The metal elevator doors silently open to reveal the District 12 apartments. Cheyanne had expected luxury during her stay in the Capitol, but her breath vanishes from her chest as she steps into the entryway and surveys her surroundings. The open space before her transitions seamlessly from the elevator to dining room to sitting room, each place as grandiose as the next. She takes in the walnut dining room table where carvings of leaves and flowers entwine up the legs. Polished golden candlesticks hold handmade beeswax candles. A crystal chandelier hangs above, light twinkling in the beads of glass. Marble busts set into the wall add an air of importance, or perhaps it is the golden accents that trim these alcoves. Her eyes trail to the next room over where pristine leather couches accented with shining black beads all face the largest television screen she has ever seen.
"This," says the escort, his arms raised and palms upward, "is where you will spend the greatest week of your life."
Cheyanne lets out her breath and turns to the man. Klaudia is an elegant individual who had looked out of place on the train but now Cheyanne cannot imagine him any other way; perhaps he designed his wardrobe to complement this very apartment with his high collar, ruffled lace, and glittering bronze buttons. His cheeks are tinged red and he looks as though he is permanently blushing even when he flashes the tributes a smile, and his golden eyeshadow near perfectly matches the accents on the walls. He is young—early 20s perhaps—and very new to the escorting process since this is only his second year; he looks far younger in person than he did on television.
By her side, Jones scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor as though testing to see if the marble tiles would peel away to reveal concrete. She watches his boot move across the ground for a moment before she turns back to Klaudia.
"This is amazing," she says, and he gives her a small bow.
"Anything for our honored guests. And especially our very first volunteer." He winks at her.
Jones snorts but Klaudia doesn't notice. Instead he waves the tributes down a hallway, and they follow. It isn't nearly so opulent here despite the miniature chandeliers that punctuate the roof every few paces; the architects and designers must have reserved the best of their work for the places where people would congregate. Yet when Klaudia opens one door and tells her that this is where she will be staying, she sees that the luxury is not confined to the communal areas.
Her bedroom is simple: a single king-sized bed, a wardrobe, and a writing desk. However the little touches of home—or how the Capitol believes District 12 to be—add character. Framed photos of forests that slowly shift to different views as she passes, candles decorated with pine and gold ribbon and little rocks painted black like coal, golden accents on the bed frame that curl around small white gemstones, doorknobs a mixture of metal and crystal, and a stack of the softest blankets she's felt folded neatly on the foot of the bed.
The door on the far wall leads to a bathroom with a shower large enough to fit everyone in this apartment, a massive stone bathtub, a bowl-like sink resting upon the counter, and a toilet with a set of buttons to adjust the porcelain's temperature to the user's preference. Yet it isn't the presence or absence of any feature that catches Cheyanne's attention but how it all comes together: rich and elegant designs threaded to create a continuous transition from one part of the room to another. From the marble steps leading to the bathtub to the overhead lights in the bedroom, everything had been chosen and paired with care.
If the tributes were going to die, they'd at least get a bit of luxury along with it, and Cheyanne can't agree more. It must've been miserable back in the day when the tributes were kept in cells and confined to small, dingy areas.
After the tour, she bids the others goodbye and closes herself into her bedroom. Now alone, she tries not to think of the parade and the horrible outfit she now strips off her body as she adjusts the temperature within the shower. That mess of a show was only the beginning of her journey, and she sure as hell isn't going to let the rest of her time here suck as much as the parade had.
.※.
It is the 77th year of the Hunger Games, and in the time since it's inception there have only been two victors from District 12: the first had won around the 20th year, and the second had won the 52nd year. Unfortunately the victor who won many years ago was out of commission, which left both Cheyanne and Jones to be mentored by Virginia Flyash of the 52nd Hunger Games.
"Alright, Jones, I'm going to work with you first," Virginia says to the boy as the avoxes whisk away their dinner plates. She nods down the hall towards the mentoring rooms.
Cheyanne's insides pinch as she watches Jones stand to his feet, but she only gives their mentor a polite smile as the woman assures her that she'll be back for her in half an hour.
The avoxes clear the table, and Cheyanne takes that as her cue to move. She stands up, tucks her chair into place, and folds her soiled napkin, which she then sets on the empty mat where she had been eating. Then she makes her way to the sitting room and lowers herself onto the leather couch.
A grandfather clock on the far wall ticks down the minutes and Cheyanne absorbs every little detail within this room. The floor-to-ceiling windows displaying the city streets, shimmering lace curtains tucked behind more substantial velvet drapes, a rug so soft that she can't help leaning forward to sink her fingers into the delicate fibers. On the coffee table in front of her, she finds magazines. The glossy, brightly colored volumes of Sincere and Capitol Life and Current Gossip had been placed with care on the glass tabletop, fanned out to display the various celebrities artfully photographed on the cover of each one.
Cheyanne picks up a copy of Capitol Life and leafs through the pages. She admires the many dresses (If the Capitol has all this talent, why couldn't I have gotten a dress like this for the tribute parade?) and soaks in the strange and sometimes absurd advertisements for skin care products, hair accessories, and beauty salons. The Capitolites don't know how lucky they have it. She thinks of her faded hand-me-down dresses that she flaunted with pride back home and how she dreamed of glitter and jewels instead of second-hand lace and the occasional rhinestone button.
"Miss Hart?" Virginia's weary voice calls out as Cheyanne finishes flipping through Sincere. "Your turn."
