The only chapter for the interim day between training and the interview day.
Since this chapter is part of the interview arc, as I mentioned last chapter, it'll have 5 POVs at 1,500 words each. This arc will also be the last of the formal POV chapters. So each tribute will have had 3 by the time the Games start.
I hope you enjoy this chapter.
~ Meghan
the Fractured Angles.
...
"I'm never less at leisure than when at leisure, or less alone than when alone."
- Scipio Africanus, 235/6 BC - c. 183 BC, Roman Republic
Raven Night - 18 y.o. - D12
...
-Training Center, Floor 12 -
Raven woke up before dawn.
It was the kind of hazy gray light, hung somewhere between night and day, that made the twilight feel transient.
This was the time Raven loved most. She would spend it at home getting ready while listening to the sounds of the merchant district. Doors would open and close, a rooster would crow, and there was the sound of the shop next door moving around crates of wares.
In their own small home, Raven would meet her siblings downstairs. Her brother was at the table first and Luna would help him prepare breakfast. They cooked whatever they'd purchased the day before, unwanted scraps Damien had been able to take from work, and whatever Raven had managed to bring home from the meadow. It was peaceful then, just the three of them, sitting around the table and enjoying the quiet. It was a comfortable silence.
Then Raven would pull on her warm clothing, her boots, pull her long black hair up into a bun, and go out into the meadow. Her twin sister would go to the mines for her shift record-keeping and Damien would go to the butcher's to begin the day's work. Now that they were eighteen, school was an afterthought, and Raven didn't miss being cooped up in a classroom during the day. She liked to feel the cool mist on her face and smell the morning dew in the meadow.
She'd never really thought of the word home for District 12. She usually thought of it as the place that her parents died as a child, back when sickness had spread through the district one brutal winter.
But now, sitting up in the luxurious bed of her Capitol room, she felt that ache in her chest for home.
Raven wanted the meadow back, she wanted the footsteps of the miner's going home in the evening, she wanted the breakfast table with her siblings.
Here was wrong. Despite being surrounded by more food than she could eat, enough hot water to take a shower for hours, and blankets made of pure silk, it was nothing like what a home should be. It smelled artificial, like fake flowers. There was no hum of activity outside - the Capitol slept in.
The walls seemed too close, the blankets too hot. She was inside a cage. Raven was suddenly a rodent in one of her traps in the meadow, enclosed on all sides, any hope of escape gone, about to become food for the Capitol's insatiable appetite. She was quarry.
Raven practically threw herself out of bed, stumbling. The thin nightgown she'd put on ripped at the hem but she kept hurrying to the door and ripped it open. The hallway was quiet and no Avoxes were in sight. Breakfast was still far off and there was no training in the gymnasium today.
Her feet carried down the hall and towards the elevator but just as quickly, she knew she wouldn't be able to go anywhere. They surely wouldn't let her walk out the front doors of the Training Center. There was nowhere for the elevator to take her.
Raven's throat constricted painfully. Her lungs refused to take in air - no more of this heavily-scented air, tainted and stifling. She needed the wind in her hair, the feeling of soil beneath her feet, anything but this trapped sensation. Was this how the miners in 12 felt?
Raven turned, hurried back down the hallway, breath rasping.
Another door she hadn't paid attention before was at the end. She'd never bothered to wonder what inside, having too much on her mind already, but now she pulled at the handle and the door swung open. Stairs led up, turned around the corner. Raven barely registered herself climbing them, hiking up her nightgown, and then there was another door in front of her.
This one was glass and beyond it - beyond it was a verdant garden beneath wide, gray sky.
Raven opened the door gingerly, almost disbelievingly.
It was the rooftop of the Training Center, garden beds full of blossoming bushes and tall flowers. Wind chimes tinkled overhead and swung in the cool wind. Birds chattered as they took to the sky, skimming across rooftops, perching in the fruit trees beside Raven.
She sank to sit on a mossy rock underneath leafy boughs and let her eyes slip shut. For the first time since her name was drawn at the reaping, she felt safe. It smelled like the earth here, almost like the meadow, and the birdsong was real. The wind swept across her neck and face, scented with lilies and lilac. Raven's hand moved to her necklace and she opened her eyes to gaze down at the crescent-shaped locket.
Inside was a picture of her family - the way it had been. Her parents, her brother, her and her twin with their arms wrapped around each other.
Ever since her parents had died, it sometimes felt like part of her died with them. After that she wasn't their little child anymore. She would wake up early, before school, and go out to the meadow with Damien where he'd teach her how to set snares for small animals, how to find plants that were edible. Someone at the Hob had shown him how to set them up, and he'd always been fascinated by plants like that. It hadn't been enough to save their parents that winter, but it was enough to save them until Damien started working at the butcher.
