CHAPTER 5 – EX / KIDS
Tackle Auger
The peacekeepers take Mali away. I stare out the window, at rolling hills and cityscape, allowing myself a moment to ponder the emotions elicited by the Reapings before composing the stoic mask I wear to the Capitol.
My God, I almost cried when Mali approached the stage. She was perfect; powerful, elegant, beautiful. Her demeanour reminded me of Aelia, as she walked down the aisle at her wedding. Mali looked equally happy; a girl grown into a warrior.
Despite her strong presentation, I couldn't stop picturing the nine year old that joined the academy. My little sis, someone I needed to protect, and still want to. But I can't, anymore. Before this morning, the concept of Mali's Games was an unsettling inevitability- but always somewhere in the future. Now that her name's been called, I can't pretend somewhere in the recesses of my mind that she'll reconsider her decision, and perhaps become a trainer, or fall ill, or become injured- something to prevent her from facing the trials and tribulations of the Games.
It's what she's been trained for, what she wants. Her fate's been sealed. Fear settles heavily in my bones. Another weight, another aspect of life I have no choice about. Even if I wanted to discourage her, any notion would be sacrilege.
Chills twine through my spine, remembering my time in the hospital post-Games. Not only recovering physically, but reconciling the actions I took to become victorious, and how ill-prepared I was for the reality of the horrors. Even if she wins, she'll be changed. If she doesn't win, she'll be dead.
The Mali I know and love will be gone in less than a week. I can only pray there will be a leftover version of her after everything's said and done. I can only pray she'll forgive me.
The coincidence of the Reapings is also unsettling, both Mali and Wyatt's names picked from the tribute bowls, no need for either of them to volunteer. The career districts make no effort to hide our training efforts, and thus far the Capitol has allowed us to operate unhindered, but the choice to Reap our chosen volunteers seems pointed. I don't understand the message they're trying to send yet, but I suspect there's further meaning.
"That was crazy, hey? Their names actually being called. Had to be rigged." Jig's voice appears behind me.
"Find out, see how much trouble you get into." I say to the window.
"I bet you'd like that." Jig's footsteps echo over the carpet as he walks closer.
"Wouldn't be a loss, for myself or the academy." I rib.
"Why do you always bring up the academy?" Jig's profile appears beside me, staring at the view as well.
I turn my head. "Because I know it bothers you."
Jig sighs with frustration. "You're aggrivating."
"I'll take that as a compliment." I jut my jaw forward.
Jig shakes his head.
"Tackle!... Tackle! I know you're in here. I need to talk to you!" The distinct voice of my ex-wife yells from the hallway. "TACKLE!"
Jig's frustrations instantly disappears, replaced with satisfaction. "I'll let you two lovebirds talk." He walks to the door. "Lori! In here." He says, waving her over.
"Prick." I say under my breath. He still hears me. He hugs Lori, then gives me a scathing glance as he leaves.
We've been divorced for a year. I let everyone think Lori left me, because she promised to leave me alone. That promise lasted about a week before I started getting daily letters. It's always the same shit. She's "done the work," and "wants me back," and "can't live without me." My skin crawls at the idea of reuniting.
She crosses the space between us, quickly.
"Lori, what are you doing here?" I demand.
"I miss you, baby." She tries to hug me. I step sideways, holding up an arm to block her. "Look at you, you can't take care of yourself without me."
"I want you to leave." I say, blunt.
"Have you been getting my letters?" She asks, moving closer.
"Lori, I'm warning you. You can't do this shit here." My heart starts beating faster, I don't want to be having this conversation. I have far more important matters to consider. "I have to go."
She corners me. I can't get by without pushing her out of the way, which is exactly what she wants. A fight, like always.
"Lori, stop." I say, gravelly.
"What if I don't?" She grins mischievously.
Lighting-fast, Lori presses her forearm into my throat. I forgot how quick she is. She presses her body into me, resting her hand on my crotch. "Happy birthday." She whispers. I feel her breath on my ear and neck, leaving a hot residue. My throat closes. I can't move.
