"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 offthe 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 otherfrom 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 '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 hisstomach turn.)
He lurks in the doorway for a moment, watching avoxes weave through the crowd. Someoneought 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 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'dbeen hiding. As he passes by, kids fall silent. The boy from Six stops staring at the Tribute fromFour's blue hair, the boy from Four stops staring at the girl from Three, and the girl from Onestops studiously avoiding the Four Tribute's gaze. There's a substance to these kids' lives, acertain soulfulness that makes Signet think of his own memories, of poets and pastries and sisterswho stay together.
They're all looking at him now. He makes his way to the front, focusing on the movements of hisfeet, 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 reallybeen before them in this way, not until now, and already his neck prickles with sweat from theheat 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 sendingthem to die at this very moment? "I welcome you cordially to the Capitol. I've come to give you afew items of information."
He's choking on the falseness of his words, the way they feel in his mouth, sticky and sluggishlike caramel jammed in his teeth. He can distinctly feel some of those eyes judging him; somearen'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 youwill be dead."
To Signet, there's nothing more broken than silence. He doesn't understand why people think of itthe other way around.
"It disheartens me to tell you this—" (Not enough, not enough...) "—but this is necessarypunishment for what the Districts took. Before you face these challenges, we will try to makeyou 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 ofletters, 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 beingreborn, no matter what the advisors say. They can't override him, not in this. "We will collectthem during your last night with us. Remember that your faces will be displayed for the entirecountry, 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 apleasure speaking with you. Enjoy your meals."
He stands there for a moment, hands stiff at his sides, then hurries to a corner table. Thetemptation to place his head in his hands and pour ice across his face is almost , he folds his hands and pretends to be intact. All the while, the splintering inside of himbecomes unbearable.
What made him think that he could make any changes in this country without repercussions? Hissister's perilous state should be enough to prove that. But it's not even the hopelessness thatdisturbs 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 diesjust 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 timethat 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 hermind 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 domy best. Under one condition."
She leans in close, and they have a small transaction of mysteries, shared words too quiet for thecameras to pick up. Just as he's preparing to bid her goodbye, awash with new hope, a youngofficial 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 looksafter him; no matter that he sends a tureen spilling gravy across the tablecloth. He's in threemoments 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 Signetstill 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," shewhispers. "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 beashamed of. Other children of her station studied poetry and hosted little tea parties, learningsocial graces and pointless societal constructs. Arya stole her family's weapon prototypes—therewere enough lying around—and took to sharpening her skills. Come morning, she was up andrunning out into the grass, taking her journey across the District at full pelt. She chased the boysaway 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, sloppychalk. Like some careless child... and yet.
Opposites don't coexist in Arya's mind; contradictions aren't possible. But Thena. She's theexception to everything.
She was.)
The Games dropped into Arya's hands at the perfect moment. She'd been pursuing strength andhonor and brutality for ages. A part of her had even hoped for the violent nature of the Capitol'sextravaganza.
While other kids scrambled for a physique that was only one year in the making, Arya cultivatedher 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'tmind a bit of analytical critique. The President is one of the very people she loathes, giving thatempty-eyed speech without even seeming to care. He wouldn't even look her in the eye, andpeople 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 andforced to wear admittedly gorgeous costumes—an angle she's willing to work with, albeit withsome 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 thosestudents who suck up to their masters out of mere hope for reward. And not to mention hisinfuriating 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 theCareers."
"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 toknock someone's teeth in. How quickly a smile can be marred." She touches her glass. "Howconvenient 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, unlessyou 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, applyingpressure 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. Unlikesome—"
"Excuse me?"
Arya glances over to the seat beside her, annoyed at the interruption. She takes in the sizablegroup 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 fromOne, 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 theaudience, Steele."
Arya takes a breath, grudgingly releasing Zean's wrist. The One boy sighs and immediatelyreaches for the salt.
Arya's unused to this much social practice. Still, this One girl's got an air of dignity to her thatArya can appreciate.
"I suppose you have some training behind you?" she asks the girl, completely ignoring the littleone.
The girl gives a half-smile. "Over ten years."
Arya tilts her head, the only sign of her approval. "We have ourselves a deal, then. Assumingyou're smart enough to join me."
"Now wait just a moment…" Ithaca smiles coyly. "It seems we've had our wires crossedsomewhere. I'd say that being trained in two Districts marks me as more than qualified to leadthis alliance."
Arya bristles. "Oh no, little miss. Are you really trying to claim my leadership? You should'vepiped up earlier." She pauses, pretending to consider. "Though even then, it wouldn't have madea difference."
Ithaca begins to chuckle, setting Arya's nerves on edge. "I don't know what world you're living in,but I'm not going to be your underling."
"Neither am I," Arya snaps.
"What an impasse." Ithaca tilts her head. "I suppose you'll have to fly solo."
Well, that can certainly be arranged. "I don't care."
"I'll take Deveraux, then?"
"I'm not an object," Zean growls. "I can't be taken."
"Shut up," the girls say in tandem.
Ithaca regards Zean intently. "What do you say, soldier boy?"
Zean gives Arya a conniving little smile. "I have to go for the more favorable option, Steele."
Oh, absolutely not. As silly as it is, Arya doesn't want to let Ithaca outnumber her in any now that Ithaca sees something in Zean… well, maybe he can be of use yet.