Neither of them ever went past the electrified fence surround 12. The Meadow didn't have much in the way of plants during the colder months, but it was something, and Raven found peace there that she hadn't found in the shops of the merchant district. Her and her twin's straight black hair told them they had Seam ancestry somewhere. But it wasn't the same as-
"Couldn't sleep?"
Raven stood up, whirling to find Darien watching her.
He sat in front of the edge of the rooftop, green eyes bright.
"Um..." Raven closed her locket. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were up here."
"I found it yesterday night, before dinner. I would've told you..." Darien said softly, trailing off.
A thick quiet settled between them. Of course he hadn't told her. They had barely spoken after breakfast yesterday. That was Darien had said that - I don't think you should trust Nico. I don't think it's a good choice - as if they were friends, as if they were anything more than district partners.
Raven swallowed down the urge to say that she'd missed talking to Darien at dinner. He was still part of 12, somewhere that wasn't really home, but the place where her loved ones were. Here in this garden, she could almost feel like the Capitol wasn't a factor anymore. Or maybe like the Games weren't in two days.
"The view isn't bad from up here," Darien said, finally filling the pause.
Raven took a few steps towards him.
They were impossibly high up here, the Capitol streets far below, and she remembered again why she had pulled the curtains shut in her bedroom as her stomach pitched.
"We're so far from the ground," she said, moving away from the edge and back to the mossy rock. She tried to surreptitiously wipe her sweaty palms on her nightgown. She'd never been somewhere so tall. Nothing in District 12 had this many floors.
"A perk of Twelve getting the penthouse," Darien said wryly. "I'm used to being under the ground."
Back home, nestled in the heart of the mountains, they'd be already in the mines by now, since there was a time difference between the Capitol and 12. The Seam was always quietest then. Raven normally didn't go there - merchant folks were always considered somewhat suspicious in the Seam. They didn't belong.
But some of them would nod at Raven. She'd shared enough of her food and water, carried from the meadow after rain, and shared it with some there. Did Damien know that about her? She felt guilty, then, because while he was under the earth and turning his lungs black, she was always in the meadow.
"I miss home," Raven whispered out loud, let the wind carry her words away. "Even if I hate it sometimes, I miss it."
At first, she didn't think Damien had heard her. But then, "I miss it too. I miss the music. I miss the mountains and the way it looks there at sunrise."
Raven curled her hand around her locket again and Darien turned to face the streets below again. They didn't talk after that, but Raven didn't mind.
She was content to sit there together - her on the earth, him on the edge - as the sun began to rise and gild them in molten orange light.
Nico Araceli - 16 y.o. - D10
...
- Training Center, Floor 10 -
Nico slumped into his seat.
Shit. This was why people complained about hangovers.
He'd already thrown up in his bathroom once that morning. The nausea made the smell of food awful.
Nico pulled the collar of his silk pajama shirt up over his nose. The flimsy material didn't help much. He'd gotten some puke on the pants and had to change out of them. He'd grabbed a random pair of slacks, and they probably didn't match and their escort had definitely given him a disapproving once-over for it when he'd showed up to the table.
Sunlight cut across the dining room, setting all the silverware and glasses glittering. A spread of dishes on the buffet wafted savory smells over. There were platters of sausages cooked in a garlic sauce, tender chunks of red meat in a soup, and rice that could be mixed with chicken covered in spices.
Trying to breathe through his mouth, Nico urged his head to stop throbbing. He ground his teeth and tried to will away the nausea. Somehow he could still smell the meat, and instead of making his mouth water, it made him almost smell the blood and carcasses from back in 10.
Living in the slums of District 10 meant living closest to the slaughterhouses. It meant that, when the breeze blew, he could smell the raw meat, the offal, and even the waste. In the summer it was so unbearable that people often wore cloth masks around to try to block out the reek. But the smell of guts and blood still clung to their clothes. Even if he wasn't the one in the slaughterhouse, it was all over him.
Of course, the slaughterhouses paused production the week of the reaping and the week of the Victory Tour. Everything was hosed down until bloody water ran gushing into the sewer drains and everything was scrubbed down. During those weeks, Nico's brother always came home from work smelling like cleaning chemicals and got a hacking cough. The Capitol entourage couldn't be subjected to bad smells, though, no, no. They would enjoy thick steaks and roasted turkey on the train, pristine white napkins in their laps of course, but they couldn't be expected to see and smell where it came from.
Even now, if Nico squinted and peered over at their escort, Lucia was eating a piece of pear daintily with a fork, careful to not smudge her bubblegum-colored makeup. She had the stench of blood around her too, though. Even though the ones in 10 were the ones who got their hands dirty, hers were covered in blood.
Nico swallowed down an acrid mouthful of bile that came up.
"Are you already done with your breakfast?"