"We're not married anymore, you can't do this." I grunt, hating the break in my voice.
Lori takes a step back, and sucker punches me in the balls. I drop to the ground, waves of nausea and pain rippling through my torso. It's been a while since she's landed a blow that hard. "We'll talk when you're back." She says over her shoulder, storming off.
My diaphragm spasms, causing fits of coughing.
I hear the doors close and footsteps on the carpet, probably Lori coming back to finish me off. Instead, when I look up, I see Jig. Instead of his usual bravado, pensive concern knits his brows. I set my jaw, trying to maintain a neutral expression.
"Tackle? Are you okay?" Jig asks plainly, no extra taunts thrown in. It's off-putting.
"Fuck, Jig, were you fucking eavesdropping?" I push myself to my feet, face swelling with heat, probably beet-red. Embarrassment and anger surge, making my muscles shake. I want to throttle him for the intrusion.
Jig averts his eyes, uneasy, which makes the humiliation worse. "I-"
"Fuck off." I move past him, beelining it to the door.
My breath's still uneven, panicked. I can't go out there like this- so many eyes will be on me; peacekeepers, press, Capitol staff, local staff. Although it's likely this room is bugged, it's the most privacy I'll be afforded. And, the Capitol prefers if the Victors keep our breakdowns to ourselves. We're expected to be role-models above all else.
I swallow my pride, and take deep, excruciating breaths until I stop shaking. Jig stays silent. I swipe a hand through my hair, resetting the gel, and wipe my sweaty palms onto the pant leg of my suit.
"Keep your big mouth shut. You prick." I spit, not looking at Jig. The words have more venom than necessary, but I don't appreciate him snooping. It's already embarrassing enough reacting to Lori as I do, without an audience.
I reach for the handle and open the door.
Mali Cypress
Landscape flies by, exposing the southern corner of D4. I find myself in a train car resembling a fishbowl- walls and ceilings entirely composed of windows. I wonder if we pass the town where my father lives. Thankfully, the thought dissipates. I'm too excited to be upset. The closer we get to the Capitol, the more my anticipation grows. I wonder what creations my stylist will dress me in. I wonder what the other tributes will be like- specifically the other careers. Mostly, I wonder arena the gamemakers have chosen as this year's stage.
Wyatt enters the fishbowl-carriage, still dressed in his stage wear. Neither of us seem to be able to take it off, revelling in our moment on stage. When we took our positions and locked eyes, a bond was forged in the steady, intense look. A covenant to fight, and protect.
The bench creaks as he settles across from me, leaning against the window-wall, crossing his legs on the mahogany.
"We looked good out there." The corner of his mouth tugs into a smug grin.
"We did. Don't let it get to your head, though." I extend my leg and playfully kick him.
Wyatt catches my ankle and pulls, rolling us off the bench. We knock over a table, and various dishware clatters to the ground. I pull myself towards him, using the grip he has on my ankle, then catapult over his head, somersaulting. My momentum carries him directly into a table. The impact loosens his grip on my leg, and I free myself, rolling away.
We jump to our feet, grinning from ear to ear. Wyatt fakes a lunge to the right, then swivels, extending his arms to tackle me to the ground. I sidestep his reach, arching by body, then push him in the direction he's already moving. Another table goes down. I guffaw as ceramics rain down around him.
The door to our fishbowl-car bursts open; Aelia and Lorelei enter, followed by our on-board peacekeepers. Wyatt and I are met with troubled expressions. He springs to his feet, respectfully standing at attention. I do the same.
"What's going on here?" Lorelei demands. "You know the rules."
"We were just having fun, nothing serious." Wyatt says. I nod, corroborating his words. The peacekeepers relax.
Lorelei examines the disheveled train car, lingering on the overturned tables and broken dishes. "Nothing serious?! Look at this mess!" She turns to Aelia. "I swear, these tributes get worse every year."
"Hey." I say, dangerously. Lorelei's head snaps towards me. "Don't compare us to the tributes from last year. We were wrestling, nor torturing each other for fun." Wyatt side-eyes me, a warning not to challenge our escort.