"Yes, ma'am," Cheyanne replies before she sets the magazine back on the table and walks to the hall. In their tour, Klaudia had shown them two rooms for mentors and tributes—one for her and one for Jones—but she realizes by the musty odor of the room where Virginia now leads her that the victor didn't bother switching between them.
Virginia motions to a couch, and Cheyanne tries to pretend that the pre-warmed cushions don't make her skin crawl. She can smell Jones' lingering sweat strong in her nostrils, but she sits up straight, crosses her ankles, and sets her hands daintily on her knees.
"So, a volunteer," Virginia prods, and she reaches over for a mug on the end table. It looks like coffee, but Cheyanne's aware that mentors drink and she doesn't doubt that there's more to the mug than it appears.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"
"I know Grace, the girl who was reaped," she explains. "She's one of the community home kids."
Virginia tilts the mug to her lips and sips. She lowers the cup and cradles it in her hands. "And you just . . . volunteered for her?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Virginia quietly takes this in. Cheyanne maintains her composure but her chest tingles as the woman's eyes pick her apart, starting with the round, delicate face and the blond curls, and trailing towards her slightly toned arms and torso and stomach. Cheyanne feels like she's on display, or worse, and she's acutely aware of the bright red zit on her chin that popped up after all those makeover treatments and how her nose isn't quite symmetrical (though it isn't a bad nose at all). Yet she holds herself still and lets the victor size her up.
"You understand that this is a very precarious situation, don't you?" Virginia says carefully, and Cheyanne can feel that she's still being sized up, but not physically.
It's only been a couple years since the Capitol quashed the uprisings, and although many things had supposedly changed to benefit the district residents since then, life in District 12 was pretty much the same as it had always been. Life was monotonous and that would always remain the same. Still, she couldn't ignore that her actions might be taken the wrong way.
"I'm not doing anything rebellious," she says to her mentor. "I really did want to save that girl."
"Uh huh," Virginia dismisses. She sits quietly for a moment as she contemplates her tribute. At first it appears that she's said her words and today's meeting will soon end, but instead she clears her throat and tightens her grip on her mug. "You know you've put a mark on your back, and I don't just mean for the other tributes."
Cheyanne doesn't respond to this as she maintains eye contact with her mentor. Now's not the time, but she can't help but notice how desperately the woman's eyebrows need to be plucked.
"The gamemakers don't want an outlier volunteer regardless of cause," Virginia continues in Cheyanne's silence. "You're really going to have to do something amazing to convince them that they shouldn't splatter you across the ground with the first gamemaker event in the arena."
Cheyanne's chest burns. She sits up straight and squares her shoulders.
"I will be fine," she states. And she will be. The gamemakers will like her—they must like her—and she will go home victorious. But she holds back her words as she reads the skepticism clearly planted in Virginia's expression.
"You get points for confidence," Virginia snorts. She sets her mug back onto the coffee table. "Alright, fine. You're either delusional or stupid, and I'm not sure what's worse at this point. But on the off chance that you have some great trick up your sleeve, I'll humor you. We don't have time tonight to get into anything else, but we'll pick this conversation back up after training tomorrow."
Without giving Cheyanne a chance to respond, Virginia pushes herself to her feet and heads to the door. Cheyanne sits quietly as the door swings shut behind the victor, leaving her alone in the stuffy room with her hands clasped together on her knees.
Nobody's going to buy it that she volunteered for a girl because the kid was cute and innocent.
But what else would she say?
.※.
The next morning in the training room, Cheyanne watches the other tributes with a careful eye. If what Virginia said is true, she's going to have to maneuver with great caution in order to avoid being a target. She glances up towards the large glass box where a dozen gamemakers peer down at the assembled group of teenagers and allows herself to scan through them for a brief moment before turning her attention back to her tasks.
As the morning progresses, Cheyanne watches the interactions between tributes, most notably that between the Careers and non-Careers. She stays away as the Careers push around younger and more vulnerable tributes, and when the pack of bullies disappear to find fresher prey, she watches what they leave behind.
Which, more often than not, is a trembling tribute choking on tears they barely manage to suppress, if they suppress at all. Cheyanne sizes them up in a manner perhaps not all that different from the way the Careers do, but it allows her to observe how the tributes handle themselves after such a catastrophic interaction.
The District 9 boy collapses behind a fake tree, sobbing.
The District 10 girl scoffs at them and puffs up her chest before walking towards the shelter-building station, but her lips tremble and she can't quite figure out how to assemble the shelter she's working on because she keeps dropping stuff.
The District 8 girl wipes tears from her cheeks and shuffles away amidst the hoots and jeers of the District 1 pair.
Jones, her own district partner, looks like he's going to throw up as he staggers away from the Careers, but when he meets Cheyanne's eyes, he skitters off in a different direction.
It's pathetic and sad, and anyone with half a heart would realize that.
But ultimately it's the District 5 girl, Iris, who catches Cheyanne's attention. Twelve years old with delicate features and large, puppy dog eyes, the girl cringes as the District 4 tributes berate her for being the youngest of all the tributes. She, unlike the District 5 boy, doesn't pee herself after the encounter. So once the Careers leave, Cheyanne digs up a tissue out of her pocket and beckons the girl to join her at the fire-building station.
"I can't believe they'd call my mom that," Iris huffs as she takes the tissue from Cheyanne and dabs her eyes. "I don't even have a mom."
