his best to look unbothered. But he wants an alliance. She can tell.
"We'll keep you for now." She releases his wrist, forgetting she'd been keeping it in a deathgrip. "If only as a way to accentuate our skill even further."
The girl laughs; it's a stunted sound, hesitant as the first ladybugs after a rainstorm. Of course, no one is as good as Arya. But she can humor the idea of an alliance, if only for a moment.
Small prices to pay for the glory to come. It won't matter in the end; she'll come out on top, and try not to look at the wreckage behind her.
...
Rivel Baylor, 16, District Ten (He/Him)
The glass cracks in his hand, sharp as gunfire. He gasps, opening his fist, watching the tiny trickle of blood where the glass cut his hand. It's shattered on the floor, and a young Avox with black hair comes to clean it up. He glances over and swears he catches her give him a strange look, like she's seen him before. She smiles, once and briefly, the look flitting away as soon as it had come. She looks familiar, but he can't quite place her face.
"Sorry," he whispers.
But she's already gone.
He hadn't realized he'd been clinging to the glass so tightly; now he gazes in shock at the remnants of his anger. It's an all-consuming, hungry thing inside him, the kind of anger that is blinding. The kind that sneaks up on you.
He supposes it's better than the sadness, safer than the primal fear of imagining death just around the corner. Isn't it easier, to let that numbness blot out everything else?
He can't eat. Never mind that he used to love food; there's too much nothingness inside him to allow dinner. Once they let him out, he'll run back to his room and try to muffle the aftermath of his nightmares in his pillow. He'd planned to make friends, but the very idea is far too exhausting.
The worst part is that none of this is new. His feelings are worn-out, no longer novel. His father came to say goodbye. The father who used to scream at him over the table, where tension took up all four places. The father who diligently trained Peacekeepers with military precision—trained the boy who...
Who killed Jack.
Everybody looks at him and sees her in the planes of his face. He can just feel it. The stylists do double-takes, the Tributes skirt around him. Even the Avoxes know her—they find her resemblance in his eyes. They must've heard his eldest sister screaming over the sounds of the Reaping.
Not again.
Afterward, he'd screamed at his father once more, asked him if he even cared that his daughter was gone. "You killed her," he'd cried. "You killed her! Are you even sorry? Can you even feel anything anymore?"
(Does Rivel remember how to feel anything... anything but anger?)
The only one who doesn't seem to know is his little District partner, Pandora. To her, he is only reminiscent of her cow—which is a surprisingly refreshing compliment. He's starting to wish he could be unknown. But then, wouldn't that mean the world would forget Jack?
He's starting to become selfish now, too...
He spots Pandora down the table, chatting with a servant as he sets out dessert. He has his head ducked, but that doesn't stop Pandora from eagerly recounting her favorite types of flowers. Rivel smiles distantly, trying to remember a time in his life when things had been so simple, so lovely.
He gives up after a moment. There's nothing in his past but strategy maps and unforgiving brick walls and lonely nights without a mother to comfort him. Watching as his family shattered at the joints. Came apart like a gingerbread house.
He shivers. Too much thinking for one night, for a lifetime. He cleans the blood off his hands, feeling only an echo of pain. Tomorrow, he will try to make friends. But for now, he finds himself struggling to hold space for Jack and for himself. Is he anything, really, but an extension of what's befallen him? What's wracked his family?
He looks around the room and his heart sinks as he finds a boy and a girl with Twos emblazoned on their chests. The boy is suave and eager and muscular. He looks... oh no, oh please... he looks like Him.
Before he really knows what's happening, he's out in the hall, pushing past his confused Mentor. The air out here is just as stifling, thick and crowded with fear. Rivel gazes down at the tiles, trying to engrave the pattern into his mind, banish the boy's face.
It's not even that he really looks like Tremor. It's just... there's that same friendly look in his eyes, barely veiling the steeliness beneath. That same easy swagger. And, most importantly, the same background.
Maybe this time will be different... he can't judge someone by where they're from. He's from Two, and he's not like that.
Still... it's hard to look at the boy and not want to break something more than glass. It's hard not to fear the anger lying dormant just beneath his skin.
...
Elysande St. Clair, 18, District Twelve (She/Her)
If you look close enough, live long enough, you realize that everything comes down to perspective. A sweatshop could be a fanciful blacksmith full of humble elves; a dilapidated manor could be a Victorian treasure trove. But never has Elysande found it so easy to pretend than here in the Capitol. As she wanders the halls after dinner, she slips into the persona of brave knight without a sound. Her sparkling shoes and fur coat are armor, her steps a call to action. She fancies herself a lonely watchman, fortifying the crumbling walls with the wind blowing behind her. Though watching for what, she can't really say. As long as it keeps her two little sisters and brother safe, it doesn't really matter.