"Mali, that's enough." Aelia chastises, the earlier hint of a smile at our rambunctiousness, gone.
"We're sorry, Lorelei. It won't happen again." Wyatt says. It takes a Godly amount of control to keep my eyes from rolling into the back of my head. He nudges me.
"Sorry." I manage.
Lorelei nods tersely. "Okay, I forgive you." She snaps her fingers, and several avoxes emerge.
I clear my throat. "We can clean up after ourselves."
"It's no problem, really." Wyatt adds.
Lorelei scrunches her face up, shaking her head. "What? No. Come on, let's get out of here before one of you steps on broken glass and I have to explain your injuries to my superiors." She snaps her fingers again, pointing to the avoxes. "Get to work, don't make me tell you again."
She grabs our upper arms, dragging us out of the room like children. I peer over my shoulder, and see the avoxes begin cleaning. My lip curls, a knot forms in my stomach; anger at my lack of foresight, guilt for causing the situation. Wyatt's face mirror's my uneasiness. I want to apologize to the avoxes, but fear they'll somehow be reprimanded. I shake free of her condescending grip, hating the way her nails dig into my skin. She doesn't react.
We reach the end of the corridor, and Lorelei deposits us in the culinary train car. She stands in front of Wyatt and I, smoothing our hair, adjusting the necklines of our garments. I want to shake her hands off again, but am not naive enough to believe it'll earn me freedom. It'll just make her angrier.
"I'm sorry for losing my temper. I want our time together to be pleasant, don't you?" Lorelei asks, tone still reeking of condescension. There's no use arguing, though. It wouldn't be smart to get on our escort's bad side.
"Yes, we'd like that." Wyatt answers.
Lorelei stares at us until she's satisfied we've yielded, then breaks into a grin. The bright-unnatural hues painted on her face turn the expression into something clown-like and disconcerting. "Good, that's what I thought. Now, get a snack. It'll be a while."
"Okay." Wyatt says, respectfully. Lorelei nods, then turns on her heel and leaves.
Once she's gone, Wyatt turns to me. We stare at each other, smiles slowly creeping back onto our faces. He breaks first, erupting into a fit of laughter.
"I'm sorry for losing my temper." Wyatt mocks. His voice is a caricature, rising unnaturally high, falling unnaturally low.
"I want our time together to be pleasant, don't you?" I match his ridiculous impression of our escort.
My stomach starts cramping from the force of the laughter. "Okay, okay, stop." I say. "We don't want her to hear us."
We manage to calm down, but whenever I catch Wyatt mimicking Lorelei's grin, I can't help but giggle. Finally, we actually settle, sitting by the windows, staring at the landscape flashing by.
Hours into the ride, we round a mountain, and suddenly the great city comes into view. We cross a dam. The buildings ascend into the sky, taller than anything I've seen in my life. They're composed of shiny materials- metals and glass, which reflect the sky. Sounds swell from the Capitol, cheers, fireworks, drums. They must have spotted the train.
The cacophony is magnificent. I feel honoured.
As we enter the city limits, I see a gold statue. The resemblance to the late victor, Muse Frill, is uncanny. I've heard of sculptors carving marble, but never gold. Perhaps they have the technology for that here. She's the third dead Victor, out of fifty, passing away after last year's Games. The rest are still alive, if not all functional. Her presence makes me think of the others we learned about out in our lessons at the academy.
Opal Honey was the first- an automobile accident.
Creel Doff was next- executed for the crimes of his district. The story goes, a group of traitors in District 8 manufactured a batch of defective peacekeeper uniforms, that led to deaths across several districts. Creel, himself had nothing to do with the treachery, but his district was not allowed to celebrate a victory after their actions. Along with dozens of others, Creel was publicly executed. Since, production of textiles had been unhindered, network of traitors and their families crushed. There hasn't been any attempts of rebellion since.
Lastly, Muse Frill died of a ruptured brain aneurysm.
All three were unlucky in their own ways.
I pray my fate won't include the same luck.