Cheyanne smiles at that. "They're heartless and insecure," she assures the girl. "I'd say to ignore them, but we both know that won't do any good."
Iris nods and balls up the tissue in her fist. "Yeah. Turns out the I'm-rubber-you're-glue mentality doesn't work here."
"You seem pretty smart for a twelve year old," Cheyanne comments as they sit down with a pile of sticks between them. She crosses her legs and adjusts her shirt around her waist. It's strange to wear form-fitting pants and shirts when she had been so used to dresses back home, and she finds herself constantly adjusting the hems and waistbands when they slide out of place.
Iris picks up a small branch and digs her nails into the bark.
"I'm twelve, not a baby," she replies tersely.
"They did put you in a pretty babyish costume at the parade," Cheyanne agrees. "Which was totally unfair."
"Yeah, tell me about it," says the girl with an eye-roll.
Cheyanne pauses and thinks it over for a moment. Of course Iris is young and inexperienced, and she's not going to bring a whole lot to the alliance in terms of useful skills—at least nothing physical, judging by her size—but the cameras liked her, and everybody has been gushing over how cute she is. At least that's what they've been showing on television. Iris, at twelve, is the youngest tribute by two years, and she has already generated a bit of publicity. Do those people actually believe she can win? Certainly not. It's an interesting situation, to say the least, how the Capitolites view tributes. They pretend to care, but their interest is superficial.
"Would you like to ally together?" Cheyanne asks.
Iris' eyes light up. "You mean it?"
"Yeah, of course."
Cheyanne smiles and reaches out a hand. Iris takes it, and the girl grins broadly as they shake.
.※.
Two people in an alliance are good, but three is better. Cheyanne and Iris search for the third member of their team, and they strike gold when they watch the Careers heckle the District 6 boy.
The District 6 male brushes off the Careers and leaves the shelter-building station to try out the camouflage station. The Careers follow him and won't let him be, but rather than cower away from them or slink off to yet another station in the hopes that they won't pursue him, he starts pointing out different things about the camouflage as though teaching the Careers how it all works. The Careers tell him to use the camouflage to hide the burn scar on the side of his face because it's ugly, but he doesn't respond to their bullying. Soon the Careers grow bored of District 6's lectures and they leave, and District 6 lets out a sigh of relief.
Cheyanne nudges Iris and nods in the boy's direction.
He sees them, and he watches the two of them approach.
"Let me guess, you want an alliance?" he asks as he digs his fingers into thick green paint. He's handsome despite the scarring on the right side of his face, with medium brown skin, high cheekbones, and bright brown eyes that now turn to her; Cheyanne silently chides herself for getting distracted. That's not why she chose him.
"We're going to need it with those bullies roaming the arena," Cheyanne says with a gesture towards the Careers who have decided to amuse themselves by pushing the District 11 girl out of the plant-identification station.
The boy nods and watches the Careers for a moment. Then he turns back to Cheyanne, wipes his fingers on his pant leg, and sticks out his hand stained green.
"Lind."
"Cheyanne. And this is Iris."
Lind drops his hand away and gives Iris a nod.
"So what's the plan?"
.※.
Life in Districts 5 and 6 is very different from that in District 12, Cheyanne comes to find out. Their populace isn't relegated to the mines, for starters. And also, they have places to explore.
"There's a lot of abandoned urban development," Lind says casually as they try to tie together snares in the knots-and-snares station. His fingers weave together the knots, but he frowns at the mess he's made and starts to undo it as he continues, "Sometimes we like to go out and explore."
"We?" Iris asks.
"My brothers and me," he answers with a shrug. "I have two older brothers and an older sister."
"Your sister doesn't go?" the little girl follows up.
"Nah, she works in an automotive plant and says she sees enough hazards."
"I have a little sister," Iris now shares. "She's eight. She's alright, though always tags along with me."
The two of them chat for a couple minutes about their siblings: Lind gets pushed around a lot by his brothers but they also keep a close eye on him to ensure he is never hurt or left behind, and Iris tells a story about when her sister slipped away from the nanny and followed Iris to school one day. Both of them grin a little when they reminisce, and Cheyanne twists the rope between her hands.
"What about you?" Iris asks her.
Cheyanne feels the fibers dig into her palms. "Oh, I have two younger sisters. Luanne is fifteen and Susanne is eleven. Susanne, she's funny—she's eleven and she already has her heart set on being a mine architect. Had her mind set since she was nine. I can't imagine having such dreams at that age!"
This gets a snort out of Iris.
"I don't even know what classes I want to take next year, let alone what I want to do with my life," the girl says, and Cheyanne is pleased that she didn't think it was a dig at younger kids.
"A mine architect is awfully specific," Lind teases.
Cheyanne throws her hands in the air, the rope carefully wrapped around her fingers. "She's loved geology for as long as I can remember."
"What do you love?" Iris asks. The girl fiddles with a length of twine but doesn't bother doing anything with it. "What do you want to do?"
Cheyanne smiles. "I'm going to take over the butcher shop."
Lind's eyes now grow wide. "Wait, for real?" he asks. "You're a butcher?"
"I thought that was a District 10 thing," Iris adds.
"Ever district has to have butchers just as they do tailors and shoemakers and all that other stuff," Cheyanne says. "My father is one of many butchers in our district, I'm sure. It's not glamorous but someone has to put meat on people's tables."