How blissful, how easy it is to forget that darkness ever existed at all. There has always been the Capitol; glittering, luminescent, towering above them like some watchful godmother. The deity they pray to, the place where the tithes go. The pinnacle of everything.
What does it mean that she's here? Here, where the doctors stand ready to help the patients who deserve helping, without so much as a glance at the Districts. Here, where the rain slakes their thirst as the Districts, parched, give more and more to serve their ever-growing need. Here, where she is to die.
She's accepted it now, the death impending. As long as she performs well but never well enough, her siblings will not have to suffer the same sentence. Her parents will be defeated and then...
And then what? Will Father turn his words of hate toward the children, without Ely as target? Will Odette forget what love means, knowing only how to apologize, to step light as Ely has?
And if she were to win... would it stop them?
Would it stop him?
She feels engulfed, devoured by the Tribute Center's walls. She knows her metaphors and fantasies are stupid, ill-fitting, unproductive. But it's either the daydreams or the desperation. The mourning, the fear, would be too much to take on its own, like strong black coffee.
Ely always preferred sweet tea.
Who will work her double-shifts, care for Blanche, kiss her brother goodnight? Who will tend the light when Elysande is gone?
It's selfish, perhaps, for her to think that so much depends on her. Really, she's but a speck among the stars, and maybe...
Maybe they'll be better off.
"You look lost!"
Ely glances up. There's a little girl in front of her, chocolatey crumbs smudged over her cheeks, the skirt of her dress stained with something reddish. Perhaps spaghetti sauce, but Ely's frightened, conditioned eyes can see only blood.
The little girl grabs her hand, not ungently.
"It's okay if you are! The castle is confusing."
The castle. Ely smiles a little. "What's your name, love?"
"Pandora Roche." She lets go of Elysande and twirls. "I like your hair!"
Elysande smiles, but all she can hear are her father's words, calling her an ugly disgrace. Coal-smudged and useless.
She swallows the pain. "Thank you. I like your eyes."
"They're my mama's. She's the best mama ever. I wonder if she'll come visit me."
Elysande thinks of her own mother, cold and removed, and wonders what it must be like to feel someone's warm hand on your shoulder, their voice soft in your ear.
Castles and queens are easy to conjure, but love Ely can never imagine.
Just another sign of her weakness.
She pulls herself out of her head, feeling the stretched-out tremble of tiredness in her limbs for the first time. "Wouldn't that be lovely?" she says gently, bending to Pandora's level. "For your mama to see the Capitol? Would she like it, do you think?"
"She'd like the cake! I haven't had cake since my eighth birthday." She grins. "But I make lots of mud pies for my piglet. I can't eat them, but they're still pies. So it's not as bad, knowing that."
"Of course." Ely's heart twinged. This is the girl with the golden grin, the dancing eyes, who will see the end of her life before the full moon rises? "I'm sure your piglet is very grateful."
"She is!" She smiles and hugs herself. "But I miss her."
"Yes." Elysande's voice drops. "But perhaps you can pretend she's here. Do you like pretending?"
(The best kind of forgetting.)
"Yes yes!" Pandora grabs Ely's hand again, with excitement this time.
"Lovely. Then we'll pretend everyone is just arriving, all your friends and mine—" (Not that she has any...) "—and we'll imagine they're coming to tuck us in."
Pandora sighs and her face grows wistful. Then she blinks up at Elysande. "But you're all the way grown up."
Ely laughs. "That I am! But even grown-ups need to pretend sometimes."
Pandora seems even more confused. "Why? Can't they just have whatever they want?"
"Not always, darling." She stands, the ache in her heart growing stronger. "Not always."
"I think I understand." Pandora's face scrunches into a pout. "My father isn't happy."
"Neither is mine."
They stand like that, in solidarity and silence, and then Ely remembers. Because even the strongest spell can't make you forget for very long.
She remembers that, in many ways, this girl is her enemy. She remembers that her father wanted her to be strong. To make fruitful allies or else she'd ruin her family. Was that what she wanted, to make them suffer? To cause them pain?
Blinking rapidly, Ely pats little Pandora on the head. "I think that's enough pretending for now," she whispers.
"Wait!" Pandora clings to her skirt, but Ely shakes her off easily and makes her way through the castle walls that have become barbed with sharp corners and monsters peeking through the cracks.
She's too blue to co-pretend anymore.
...
Some Nights- Fun.
Long time no see my friends! It's good to be back; I had a little writer's block moment which consisted of angsty poetry and slice-of-life fanfic LOL But we are back! I hope you enjoyed hearing from our dear Signet, Arya, Rivel, and Elysande. This chapter was a bit more solemn than I'd expected and honestly was very hard to write for me but hopefully we've gotten through the rough patch! How have you guys been? Thank you so much for your patience and support; I love you all! See you soon for Training Day One with Malibu, Sera, Donna, and Concorde!
Love,
Miri