Nico looked up and squinted - why was the sun do damn bright? - at Lovis Granger as she sat down at the table.
"Yeah," Nico lied.
"He hasn't eaten anything since I've been here," Lucia said. "Poor lolly, he looks sick."
Nico still managed to roll his eyes.
He hadn't planned on getting up early. If he'd had it his way, he would still be in bed with the curtains drawn against the light. But then he'd remembered they were supposed to get up, and the idea of Lucia banging on his door - plus the whole puke thing - had him up.
Lovis frowned at Nico. Her plate had rice, beans, and some purple sauce. "Are you feeling sick? Do you want us to call the doctor?"
Nico forced himself to lower his collar from his nose, to stop squinting. "I think some of the food from last night just didn't sit well."
Lucia peered down at her plate in suspicion. She cocked her head. "But we all ate the same thing." Her expression softened. "It's the nerves, isn't it? Don't you worry, sugar plum, the interviews aren't until tomorrow night and you'll have plenty of practice in mock interviews today."
Nico bit back a sigh. Maybe having his head in a toilet again would be better than spending time with Lucia today.
Lovis didn't seem convinced that he didn't need the doctor though. But Nico told her no again, and she finally dropped it, just sparing a few concerned looks at him. When Rumen showed up, Nico was getting more used to pretending to feel more normal. He even choked down some pieces of apple.
It must not have been very convincing though because he saw Rumen looking at him, and then whispering something to Lovis.
Breakfast was almost over by the time Caroline showed up. She was dressed in a bright yellow dress, the same color as her sweater at the reaping, and the color hurt Nico's eyes. He didn't miss how bloodshot her eyes were, though, or how she wouldn't look at him as she quietly made small-talk with the adults.
Nico hadn't remembered what he'd said last night right away. Eventually, it had come back to him, how angry and hopeless he'd felt. He hadn't been able to sleep. The scores kept revolving through his mind. A five. It was too low, too laughable, and no sponsors would care about a tribute who'd had such low chances. The odds weren't in his favor - they never had been.
By the time he'd found the liquor hidden in a cabinet and had rewatched the scores enough that he lost count, he couldn't stop crying.
And then Caroline had shown up and said that stupid fucking question - are you alright? - and he'd hated her so much for it. He hated how wide-eyed and hopeful she still seemed, how she and someone else had loved each other enough that Carolina volunteered to die in that girl's place.
Nico's own father had wanted him to take out tessarae. He hadn't cared if it put Nico's name in there more, he'd made Emilio do the same, just if meant his family had more grain and oil to eat. Nico never had put his name in more. It hadn't mattered. None of it had.
When breakfast ended and Caroline went with Lucia for her etiquette lesson first, Nico followed Rumen to a sitting room. Once Nico had sat down on a sofa, Rumen vanished. He came back in with a basket of break and a glass of water in his big hands.
"You need some something to soak up the alcohol in your stomach," Rumen said.
Nico braced himself for the yelling. He tried to protest, to say that he just hadn't slept well, but he realized quick that it was no use.
Rumen didn't look angry. He didn't yell. For such a tall, muscular man, he didn't look intimidating right then. He just looked disappointed.
It was enough to make Nico look away. He was used to his father's anger, his mother's coldness. He hadn't done anything as a child to push them away, had only responded in kind, but the disappointment in Rumen's eyes was Nico's doing. But what did he have to feel guilty for? He hadn't left the liquor bottle there, he hadn't put his name in the reaping. He was allowed to be angry.
"I know tributes don't get along sometimes," Rumen began. "But you're both already suffering enough. You don't need to make her feel worse."
Nico met Rumen's clear blue eyes.
His mentor didn't look away. "Do you think the Gamemakers wouldn't mention what happened last night to us? They see everything."
That just made Nico angrier. Even his despair wasn't allowed to be private from them.
"We didn't get into a fight," Nico said. "That's against the rules."
"You scared her," Rumen said flatly.
"And once we're in the arena in two days, we're allowed to kill each other."
Rumen watched him carefully. "You think you'd be able to kill her?"
"She's not exactly a threat, she looks starved-"
"I don't mean if you could physically. I mean could you stomach killing her?"
Nico was silent. Finally, he scowled. His head throbbed. "What's it matter?"
"Are you a killer, Nico?" Rumen said.
"People kill in the arena all the time-"
"I'm asking about you."
Nico knew the answer.
"Things change when people get into the arena," Nico said instead. "Nobody comes out innocent."
"I killed four tributes in my Games," Rumen said.
It wasn't even the words that surprise Nico. Objectively, he'd know that, he'd seen the replays of those Games on television enough.
He'd never looked at his quiet-spoken mentor and thought killer though. Rumen had been his age once. He'd gone into the slaughterhouse and come out of it alive.