Lind eyes her now, and there's some sort of recognition in his gaze. As though maybe he can see something in her for the first time. Cheyanne sits up straight and rubs her hand against her leg as though smoothing out the skirt she's not wearing, and she pretends that she doesn't notice this curiosity sparking in her ally.
"Oooo, our nanny normally just picks up pre-packaged meat at the store," Iris comments. But then she turns to Cheyanne with excitement as though just realizing something and asks, "Wait this means you know how to use a knife?"
"Yes, though I admit I'm not as good as my sister Luanne who has a natural knack for these things," she says humbly despite the flicker within her stomach.
"Yeah, but still," the girl protests. "I mean, I sure as hell don't know how to use a knife like that."
"Same," Lind agrees now. "Though I imagine that killing people is really different than killing animals." His voice catches and he averts his eyes to the pile of knotted rope on the ground in front of him as though it just dawned on him that they're going to have to kill to get out of the arena alive.
But that's not Cheyanne's concern. She has killed animals: pigs and goats and sheep and chickens. Not in a sadistic manner done for pleasure but as a necessity. Killing people won't be different. She isn't a psycho who wants to watch people bleed out, but she knows it must be done in order for her to achieve her dreams.
"But what about you guys?" she now turns the conversation. "I know you don't have skills with a butcher's knife, but what things are you good at?"
Iris huffs, and Cheyanne adds, "It doesn't have to be directly related to the Hunger Games—I'm sure there are things we're all good at that will benefit us in the arena even if we don't realize it."
So they talk. Iris admits that she's pretty good at soccer, and then she has to clarify what that means for Cheyanne because it's not nearly as popular in District 12 as it is in District 5, and even if it were, she doesn't pay attention to sports. But she gets the gist: speed, agility, endurance. Some quick footwork. Then Lind talks about how he's a great climber, thinks clearly even in times of high stress, and has a knack for finding resources.
It all sounds good. Very good. Even Iris impresses her, and she notes not to be so quick to write the kid off. Something grates inside her as they talk about their skills, and it only settles when she tells herself that at least she has the ability to wield a knife, even if the others don't.
.※.
This time Cheyanne gets to be mentored before Jones, and she's appreciative that the small mentoring room has been ventilated since her last visit. The air, though clearly recycled, lacks the weight of her district partner's fear that it had yesterday evening, and Cheyanne finds her head clearer for conversation.
Virginia settles into an armchair with chunky black rocks studded like jeweled accents. It's supposed to look like coal, Cheyanne thinks, but in a way that doesn't really make it look like coal because the Capitol hates the flaky, dirty black stuff nearly as much as she does.
"Let's talk about survival skills," Virginia says as she untwists the top of her water bottle.
"Yes, ma'am," Cheyanne replies, her eyes leaving the bottle and finding their place on her mentor once again.
"Your father is a butcher, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," she repeats. "I've worked in the butcher shop since I was a little girl."
"So I take it you know how to use a knife?" Virginia inadvertently echoes Cheyanne's allies.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you know where to cut to kill?"
"Of course," Cheyanne answers. "My father and mother were very adamant that my sisters and I learned the family business. It's honest work."
Virginia nods. "And, fortunately, it gives you a leg up here. Have you demonstrated your skills to everyone else in the training room?"
"No, ma'am. It didn't seem prudent."
"Good girl," the woman says, and Cheyanne sees something akin to appreciation in the woman's eyes. "Keep it that way. You're a volunteer which already marks you as a target, but you don't want to be one that can also be seen as a threat."
Cheyanne agrees with a nod despite the pit in her stomach. She'd love to be everyone's first choice to put money on when she's in the arena, but she's also aware from watching previous Hunger Games that the audience's favorite isn't always the one who ends up winning. If anything, it just means they are killed sooner by jealous competition.
Then Virginia asks, "Are you a fighter?"
"Ma'am?"
"Do you know how to fight?"
Cheyanne hesitates.
"No, ma'am," she admits. Her hands continue to rest where they are on her thighs, her fingers feeling the cotton skirt and the warmth of her own legs beneath the fabric. "I'm not a fighter, no, but I heard kids at the community home talk, and some of them showed me some things over the years. How to hold your hands when you fight, good stances so you don't get knocked off your feet. All that. I haven't ever put it to use because I had no need to, but it was always on my mind when the bigger kids picked on the little ones. I never needed to step in when that happened, though; others took care of it."
Virginia nods along with her story, though from her distracted gaze, she doesn't appear to be really following along. When Cheyanne finishes, the woman looks up and says, "Can you tell me more about this work you do at the community home?"
"Oh, well, I visit the underprivileged children," Cheyanne answers simply. "They often need a mentor of their own, and I was asked to volunteer. I do little things—I tutor in some subjects, or sometimes I'm just a sympathetic ear when they need someone to listen to. It isn't a big job, but I like to think I'm making a difference in their lives."
"And then it led you to volunteer for one of them."
It's not a question, and Cheyanne just nods in agreement. One thing led to another and now she's here in the Capitol because that little girl would have been nothing more than a smear on the grass following the Bloodbath. It's a nice, noble gesture.
"Okay, what else?" the woman says, perking up now and looking at her tribute. "What other skills do you have under your belt? Survival? Any outdoor skills? Running?"
