CHAPTER 8 – PROPAGATE / LOYALTY
Tackle Auger
I've just shut my bedroom door for the evening, when there's a knock. Aelia waits outside.
"Hey, what's up?" I ask.
"Visitor for you, Florence Larentia." She looks confused. "Why's she here?"
"Don't know." I lie. "I'll find out."
I leave Aelia behind, going face Florence. I see her in the foyer, chatting with Jig, and feel a stress rash coming on. The D4 victors that haven't retired for the night look on from the living room.
"Florence." I say neutrally.
"Hello, Tackle. May I speak with you, please?" She asks.
"Sure…" My eyes nervously flicker to Aelia and Jig.
"Follow me." Florence instructs.
I follow her out of the D4 apartment. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I angrily whisper, "Why did you come to my apartment? They're going to think something's up."
"Mentors visit each other all the time." The implication being, her actions aren't suspicious. She shoots me a glance.
"Did you see the way Jig and Aelia were looking at me?" I shake my head, dreading the inevitable conversation that'll follow my return to the apartment.
"You can be honest." Florence suggests.
My eyes widen in disbelief. "You can't possibly mean that."
"Wouldn't your friends would want to help?" She asks.
"Florence, enough. Please." I practically beg.
"Alright." She presses her lips together. "You can tell them our conversation doesn't pertain to the Games."
"I don't know if they'll buy that." I scuff my feet.
"What do you care? You're a grown man, you don't need to justify yourself." The D1 in Florence comes out.
"They're my friends." I respond, agitated.
"If you don't trust them enough to tell them the truth, come up with a convincing lie. Those are your options." Florence says, sounding done with the topic.
"Fine." I say, shutting up, because I know I'm being unreasonable.
My eyes remain glued to the ground as we walk. I'm vulnerable around Florence, now. She knows what devastates me, a secret I've kept my whole life. Something I don't know how to talk about, without descending into anxiety or frustration. I don't know how to act, now that the information doesn't belong just to me...
But then again, I guess it never did.
We arrive at the D1 apartment, and I follow Florence to a balcony through her bedroom.
"Nice digs." I admire the space.
Stone and glass marble the floor; plants, vines, and flowers snake around a series of small trellises. The best part is the gushing water features. They're incredibly loud. We go to the railing and look over, resting our forearms on the metal. Bright cityscape expands in all directions.
"An exclusive feature. The first few victors all have balconies off their rooms." Florence says.
"News to me, I can't say Talia's ever invited me to her bedroom." I reply, unfunny.
"To be clear, I haven't either." Florence says, flashing me a grin.
"Was that a joke?" I say, incredulously.
She nods. "Trying to cut the tension, you're so damn wound up."
I snort at her bluntness.
"Just so you know, we can speak openly. Nobody can hear, the noise from the water drowns out our voices as long as we keep them low."
"What do you want to talk about? Can you tell me more about Mali?" I ask, hopeful for information.
"No. It's better you don't know the full story, not yet. Gives you plausible deniability if this goes sideways." Her voice is strong, but I hear it waver, perhaps the first sign of fear I've seen from this woman.
It's infuriating, not knowing.
"How's she doing in training? In terms of what we discussed." Florence asks.
"She's middle of the pack, and there's lots of personality in the tributes this year- enough distraction. She's doing what you want." I reply.
"She's doing what'll keep her safe." Florence corrects me.
"Is that it, then? You wanted to see if I complied?" I gesture broadly.
"No, I wanted to discuss the other matter." She says softly, folding her hands together.
I put my elbows back on the rail, and stare straight ahead.
"I've been unable to glean any information from my networks." Florence says.
"That could be a good thing, right?" I pick at my cuticles.
"Not necessarily. Admittedly, my networks aren't as broad as they used to be. I don't have the same level of access..." Florence turns to me. "I wanted to run something past you."
"Okay." I can't bring myself to look her in the eye.
"I want to talk to Afflatus." Florence says. "I think her help could be greatly beneficial. Her networks are vast, and different from mine."
I balk at the idea. "No way! There's no way." I can't imagine facing Afflatus if she knew, seeing her year after year in the monitoring room. I'd die of shame. Who knows next time D1 (or D4) will have a victory, and we'll be permanently done as a mentor? "It was hard enough to tell you, Florence, and I only did so out of sheer desperation."
"Tackle, please. I'm almost certain she'll be able to confirm whether or not the videos exist." Florence says. "If you stop now, you'll never know."
"Fuck." My head falls into my hands. "Fuck."
"Tackle, it's okay." Florence offers.
"None of this is okay." My voice strains and breaks. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"It's okay if she knows... She's not going to judge you. I believe she'll want to help." She tries to catch my eye, but I can't bring myself to look at her.
I run a hand through my hair, and sink into one of the seats. "Of course she'll judge me. Everyone would judge me." I can already hear the questions and comments, 'how could I let it happen? why didn't I tell anyone?'
Florence crouches down beside me. "It's not your fault, Tackle."
I shake my head. My head feels like it's turning into a balloon again. I wonder if I'll drift away.
"She'll help. I swear it." Florence says softly. "Don't you want to know, one way or the other?"
I hit my scalp with my fists. "Yes. I want to know."
"You give me permission to speak with Afflatus?"
"...Yes." I whisper, water pooling in my eyes.
"Okay. Thank you."
"Just… please don't tell anyone else. Don't let her tell, either."
"Of course."
I don't say anything more, head still buried in my palms.
"You're going to be okay, Tackle." Florence says.
A tear drips over the bridge of my nose. "Would you mind giving me a minute alone?" I ask.
"Sure. I'll be in the living room, you can let yourself out. I'll come to you, if we find anything." Florence says. I hear the sound of her footsteps fade as she walks away.