"One of them was from my district," Rumen continued. "And another was one my allies. I didn't stab him, I didn't fight him, but my words had been enough to drive us apart. Then he went out and I wasn't there when the mutts came."
Nico thought of Raven. She was quiet too, shy. He'd wanted an ally he could use, someone he would sacrifice if he needed to. He hadn't thought of it as killing though. There was only one winner after all. He needed to choose himself. No one else ever had, and he'd been the only one he could rely on.
Rumen pushed the bread across the table towards Nico. "You already have enough to fight on your own. You don't need to be at each other's throats too."
"I'm not going to apologize," Nico said.
"I didn't ask you to. You're allowed to be mad. But you can't give up yet."
Nico finally took a piece of bread. It was still warm. He took a bite, then two, and reached for another when he was done.
Mustang Lane - 18 y.o. - D6
...
- Training Center, Floor 6 -
Mustang glared at the polished marble floor.
"You're meant to be ephemeral, not like you're about to attack someone in the audience."
Kicking at the long dress, Mustang snarled, "I don't want to be ephem-whatever. This is ridiculous."
Romula Bibelot tapped long, metallic nails, arms folded. The metallic birds along the escort's shaved head gleamed in the warm afternoon sun shining through the windows.
How long had they been practicing for the interview now? It felt like an eternity. Romula had eventually talked Mustang into wearing the dress, but the high heels were not about to happen. Romula managed to prance around in them effortlessly, but it looked like a hazard - all unbalanced, open toes, and way too many gemstones.
"As your mentor, Wellim is going to polish your interview this afternoon, but it's my job to make you presentable," Romula said for what must've been the fifth time. "Presentation is eighty-percent of success, after all. Your Stylist is already chomping at the bit to put a wig on you since your hair is so short and long is in right now-"
Mustang's eyes flared. "No. Absolutely not. We don't keep our hair long in Six. Do you know why? Because then it'll get caught in the machinery that make your trains, your cars, your hovercrafts - and it'll pull you in too. The gears will crush your skull and what use is hair that looks pretty, then? I watched a guy get his arm caught in the machine once when I was thirteen. It had already crunched up to his elbow by the time they shut the machine off."
Romula's expression was rigid, but she didn't look sick the way Mustang had hoped. Then again, this woman prepared district children for the slaughter every year.
"Your hair to you is a fashion statement," Mustang said through gritted teeth. "Mine is for my survival. I'm not wearing a wig."
They each glared at each other for a few seconds. Romula was the first to break away, taking a deep inhale and smoothing down her blouse.
"You're job during the interviews is to make yourself memorable to the audience," Romula said. That made six times.
"And capture the attention of the sponsors," Mustang parroted back. "Yeah, I heard you before. My ears work fine."
"Well your head doesn't seem to," Romula snapped, rolling violet-colored eyes.
Mustang shot the woman a sharp look. One push and the escort would tip over in those heels...
"As I said, your mentor will make your personality shine," Romula said, drawing her mouth up in a bright smile. "I'm here to make sure you don't look like oafs on the stage. We wouldn't want your final impression before the arena to be something to laugh at."
"Everyone back home is going to laugh at me," Mustang snapped. She pulled at the frothy layers of blue chiffon cocooning her.
Romula set her hands on her hips. "Well, dearie, they aren't the ones paying for your sponsorship!"
"I don't care!" Mustang yelled, throwing her hands up, screaming in frustration as she got tangled in all the dress' straps. "Get this fucking thing off me!"
"You seem to be forgetting that I'm the one on your side here!" Romula shouted back.
Mustang paused, half wrapped up the dress, staring. She didn't think Romula was capable of yelling. It was so... improper.
"You remind me of my niece," Romula said into the quiet, thick tension. "She's reckless too, just like you, always speaking before she thinks. She never puts anyone before herself either. Neither of you seem to care about the ramifications of what you do."
"Can it get much worse?" Mustang said as she finally yanked the dress off and threw it aside. She pulled her leather jacket back on over her silk lounge clothes, the plainest ones she could find in her closet. "I'm going into the Games in less than forty-eight hours. Nothing matters now."
Romula screwed up her lips enough to ruin her fuschia gloss. "You have a chance. That's not nothing."
"Easy for you to say," Mustang snapped. She didn't care that Romula was Capitol, that there were probably cameras in this room and bugs listening. "You get to go home to your family tonight and sleep in your own bed. You get to wake up and not smell motor oil or have to wear a mask because the air outside burns your lungs. You actually get to live your own life, Romula, so please fuck off an let me live my last days how I want."
It was just like on the train, except this time Romula didn't turn and walk off. Wellim wasn't here to tell Mustang to play nice.