"I've read a few books before I came here," Cheyanne reveals. It feels like she's stripping away a piece of herself to share this information. It's not exactly that she's embarrassed, but she's kept her hobbies to herself for so long that it's unnatural to converse about them with someone else. She gives the victor a smile. "I love to read, and I've dug into the non-fiction section at the local library."
"So you know how to fight but you've never done it, and you know how to tie knots and start fires, but you've never done it, either," the woman summarizes, and Cheyanne nearly grimaces at the dismissive tone, though she manages to keep the expression from her face.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well I suppose it's better than nothing, though it sure as hell isn't a guarantee to get you out of there," she replies heavily. The woman takes another sip of water before she adds, "Don't let it go to your head. You don't really know something until you have to show it."
"I agree," Cheyanne replies evenly. "It certainly doesn't put me at a level of the Careers, but I can use this information in a pinch."
Virginia's head bobs up and down in a sort of nod. She doesn't quite believe Cheyanne, but she hasn't entirely given up on her. Perhaps she thinks her tribute is full of herself for having this sort of knowledge, which is entirely ridiculous. Cheyanne's aware that she's competent, but she's also aware that she has limitations.
.※.
How strange it is to think that the gamemakers sit above her in their little protected box and watch the tributes figure out the training stations. Those people high above her head are the absolutely most important people in the world right now, and she feels as though if she reached out an arm, she could almost touch them. Do they like her? They must. Why wouldn't they? She might have volunteered, but certainly they see that she's not like the Careers whose cocky attitude grows repetitive and dull.
She turns her attention back to her small alliance.
"Yeah, looks like you almost got the fire going," Lind says as he crouches down next to Iris. The girl, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, furrows her brows in deep concentration as her hands rub the sticks back and forth.
"You can do it," Cheyanne encourages.
Sweat beads on the little girl's forehead, and Cheyanne watches her put all her energy into this one simple task.
Seconds pass, but Iris doesn't give up. At long last, a hint of a spark jumps from the sticks, and Lind reaches over with a bit of cotton to try to catch it before it vanishes. He's in luck, and he manages to transfer the flame to the pile of wood shavings.
"Great job!" Cheyanne beams at Iris as the girl shakes our her arms and catches her breath. "I can't believe how long you stuck with it. And look!"
Iris smiles shyly at her, half-embarrassed by the praise. "Oh, it was nothing."
But by the way she rubs her hands together to ease the burn in her skin, it obviously wasn't "nothing."
Once the fire gets going, Lind steps back and admires their work. He wipes his palms on his pant legs and looks at Cheyanne.
"What do you think about that?" he asks with a grin.
Cheyenne smiles back. "Excellent."
The moment fades as Lind grabs a bucket of water to smother the flames and Iris sets aside her supplies. A weird feeling floats in Cheyanne's stomach as she considers their small alliance, and she wonders how long they'll last.
And then what?
Then they die, that's what.
Cheyanne knew going in that whoever she chose for alliance would inevitably die, and she's likely going to witness it. She can handle it, of course, but it's still weird to think about.
She rubs her stomach to push the feeling aside, and then she stands up and reaches down to help Iris to her feet.
"Let's talk strategy," she says. "But we'll go somewhere quieter."
They find the swimming station entirely abandoned, and for a good reason: no one wants to put on a water suit over their clothes and be thrown into the presently quiet pool that will, inevitably, be filled with waves within minutes. Even a strong swimmer can look like a fool when the water grows choppy. So the three of them crouch down by the rack with all of the water suits and ignore the indifferent gaze of the trainer.
"I've been thinking about the Bloodbath," Cheyanne says, and the other two grow solemn. In truth, none of them want to think about it; that means that they can no longer pretend that this isn't really happening. But Lind just gives her a nod to go on, and Iris watches wide-eyed. "I can get in and grab a knife, maybe a bag. Lind, would you be able to grab a bag, too?"
"I'll do my best," he agrees. He shifts his weight and lowers himself to his bottom and Iris follows suit.
"What about me?" the girl asks.
"I want you to run," Cheyanne says, her eyes locked onto her. "Don't worry about bags or weapons—just get out of there."
Iris opens her mouth to protest, but Lind cuts in, "She's right, kiddo."
Before the girl can snap at Lind for the nickname, Cheyanne sits down on the cold concrete ground and continues, "We're going to need you later on, Iris. I promise. I'm not saying this because I don't believe in you but because I want you to be able to use your talents at the right time. And that's not in the Bloodbath, okay?"
"It's not cowardice or weakness," the District 6 boy adds. "It's using your strengths where they're most needed."
Iris lets out a breath. "Everyone treats me as a little kid!"
Cheyanne bites back the comment that Iris is a little kid, and it's stupid that she's competing with older teenagers. But that's not Cheyanne's problem and she doesn't want to drag this out any more.
"Iris, you're a hard worker, and you put in more dedication to a task than people twice your age," Cheyanne says instead. "Obviously it sucks that we're telling you to run when you want to do your part because you're the type who doesn't give up, but trust us—Lind and I are going to run, too, if it looks too dangerous for us. Okay?"
The girl looks at Cheyanne with watery eyes and then glances at Lind who nods in agreement with Cheyanne.
"Alright," she finally consents. "But don't baby me."
"We won't," Cheyanne promises.
"Yeah absolutely not," Lind agrees.
"I don't ally with babies," Cheyanne assures her. "You impressed me, and I want to work with you."