I sniff, and pull my face from my hands. I stand and admire the view, feeling like a frog from my academy biology class, cut open and dissected.
Instead of floating away, memories bombard me, pulling me under.
Mali Cypress
Colorful Capitolites swirl around, pampering me. My hair's washed and treated, lush oils rubbed into my skin, then a makeup team sits me down and instructs me to remain still as a statue, lest a stray breath mess up my eyeliner. I feel like a princess.
The Tribute's Interview is less than an hour away. While my face is being painted, I pick at the soft leather on the arm of my chair, and mull over the last couple days of training.
You could cut the tension with a knife, at the of beginning of day two. With first-day jitters gone, the out-district tributes' contempt and hatred started shining through- especially from the stronger kids. The D9/10 alliance spit on the ground as the careers walked in, then proceeded to challenge us for stations throughout the day. Only Bristol and Xio chose to escalate the situation; Wyatt, Star, Parish, and I remained impassive.
The reason for the out-district tributes' temperament soon became clear, when the tributes from D9 started verbally sparring with Wyatt and I- of all people. They said our district's disgusting, and we're going to pay for what happened last year.
As if I needed another reminder D4's tribute from last year sawed a boy in half during the bloodbath.
But honestly, not that I would say it-obviously- I agree with the anger. Careers were brutal and disgusting during the previous Games, putting on the wrong kind of show, malevolent personalities thinking they had free reign to act. If I was an out-district kid, I'd be pissed as well. The career pack last year brought shame to us, and I fear the consequences.
Unnecessarily, Bristol came to our defense, saying it was the name of the Game. Wyatt and I exchanged a glance, but didn't contradict him. Bristol's temper only seems to be getting worse as time progresses. His comment earned a sneer from the usually distracted D6M tribute, Swerve. The sawing victim hailed from D6.
Next, the small, fast girl from D7 walked up to the tributes from D1, and said she hopes the Games make them want to kill themselves.
My eyebrows skyrocketed, admiring her courage. This group of tributes is ferocious, atypical from what Tackle said I could expect. He said usually careers intimidate the group, such is the status quo. It seems like the out-district kids have had enough of that, though. Whether it's desperation, or courage, I can see their challenge affect some of the career's mentalities. Bristol became more chaotic, Xio more confrontational.
Under the radar, I noticed the D7, 8, and 11 females form an alliance. Two speedy tributes, one strong, all calculating. I think if they're able to stick together, they have a chance of making it far in the Games. The males from their Districts remains outliers, personalities too volatile to ally.
The D3 kids spent most of the day rifling through edible plant cards. They haven't touched a single weapon, clearly unprepared to fight. Their lack of formidability twists my gut. Why should I kill kids who are unprepared? The questions gave me pause, never before have I questioned the Games. I grew up around fighters, though, so far removed from the mentality of other Districts. Weak kids like that never make it to the academy, thus they're not on my radar as opponents. They're still a part of the Games, though, and must die for me to win.
It's obvious, but I guess I didn't pay attention too hard when kids like them died on screen, perceiving them as background noise. Tinker-Blue and Tasha aren't background noise, though. They were sitting fifteen feet from me, discussing flora and fauna. I felt sick at the idea of killing two little nerds.
Near the end of the second day, Swerve stumbled into Bristol, while chasing Crash, and Bristol shoved him to the ground. The D6 boy actually snarled at him.
This morning, the beginning of day three, D12 joined the D9/10 alliance. They're six tributes strong, composed of the most threatening out-district tributes- save D5. As far as I can tell, D5 hasn't joined the alliance. Still, if the career pack implodes too early, we'll definitely have a problem.
The most shocking part of the week happened before individual evaluations, though, as we all sat waiting in the holding room. Swerve, the write-off male tribute from D6, stabbed Bristol in the back with a steak knife stashed in his sleeve. It was a low wound, probably lacerating his left kidney if the blade sunk deep enough. Bristol screamed bloody murder as the peacekeepers dragged Swerve away.
Neither Bristol, nor Swerve, underwent individual evaluation, thus neither will receive a training score. It's the first time in history a career has never been ranked. His mentor must have had a conniption trying to strategize for his interview... I wonder what Bristol will say. I don't imagine he'll admit to being stabbed in the back by some burnout tribute, to all of Panem.
Hell, I wonder if he'll even be present. How fast can the Capitol fix a stab wound? What kind of shape will he be in at the start the Games, tomorrow? When I told Tackle what happened, he said the Capitol will likely be able to heal him before the Games. He'll be functional, if not still in pain. At least the attention is off me… but I wonder how my lack of notoriety will affect my sponsorship fund. These mental gymnastic are draining.
The makeup artists finally finish my face. I look at the girl in the mirror, her shadowed eyes and contoured face. Suddenly, I don't know if I'm ready for this. Out-district kids want retribution, and there's an unnerving amount of strong candidates. Panem, I could die tomorrow. The thought steals my breath. This can't be the end… can it? It'll be the end for twenty-three of us. I start sweating, and I hope I don't ruin my makeup.
My stylist brings out the dress for my interview, a stunning velour teal gown. If I die, I hope they bury me in it. Maybe I can suggest it to Tackle. This close to the Games, though, he won't find it funny.
I wish I didn't have to do this interview. I grew up thinking of all the ways I could perfectly present myself to the world, all for nothing. Now that I'm actually here, it seems ridiculous. I'm required to create a balancing act between strong, but not notable. Pretty, not show-stopping. Smart, but not leadership material.
Sponsors will spend money, or they won't. I crave one last night of safety, tucked against Tackle on the couch, watching a movie.
My stylist zips me into my gown. I stare at myself in the mirror, and craft my expression into something fierce. T-minus five minutes until the interviews begin.