Instead of getting angrier, though, Romula seemed to deflate a bit. She looked older then, and Mustang realized that - for all the other alterations the woman had done - she hadn't altered her face to look artificially younger like some Capitol did.
"I have seen children much younger than you come in here and wish they could have your chances," Romula finally said softly. "I have seen children your age come in here, and fight so hard to win. Not everyone has the fire that you do, Mustang. Some come here already broken."
"And this is supposed to make me see the error of my ways?" Mustang seethed. "Throwing district kids back at me that you sent to the slaughter?"
Romula met her gaze, unwavering. "I'm saying this because there are people who want you fight to win. I saw them at the reaping. They want you back."
Mustang couldn't help the image of Vesta that flitted through her thoughts.
She hadn't looked at her sister at the reaping. She had been so furious, nearly shaking with rage, but part of her had also been relieved that it wasn't her sister. Her brother had been there too. It was Ford's first reaping, just one name in the drawing, but that was already one too many.
They were going to be watching her tomorrow night. They weren't sponsors shelling out their bets on her life - they just wanted her to come back with a pulse. Wouldn't that be ironic if the final time she'd let down her mother was by dying on the television?
The thought was dark, even for Mustang. It didn't make her bitterly happy. It just made her feel hollow.
For a moment, she felt like a little kid again, being picked up and swung onto her father's shoulders. She was small again and not minding the callouses on her mother's hands as they cupped her face. They were the only audience she truly cared about. They were the ones she wanted to see her tomorrow.
And then she thought of someone else, practically still a stranger.
Royal had people who wanted him back too. He'd spoken about his girlfriend with such love it was almost sickening. But his eyes had lit up, and he'd made Mustang feel like she was back home for a moment, running with Hina and Roaden - with someone she could trust to have her back.
Mustang fought down every ounce of pride in her body, pushing them beneath her bones, swallowing down the words as if they burned.
She didn't want the damn sponsors. If she died in the arena, then so be it, but she wouldn't do it on a stomach full of Capitol charity. Or, at least that's what she'd wanted. But it wasn't just she had to count on now. She'd be in the arena in two days, but she had an ally now.
Damning the consequences worked when it was just her shoulders they fell on. Royal was nice, though. Genuine. He was outer district, and that made them allies in another way, both held under the Capitol's thumb - they needed to have solidarity. And she couldn't end up throwing that in his face during the interviews. She could at least do that for one night, if just to spite the fucking Capitol that way: two district kids who were allying together, and refusing to fight.
Besides, the lap dogs in 1, 2, and 4 seemed to have that district traitor attitude covered plenty enough.
If getting one sponsor for her and Royal meant on less person showering supplies on those shitheads, then it was worth it. The Capitol couldn't take her thoughts - not yet - so she could keep her mind. She would play the puppet but the Capitol would never know that she was imagining them all burning in their seats.
"I'm not doing this for you," Mustang snapped at Romula.
"I know," Romula said neutrally.
This was the closest they would to a good relationship, Mustang knew. It was a temporary truce.
Romula would shape her into someone who could carry out Capitol etiquette that said there was a wrong way to sit in your dress while sending children off the Hunger Games and enslaving those in the districts. Then, after however many hours that took, she and Wellim would work on her angle: how best to show herself off.
"You have a six in training," Romula said. "It's not bad, it's not amazing, and we can polish it."
Royal had scored higher. Mustang couldn't even remember his score now, but it was more than her six. She needed to make up for it.
"Alright. But I'm not wearing the heels," Mustang said.
"We can work without them," Romula answered with a shrug.
"And I'm not wearing a dress."
Romula pressed her lips into a line. "Fine."
"Let's get to work," Mustang said, and gave a blazing smile.
Lewis Fowler - 13 y.o. - D11
...
- Training Center, Floor 11 -
Lewis was glad to have lunch with Husk Rusor.
The lounge faced a big avenue outside, and the sun shone fiercely above.
Down below, the Capitol was busy. Lewis had never seen so many people, and from up here they looked like colorful ants.
As much as Lewis enjoyed eating meals with Juniper and Kera, he also liked finally having a meal just with his mentor. Growing up in 11, everyone knew Husk. He'd won the 2nd Hunger Games and that was impressive enough, but he was also a familiar face at the food markets and celebrations. Sometimes he even got invited to weddings - and he always danced too.
But Husk was also a quiet man, and Lewis was hungry, so they sat in a comfortable silence.
It was only broken when Lewis finished off his last piece of toast, which he'd slathered in a tangy-sweet layer of berry marmalade. Every day in the Capitol, he tried to make himself eat more. He'd never gone hungry back home, not the way some of the poorest in the district had, but he knew he needed to keep up his strength here.
"You have a good appetite," Husk said. He smiled over his cup of mint tea, and his eyes smiled too.