Iris gives her a small shy smile as she tries to hide her appreciation. It must be hard to be a little kid in a world where people like Cheyanne were clearly more capable, especially when any failure resulted in death. But Cheyanne could only think of this in rational, logical terms because trying to place herself in Iris' shoes just never quite fit.
.※.
Dinner proceeds tonight as it did last night: organized and rhythmic. Cheyanne and Jones sit on one side of the table, Virginia sits on the other, and Klaudia has taken the head and sits immediately to Cheyanne's right. She has the best spot at the table where she can keep an eye on all of the others. Not that there is much going on, of course.
Avoxes dance in with their steaming dishes of chicken in sauce, platters of breads and pastries, carafes of sparkling punch, and chilled bowls of flavored gelatin. They set each item delicately on the table before vanishing back into the kitchens to gather more.
Cheyanne could dine like this every night of her life and never come across the same dish twice, she decides. And even if she did eat repeated meals, she is sure she would enjoy it the second time just as much as the first.
"People in the Capitol are quite taken with both of you," Klaudia babbles to the tributes, a minor moment to address them in a long and rambling monologue about his list of rich friends. "You're front page in a good many newspapers, too."
He dabs at his mouth with the fabric napkin, a delicate motion to avoid smearing his lipstick. Today his eyelids are a gentle golden shimmer with a brown streak of liner trailing nearly to his hairline. He smiles at the tributes now, the red lips parting to reveal straight white teeth, and Cheyanne wonders what he looks like underneath all of the creams and liquids that have smoothed out any blemishes on his face.
"Thank you," she says politely, and he rewards her with an extra smile.
Jones stares down at his plate, motionless. He knows just as well as Cheyanne that the Capitol isn't really "taken" with him. Even without watching television, she could figure that out; he's practically ignored in every news program she's seen so far. He's not like Cheyanne; he didn't volunteer for a younger kid, and he doesn't have much meat on his bones to make him an interesting contender.
"What do the papers say about us?" Cheyanne follows up in the brief silence as Klaudia takes a moment to lift a fork of chicken to his mouth.
"Oh, they're quite flattering." He swallows his food and dabs again at his painted lips. "They say you, my dear, have many sponsors interested in you once they figure out why you volunteered, that is."
She smiles politely. "Well that sounds quite nice."
He wags a finger at her. "But don't get your hopes up too much because you still don't have nearly as much support as the Careers."
Cheyanne doesn't think that his statement was meant to be offensive but it certainly comes across that way. Still, she's not really upset by it because it gives her a moment to think about how the Capitol perceives her: positively. This is good. Great, in fact, and she smiles down toward her plate of food as she tries not to appear too smug about it.
Jones has stopped eating, but she pretends she doesn't notice.
"You must know a lot of things about the Hunger Games," she says to the escort as she turns her attention back to him. She shifts her weight so she's a hair closer.
"It's all part of my job," he responds with a flick of his wrist.
"What news media are the most reputable, do you think?" she asks.
He hems and haws for a moment, and then he spouts off a few names of news stations and newspapers he likes followed by those he doesn't. Things get messed up in a jumble as he tries to explain why he likes some things but not others, and Cheyanne just listens. He's not bad for an escort, even if he's a little goofy. In all honesty, most of the escorts that have come through District 12 have been a bit silly. Her stylist is alright, though; he seemed to have a few more brain cells in his head than Klaudia, and if she had to choose between the two of them, she'd definitely go with Ewald the Stylist rather than Klaudia the Escort. Ewald may not have fashion sense, but she thinks back to how he had carefully helped her into her high heels the night of the Chariot entrance, and how firm his grip was despite his gentle touch.
Cheyanne nods along with Klaudia's recommendations until Virginia clears her throat.
"It's time to do some mentoring," the woman says as she stands. "First, I want to see both of you because I have to go over some general survival topics. Then I'll have Cheyanne wait while I work with Jones until it's time to switch. Good?"
Cheyanne says its fine with her and she takes one last sip of juice before standing up and following the mentor and Jones to their tiny little mentoring room down the hall.
.※.
The District 1 boy disappears through the training room door for his private session with the gamemakers. The door swings shut behind him, and the two peacekeepers on either side continue to stare straight ahead of them as though daring anyone to enter their private session early.
"I don't know what I'm going to do for my private session," Iris sighs.
Cheyanne turns back to her allies. The trio sits cross-legged on the ground in the plant-identification station, various leaves and roots strewn about on the floor. They never could have gotten away with making such a mess before, but now the trainers don't care. In a matter of hours, this room will be completely empty of tributes, and it will remain empty for another whole year.
"You did great at fire building," Cheyanne encourages her ally.
Iris cups her chin in her palm and rests her elbow on her knee. Her eyes scan the array of leaves next to her.
"Yeah, I guess," the girl says. "But that won't get me a high score."
"You're not supposed to get a high score," Lind points out. He neatly stacks leaves into 'edible,' 'not edible,' and 'uncertain' piles and doesn't look up at the girl as he speaks. "You're twelve. Everyone expects you to score low."
Iris narrows her eyes at that. "Yeah, but I don't want to score low. I want, I don't really know, but I'd like to—"
"To have a chance," Cheyanne fills in for her, and Iris turns to her with an appreciative, though sad, smile.
"Yeah," the girl mumbles. She flicks a leaf away from her and sighs.
"You do have a chance," Cheyanne prods her gently. "But Lind is right. No one expects you to score high, but that doesn't mean that you won't do well in the arena. People like underdogs."