"We're District partners," Arya growls. "Or have you forgotten your loyalties?"
Zean frowns. "Since when did you care about loyalty?"
"Oh, you don't know the first thing about me." Arya adopts a seductive smile, though it makeshis skin crawl. "Or would you like to?"
A grin slowly overtakes Zean's face as he looks between them. "I suppose I'd be wrong tofraternize with the enemy. Time for Two to get their victory, eh, Steele?"
"Sure, whatever," she drawls as Ithaca huffs and turns her back to them. She's not sure why Zeansuddenly has hopes of somehow getting the victory together, but she's having none of it.
"Good luck flying solo, One."
Ithaca flicks her gaze over her shoulder for only a moment. "Oh, I don't plan on being alone."
Arya scowls, but Ithaca doesn't even deign to meet her eyes.
"Allies?" Zean holds out his hand, and Arya can tell he's trying his best to look unbothered. Buthe wants an alliance.
"I'll keep you for now." She crushes his hand in her grip. "But don't forget your place."
Zean glares. "And what would that be?"
She leans close. "A bargaining chip. And if you want to make it a day in the Games, you'll staywith me."
For once, Zean has nothing to say.
Of course, this wasn't how Arya imagined. But she can humor the idea of an alliance, if only fora moment.
It's a real shame. Her and that One girl could've been close, if Ithaca had merely conceded toArya's will.
Still, it's only a small price to pay for the glory to come. Whether she's with one or twenty, itwon'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 tinytrickle of blood where the glass cut his hand. It's shattered on the floor, and a young Avox withblack hair comes to clean it up. He glances over and swears he catches her give him a strangelook, like she's seen him before. She smiles, once and briefly, the look flitting away as soon as ithad 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 theremnants of his anger. It's an all-consuming, hungry thing inside him, the kind of anger that isblinding. The kind that sneaks up on you.
He supposes it's better than the sadness, safer than the primal fear of imagining death just aroundthe 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 toallow dinner. Once they let him out, he'll run back to his room and try to muffle the aftermath ofhis 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 fathercame to say goodbye. The father who used to scream at him over the table, where tension took upall four places. The father who diligently trained Peacekeepers with military precision—trainedthe 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 dodouble-takes, the Tributes skirt around him. Even the Avoxes know her—they find herresemblance in his eyes. They must've heard his eldest sister screaming over the sounds of theReaping.
Not again.
Afterward, he'd screamed at his father once more, asked him if he even cared that his daughterwas gone. "You killed her," he'd cried. "You killed her! Are you even sorry? Can you even feelanything 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 onlyreminiscent of her cow—which is a surprisingly refreshing compliment. He's starting to wish hecould 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 headducked, but that doesn't stop Pandora from eagerly recounting her favorite types of flowers. Rivelsmiles 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 brickwalls and lonely nights without a mother to comfort him. Watching as his family shattered at thejoints. 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 findshimself struggling to hold space for Jack and for himself. Is he anything, really, but an extensionof 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 emblazonedon their chests. The boy is suave and eager and muscular. He looks... oh no, oh please... he lookslike Him.
Before he really knows what's happening, he's out in the hall, pushing past his confused 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 samebackground.
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 notto 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 toperspective. A sweatshop could be a fanciful blacksmith full of humble elves; a dilapidatedmanor could be a Victorian treasure trove. But never has Elysande found it so easy to pretendthan here in the Capitol. As she wanders the halls after dinner, she slips into the persona of braveknight without a sound. Her sparkling shoes and fur coat are armor, her steps a call to action. Shefancies herself a lonely watchman, fortifying the crumbling walls with the wind blowing behindher. Though watching for what, she can't really say. As long as it keeps her two little sisters andbrother safe, it doesn't really matter.
How blissful, how easy it is to forget that darkness ever existed at all. There has always been theCapitol; glittering, luminescent, towering above them like some watchful godmother. The deitythey 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 whodeserve helping, without so much as a glance at the Districts. Here, where the rain slakes theirthirst as the Districts, parched, give more and more to serve their ever-growing need. Here, whereshe 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 andfantasies are stupid, ill-fitting, unproductive. But it's either the daydreams or the desperation. Themourning, 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 tendthe 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 amongthe 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'sfrightened, 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 feelsomeone'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 forthe first time. "Wouldn't that be lovely?" she says gently, bending to Pandora's level. "For yourmama 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 ofmud 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 willsee 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 likepretending?"
(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 shehas 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 theway 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 thestrongest 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 wantedher to be strong. To make fruitful allies or else she'd ruin her family. Is that what she wants, tomake 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 thecastle walls that have become barbed with sharp corners and monsters peeking through thecracks.
She's too blue to co-pretend anymore.
...
Some Nights- Fun.
Well… hi? It's been five-ever, huh? This story has been difficult for me, but I've had help andsupport from you all and I really miss sharing it with you guys and being a part of the those who've read this chapter before, you'll recognize most of this! I'm just making somelittle changes to alliances which will hopefully alleviate some of the stickiness I've been feelingwith this story. You thought our Career girlies would keep any of their hinges? Oh no no no.
Hopefully we'll actually have new content soon HAHA but for now I just wanted to post this andreassure you all that this story isn't over! It just needs remodeling. How have your holidays been?Are you feeling good like you should? I'd love to hear from you all.
Love youuu soo much!
Miri