"That's why my friends always say," Lewis said with a broad smile back. "My mama made me a birthday cake once with fresh blueberries, and that was the best thing I'd ever had, but that lunch was pretty good too."
Husk nodded. "Blueberries are always the best choice. I grow some outside of my house."
Lewis couldn't help picturing the Victor's Village in his head. Sometimes he, Ruby, and Jermaine would go on long walks together and pass by the gate. It wasn't electrified like the fence around the district, but nobody ever passed through it anyway. It almost seemed like another world there, all the ten identical mansions in a circle, ringing a fountain, looking so out of place.
He knew factually that their district's victors lived there. The rest of the houses were empty, waiting on another victor to take up residence. But they didn't look like homes, not really. They were too large, too alike - nothing like his colorful bedroom with the quilt his grandmother had made and the warmth of the hearth on cold winter nights.
It made him sad to imagine Husk in the Victor's Village, alone in his home. No one should be alone, but especially not older folks, and especially not someone as nice as Husk. Or did all the other victors get together and make meals with one another?
"Does your mom still make you birthday cake?" Lewis asked.
Husk's smile turned a bit sad. "She used to, when we had enough sugar to make one. She passed a while ago, though."
"Oh." Lewis felt his face heat. "I'm sorry... my mom too."
"She must've been a wonderful lady to have raised such a good son," Husk said.
That made Lewis perk back up. "Thank you. Do you have any kids?"
"I have a son," Husk said. "He's much older than you, though. He has his own kids now."
Lewis smiled. "They must like getting to have you as their grandmother. I would."
Something flickered through Husk's warm , gold-flecked brown eyes, something that Lewis couldn't place, but then Husk was setting down his mug of tea. The tendrils of steam were gone, but Lewis could still smell the floral fragrance of it. It was close to the thistle and buttercup that grew along the fences in District 11.
"Well," Husk began, "I should be the one asking you the questions."
"Right, we're supposed to be practicing for the interviews, I'm sorry," Lewis said sheepishly.
He'd spent a few hours that morning with the escort for 11, and Lewis didn't like Nero Ticket. The man made it clear with his exasperated sighs and sour looks that he disapproved of Lewis and Juniper. Lewis had realized pretty fast that morning that Nero liked hearing himself talk, and mostly just let him go on and on.
Nero had spent a while demonstrating "proper posture and carriage" which was just his fancy way of saying to sit up straight, keep his shoulders back, and walk confidently - not too fast and not too slow. It was obvious that he thought someone from the districts wouldn't know those things. Lewis had prided himself on already knowing those things. He wasn't about to be pushed around by a bully, and definitely not someone like Nero. In the end, after Lewis had sat perfectly facing the fake audience and put on his best smile, Nero didn't seem to have anything to criticize.
"No, don't apologize, Lewis," Husk said. "And we'll start working on the interviews soon, you already spent a few hours with Nero. How was it?"
Lewis tried to choose his words carefully. "Well, I think my posture is good. Nero didn't say I did anything wrong when we did a mock interview."
A mischievous twinkled shone in Husk's eyes. "It's okay, I don't like Nero either, even if you're too kind to say it."
That made Lewis laugh.
"But we still have a little while left for lunch. I just meant that I was to get to know you a bit better. We've talked every night at dinner about training and what's next, but I want to get to know you. On the train you told me that your father is a field worker. He's in the orange orchards, right?"
Lewis nodded. It made his heart warm, the idea that Husk had been listening and remembered that.
"What's his name?" Husk asked.
"Coleman," Lewis said. "And my mama's name is Viola."
"Do you want to talk more about them?"
The fact that Husk hadn't just asked him to talk about his parents, but had offered Lewis the choice, made the boy pause.
Yes, yes he did want to talk about them. Maybe not just anyone, but he trusted Husk. He trusted Kera and Juniper, too. He wanted them to know about his life. Everything in 11 felt so far away, and Lewis felt his throat closing up.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, feeling the hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
Husk didn't tell him to stop crying. Instead he pulled a hanky out of his pocket and handed it to Lewis.
Lewis wiped away his tears and swallowed hard. He took a long breath, then another. "My daddy is pretty serious. He spends a lot of time working. I think I'll have my growth spurt soon, and then I'll be as tall as he is. We... well, we don't really get along much. He thinks I've always been a bit soft, but my mama didn't think that. She loved everyone and everything."
"It's much easier to destroy something than it is to build it up," she'd said, cradling a little ball of feathers.
Lewis stood on a chair to watch. The bluebird in his mother's hands was so small. Their neighbors had told her to just let the bird die after it had smashed into a window. But his mother had just scooped it up, speaking to it gently, her hands strong as she turned her back on the ones who said the bird wasn't worth saving.