"Bull," Iris huffs. "Underdogs don't win."
"That District 7 kid," Lind says now looking up at her. "The 70th Hunger Games."
"Yeah, only twelve years old," Cheyanne adds on. "And won."
Iris picks up a leaf and twists it between her fingers as she thinks. It was incredibly rare for a twelve year old to win—it had only happened that one time—but that meant that there was some hope that twelve year olds could make it out alive. The girl digs her nail into the stem and peels away the flesh. It's a good thing that the plant is non-toxic; Cheyanne isn't sure if Iris cares right now or not.
"I suppose," the girl finally relents. She tosses the leaf aside and wipes her nails on her pant leg. "What are you guys doing for your private sessions?"
Cheyanne and Lind exchange a look, and they each shrug. Neither of them want to reveal whatever special thing they have in their repertoire. Though that only makes heat burn within Cheyanne. What if Lind has something particularly good up his sleeve—something that he doesn't want to share with Cheyanne and Iris? What if he scores really high and then never reveals what he did in front of the gamemakers? What if he has a talent that rivals Cheyanne's, that could very well mean that he could be a threat to her?
She clears her throat and reaches out to his pile of leaves. "This one's in the wrong place," she says as she pulls a maple leaf from his pile of 'toxic' leaves. "Unless you're a horse."
Lind blinks at her and snatches the leaf from her fingers. "Thanks," he says as he places it in the right pile.
The three of them sit in the plant-identification station for a long time. Each tribute gets his or her few minutes in front of the gamemakers, and the room slowly starts to empty. Then Iris is called forward. She smiles tight-lipped at Cheyanne and Lind as she raises herself to her feet. Cheyanne watches as she treads towards the door and the peacekeeper ushers her inside.
Another half hour passes, and Lind, too, is called away. He, like Iris and the others, doesn't return. There must be another door they lead them through once they finish so that they can't mingle with those tributes who haven't yet had their private sessions.
Slowly time crawls by and tributes disappear one by one, leaving Cheyanne almost entirely alone. She hears Jones at the shelter-building station clinking around sticks and rocks, but she sits at the plant-identification station as she has done for hours now, slowly sifting through plants.
Virginia was right: working with stuff in person is entirely different than reading about them in books. Sure, she definitely has an advantage, but it's not until she can run her fingers over the leaves and feel their waxy or sheer or bumpy surfaces and smell their individual scents that she really connects with them. She's good at the identification, but without the prior education in the county library, she'd be just as clueless as the rest.
It must be the same with killing. She's never killed a person before, of course, but if she settled so easily into plant identification after reading about them in books, then undoubtedly she'll be fine at killing since she's already killed plenty of pigs and goats.
When her name is called, she stands and dusts off her pants. Time to show them what she knows.
.※.
"They're going to ask you why you volunteered."
Virginia stands near the drink dispenser of the small monitoring room as though deciding wholeheartedly which carbonated beverage to order, but she stares off towards the baseboard, her eyes unfocused and unseeing. She clutches a wine glass of vodka in one hand, and the stench of alcohol burns Cheyanne's nostrils despite sitting several feet away.
"My father is a butcher and he taught myself and my sisters how to handle a knife so that when we get older—me in particular, since I'm the eldest—we can take over the family business," she answers, practiced and perfect as though she and Virginia had not yet discussed this part of her life. "When Grace was reaped, I was moved by her bravery despite her young age and her small stature, and I wanted to take her place. She didn't have a fighting chance. I do."
"Uh-huh," the victor replies. She sips loudly from her wine glass and clears her throat. Her eyes remain on the angle where the floor and wall come together as she asks, "How long have you been planning on going to the arena?"
"I—"
Now Virginia turns to her and gestures vaguely with her wine glass of vodka. "You don't think I noticed."
"Noticed what?" A hint of innocence.
"You're too perfect," the woman replies, her watery eyes trained onto Cheyanne. "Too polite, too practiced, too good. So what's the reason? Daddy doesn't love you? Or is it mommy?"
Cheyanne's cheeks warm. "You're drunk. You've been drinking too much and this isn't helping and—"
A grin cracks across Virginia's face and she turns her eyes up towards the ceiling. "Of course I've been drinking," she mutters.
Cheyanne draws in a deep breath and holds her composure. She readies a reply to the woman's accusations, but the victor beats her to it.
"Alright, I don't care why you volunteered as long as the reason is dumb," she says to the ceiling. Her eyes squint as she stares into the bright overhead lights. "At the interview, I don't want you uttering a single word about how unfair the system is or how you want to change things for the orphans or anything like that."
"Of course not!" Cheyanne exclaims indignantly. "That's not my intent at all!"
"I hope you can appreciate what a shitty position you've put us in," the victor continues as though she didn't hear her. "A volunteer from District 12! Ha! Play dumb, girl. Play dumb and make them believe you're just a stupid little airhead who foolishly volunteered for a girl she knew. Don't go stirring anything up. Don't try to voice your opinions on anything."
Cheyanne nods slowly and states that she won't do anything that will get her or Virginia in trouble, but the tone of hopelessness in the woman's words doesn't go unnoticed. She doesn't think that Cheyanne will be able to win, and she's already writing her off. Whatever interest the woman had in her volunteer tribute has vanished, leaving behind nothing, not even the smallest drop of faith that her tribute will become victor. Anger beats in Cheyanne's chest as she watches the woman with her premature wrinkles and drooping eyes, and she silently hates her for not caring. Doesn't she see Cheyanne's potential? Doesn't she understand that District 12 is going to have the first victor in twenty-five years?