She had carefully bandaged its wing, taking time to show Lewis how she'd done it. Now the wing looked like new without the bandage.
His mother opened her hands and the little bird peered around. It fluttered its wings once, twice. Then it flew into the air and was gone in a flash of blue.
"But life is more important than just tearing things down, and it takes more courage," she'd said, kissing Lewis on his forehead.
Lewis smiled at the memory and looked down at his own hands, hidden inside his burlap gloves, clutching the tissue. "And then, Pierce is the one who taught me how to box, even kickboxing too. He's like my brother, I guess."
Husk was quiet for a moment before he tilted his head. "Would this be the Peacekeeper who visited you in the Justice Hall?"
It seemed obvious that Husk would've heard about that, Lewis figured. He nodded. "He's from District Two, but he doesn't talk about it much. Pierce and my dad are friends, I guess, and he knew my mama. I don't really know why he's a Peacekeeper since he's so nice, and, well, I think being a Peacekeeper doesn't really suit that. He even caught me sneaking into an orchard once. He didn't even report me, just made me promise not to do it again."
"Sneaking into an orchard? That takes guts," Husk said.
Lewis' face lit up a with a grin. "I like climbing the biggest trees and seeing how high I jump off. Ruby says it's silly to do, but Jermaine thinks it's fun."
He started talking about his friends after that. He couldn't help wondering what they were up to at that moment. Were they think about him too? He hoped they were spending time together, not being sad at home. Lewis hoped his father wasn't sad either. He didn't see his father smile much, but when he did, it made everything brighter.
"I..." Lewis trailed off after he'd laughed over a story about Ruby and Jermaine, one that made Husk chuckle too. "I'm glad you're my mentor. I just wanted to say that."
Husk got that look on his face again, one that was almost sad. But then he smiled. "I'm honored, Lewis."
Lewis nodded, glancing out towards the window, and watching a bird fly past them.
Evlin Grove - 14 y.o. - D7
...
- Training Center, Floor 7 -
interview prep
Evlin tried not to yawn.
She'd spent the last hour with Sawyer Yule as he attempted to coach her for the interviews.
It beat tottering around in the heels that the escort - who Evlin still couldn't remember the name of - had her try to walk in that morning. The dress had been too shiny, too sparkly, too impractical. If Evlin remembered to hold the hem, she forgot to step with her toes first. If she remember the toes, she forgot the hem.
Either way it was ridiculous. Somehow it made her miss the faded red dress she'd worn at the reaping. At least that one wasn't constantly tripping her.
But now, with the large lunch making Evlin sleepy, Sawyer wasn't really helping.
Evlin was so used to seeing him substitute teach in District 7 that it felt funny having him teach her here. Only he wasn't in a wooden schoolhouse telling them the difference in tree woods (balsam poplar and northern white cedar were soft, snakewood and camelthorn were hard), and it didn't seem like he understood her personality as well as trees.
As Sawyer hummed and mumbled to himself about "introverted? Maybe demure?" Evlin tried to think of what kind of tree she would be.
Maybe black ironwood, its heartwood all reds and violets, its grain even. She liked that it was resistant to termites and rot. That was something a victor should be - strong and solid, unmoved by any of the stupid Capitol's peacocking around.
Or, maybe that was what Evlin felt more like. A peacock, all dressed up in fancy clothes that weren't hers, paraded on a stage tomorrow night to show off her feathers. Only she'd be dead and served on a table, just like the stuffed peacock at dinner they'd all eaten after the parades. The Capitolites had even decorated the cooked bird with some colorful feathers to make their food look pretty.
Then again, it's not like she was complaining about a stomach full of food. Evlin rubbed at her eyes as she sat back in the soft armchair.
"Why don't we try a shy angle," Sawyer suggested after another minute of thinking to himself.
So far they'd tried fierce, but she didn't have the ferocity, then charming, but she didn't have the quick smile for it, then sweet, but she didn't have very sweet things to say. At first Sawyer had tried talking through it as if her were Caesar Flickerman, seeing what angle came out naturally, but Evlin had a hard time taking him seriously. Well, she had a hard time taking Caesar seriously too.
"Why do I need an angle?" Evlin finally asked.
"It makes you more memorable," Sawyer answered matter-of-factually.
"But isn't the audience there to get to know us? Wouldn't they just remember us like that?"
"The people here in the Capitol are... fickle. Their attention gets caught on the shiniest thing."
"I'm not a shiny thing," Evlin said. "I don't want to tell them anything about me, but I don't want to put on some dumb act either."
Sawyer glanced down at his hands, fingers laced together, elbows braced on his knees as he sat across from her. He looked older like this, like he could be her father. The lines in his face were more prominent. But Evlin was focused on the pity in his eyes, the kind she hated to see.
She bristled, and was about to snap something about wanting to go rest, just something to leave and not have to be looked at like some poor fragile thing. But just as she opened her mouth, her temper cooled. Sawyer wasn't just anyone. He wasn't some Capitolite or someone from 7 looking at her with sadness, like she'd already lost the Games, like it was inevitable that she didn't stand a chance.
Sawyer was her mentor - and he was a victor. Evlin was used to seeing him as a teacher, but he had been in her place before. He was the only one who could understand how she felt. He was one of the very few who had that same dread of her name being read aloud on that stage become a reality. Did the kids in the audience look relieved when he was chosen instead of them? Did they visit him after, in the Justice Building?
As if he could read her mind, Sawyer asked softly, "what did you think when they called your name at the reaping?"
Evlin picked at a thread on the chair's arm to keep her hands from shaking. Sawyer didn't push her to answer. Maybe it was quiet for a minute, maybe a few, but she was glad he didn't ask again and just let her sit there in the quiet.
"Terrified," Evlin said eventually, and almost hated how young she sounded she said it.
Her mentor didn't mock her, though. "Anything else?"
The thread on the chair came loose. It was an imperfection, something marring the perfect fabric.
"That I would try to win."
Her declaration hung in the air.
Evlin could feel the moment viscerally again, as if her vision was back in the moment.
She could hear the balsam steps up to the stage creaking beneath her steps. She could smell the fir trees on the warm breeze, could hear the distant sparrows chirping. The girl's name was picked first, so she'd had to stand there alone, everyone's attention on her.
Evlin hadn't cried. She hadn't been shaking like Cin eventually was, and wasn't pouring sweat like him either. She couldn't feel anything beyond that terror, sinking into numbness, as her thoughts sharpened like the bit of an ax. I have to try to win. I have to try to win. I have to try to win.
"No one came to visit me at the Justice Building," she blurted, voice a whisper. "I mean, my parents did. But no one else did."
Sawyer blinked at her. Again, her didn't speak, and left it for her to decide.
"I don't have anyone I want to go back to Seven to. I can't die knowing that no one would be at my funeral. I don't want to die, Mr. Yule."
He swallowed, and Evlin saw that his hands were the ones shaking. "I want to help you win. I'm going to everything I can to bring you out of there alive, Evlin. The interviews are... they're part of this whole evil show."
Evlin's eyebrows rose. Was her mentor allowed to use that word? It was treason to call the Capitol evil, but did those rules apply to the victors? She didn't know.
"They're part of it," Sawyer said, an edge of anger in his voice. "But playing into their act is how you win that part. You want the Capitol to remember you, to want to sponsor you, to know who you are. You need show them who Evlin Grove is."
"I don't know who I am," Evlin mumbled. Was she supposed to know? She'd always assumed she had a whole long life to figure that out.
"I know you always have the answers correct to my questions in class," Sawyer returned.
Evlin shrugged. "You ask easy questions."
He laughed at that. It was a belly laugh, the kind that Evlin sometimes heard from her father on rare occasion.
A smile twitched at Evlin's lips. When was the last time she'd actually smiled? Maybe a couple weeks ago when she'd watched a squirrel steal a piece of Bough Carter's lunch outside. There hadn't been much to smile about in the Capitol.
"I'm smart," Evlin finally said. She twisted the loose thread around her thumb. "And I'm good at reading people. The Capitol people, they think we're stupid in the districts. But I'm one of the smartest in my class."
"You're smarter than the people here in the Capitol too," Sawyer said.
Evlin lifted her eyes up to the ceiling for a moment, looking for some sign of a microphone. Wouldn't they be mad at Sawyer for saying something like that? Would they punish him like back home, putting someone in the stocks? Then again, Evlin couldn't see how they could punish him worse than putting Sawyer in the arena.
"I don't stand out to anyone," Evlin said, unsure if she was talking about District 7 or the Capitol at first. "Our parade costumes weren't good. And I got a six in training. Some of the other kids scored a lot higher. I can't take a test on the stage to prove I'm intelligent."
"Why don't you try to think of the interview like a game?" Sawyer offered. "You can read the crowd, see what you observe about their reactions to what you say. Tailor what you say next to get the reaction you want. It's all a game, and you'll outsmart them without them even realizing it. Make them remember you - not just as the girl from Seven, but as Evlin."
Like a puzzle piece snapping into place, Evlin's thoughts cleared.
The idea of outplaying the crowd of Capitolites, of fooling them, was enough to almost make her excited about the interviews.
A smile bloomed on her face, small but there, and hope unfurled in Evlin's chest like the blossoms that covered the trees in 7 during spring.
I hope everyone is having a good March!
Let me know your thoughts on this chapter. I would appreciate anyone's thoughts, if you feel like leaving a little review.
Thank for reading!
~ Meghan