.※.
The jingle for the skin cream advertisement fades, and the News 15 logo swoops onto the screen. Then it, too, vanishes, revealing a man and a woman sitting behind a desk with a great, big wall of twenty-four panels behind them. Each panel shows the school photo of a different tribute.
"Welcome back to 'Goodnight, Capitol,' where we cover the news you want to see," says the woman with a pearly white smile. She wears a gorgeous jeweled brooch dazzling in the studio lights, and Cheyanne can barely peel her eyes away from it. "Tonight, the Interviews are all anyone can talk about. What do you say, Timm, what were your impressions of the Interviews?"
"Oh I think tonight was fantastic," the man answers with a broad smile. The greenish sheen on his lips doesn't suit him, not like the way the woman's makeup has complemented her features.
The light from the television illuminates the sitting room where Cheyanne, freshly bathed and makeup removed, perches on the edge of the couch. Her damp hair dribbles down her back, moistening her t-shirt. The others in the apartment have retired for the night, giving Cheyanne the freedom to watch the recaps of the interviews as she pleases, and now her attention hones in on the screen as she searches for her name and face to appear.
First, though, the news anchors talk about the Careers. How stunning and special they are. Cheyanne hates watching them but she forces herself to sit there and take in every bit of information about these "talented" and "mighty" tributes. Then a few other tributes are displayed—notably, the District 7 boy and the District 10 girl—but it's brief.
And then an image of Cheyanne fills the screen as one of the newscasters says, "This girl, this Cheyanne here, shes nothing like we've ever seen."
Cheyanne's chest warms as she feels the tug of a smile on her lips. The man and woman go on about how eager they are to know more about her, how she volunteered for a little girl she knew, and how she received a training score of 8 ("For an untrained outlier? That's phenomenal! Why that's better than almost all of the other tributes.")
The television now shows a clip from the interview as Cheyanne, dressed in a formfitting purple dress with matching high heels, smiles sweetly at the interviewer and answers his questions about her family. She explains to the world that she lives with her parents and two little sisters, Luanne and Susanne.
"As I mentioned before, my father is a butcher," the television version of her explains. "We work hard to ensure people have food on their tables. I'm grateful for the time I've spent working with my family, and I know that my skills will be critical in the arena."
She had intentionally left out the part about her mother working in the District treasury office; that didn't entirely fit with the humble-but-confident narrative she wanted to show the cameras, and, honestly, it had little to do with her. She never helped Mom in her office like she used to help Dad in the shop. Susanne had always been the one to bring her books and sit quietly in the waiting room while Mom worked in her office.
The television shows the part of the interview where she speaks about her alliance:
"Iris is so promising," she says to the interviewer, her hands clasped together. "She's young but she's capable of such great things. And Lind, well, he's smart and quick-witted. Anybody would be lucky to have him on their side."
Of course these kids had already been interviewed, and they had mentioned an alliance with her, but it sounds more impressive coming from Cheyanne's mouth. A volunteer's mouth.
As she talks, the school photos of Iris and Lind appear in the corner of the screen just in case anyone forgot who she was talking about.
"And this alliance the three of them have, it's really interesting," says the male news anchor as the interview clips vanish and the cameras return to the newscasters. "What do you think it's about?"
"I don't know, Timm, but I sure am eager to see what they do in the arena."
"I bet that little girl reminds Cheyanne of the girl she volunteered for. That's probably why she chose her."
"You're probably right. Look at those big brown eyes. And that boy, Lind, he's quite the looker. Do you think that's why she chose him?"
"Who wouldn't? Even with that scar, he is quite handsome!"
Now Cheyanne narrows her eyes at the screen. That's not why she chose him. It's a death battle, not a dating game. Besides, even if she did have her choice, she'd go with someone like Klaudia or Ewald, not some kid from an often-forgotten, grimy district like Six. At least the escort, vapid though he is, is a little more her type. But it doesn't matter because this is the Hunger Games, and Cheyanne tells herself that there's no point falling in love when you just have to kill.
That can come later.
"The boy, Lind, he earned what, a 6?"
"Yes, he got a score of 6 and Iris a score of 3."
"It's not the worst, but it's obvious that Cheyanne is the critical piece of their alliance."
"It looks like we're just about out of time, so we're going to have to wait until tomorrow to find out more."
"In the meantime, let's check in with Doodles who has a full assessment of each interview outfit."
Cheyanne yawns and clicks off the television. As much as she would love to stick around for the fashion segment of the show, that's not really about her as much as it is about her stylist's skill—or lack thereof. She stands up and stretches her arms, enjoying the tug of the muscles around her ribs as she wiggles her fingers high above her head.
It's time for bed. She hopes to catch some sleep so she'll be well-rested for tomorrow, but at very least she'll have to go lay down on her feather mattress and close her eyes. If sleep doesn't come to her, then she'll pretend.
She's good at that.
A/N: Story originally posted on AO3 under the same name. Crossposting here so folks who are primarily on FFN can read if they wish. Cheyanne was created by Tin at AO3 for Verses 2024 Victor Exchange. Comments/reviews are appreciated but not necessary - do whatever you'd like. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.