The Head Gamermakership of Charlemagne Royage

by crunchy_granola

Summary:

Charlemagne Royage was head gamemaker for a few terrible years. Fulvia spent most of this time hyperventilating, taking deep breaths, and screaming into a pillow. Plutarch spent it building a rebellion. The following vignettes are the memories that the alcohol didn’t bury.

Notes:

As hinted at by the summary, this work will be notably darker than its predecessors. Fulvia realizing that her work is fundamentally evil is not a fun process for her. It's going to be so much fun for us, though. As always, remember she's an unreliable narrator.

Chapter 1: Fulvia Cardew hates her boss

Charlemagne’s first official act as head gamemaker was to recall all of the victors for that stupid calendar shoot idea that Plutarch had last pitched. It was for this reason that Fulvia found herself on a photoshoot set at 8 in the morning. Granted, it had evolved into a catchall photoshoot, and granted, the photoshoot timeline aligned with the most recent media campaign that the President’s Office had requested, so it wasn’t a total waste of a trip. Still, it created more work than Fulvia wanted, especially during what was usually their one calm month of the year. Fulvia hadn’t even had time to review the outfits the stylists had submitted! Crispus had managed to get Maureen and Brento out of it, given that the victory tour was in a month, but the rest of the victors hadn’t been so lucky.

“Could be worse,” She commented to Crispus as he handed her a coffee. The prop table and craft services tables had been set out next to each other. The contrast of doughnuts, swords, and victor crowns made for a funny picture. Fulvia motioned that the photographer should capture it. It could be suitable for a B reel. Crispus shrugged as he hopped into the chair beside her.

“The photographers need 15 minutes, then they’re ready.”

“So we’re behind already?”

“Yep.” Crispus popped his “p” and took a deep breath.

“Typical.” Fulvia sipped her coffee and debated if it would be better to pop some pain medication now or later. She eyed the makeup chairs across the room where Felix and Max sat. Tigris was over by them, sipping coffee and swapping gossip like they had all day. Technically, she was supposed to be supervising the students applying gold glitter to Max’s hair, but they seemed to have it in hand. The District Two escort was arriving with Brutus, Cael, and the other District Two male victors. Fulvia sighed. It would be a long few days.

“Max! Do some pushups and then come on over!” Crispus called. The senior mentor nodded. Felix waved his mentor off.

“Have fun.”

“Thank you,” Max replied.

Fulvia took her seat at the computer, where she’d be able to review the images. She took a breath to steady herself. So much had already changed about media. Charlemagne’s “New Era” had affected her and Crispus the most. The new rules were blunt. No more ad hoc media with victors speaking; Caesar had sole interviewing privileges, except for elimination press conferences. Victors would be expected to handle engagements solo, but it would be permissible for victors of the same district to attend parties together. Exceptions would be made (and had already been made to assemble this photoshoot), but they needed to be preapproved.

Fulvia didn’t get it. Allowing the victors to give separate interviews was essential for building confidence, enabling them to secure more sponsors. Sending multiple victors to the same party ensured that everyone had a chance to meet them. The new rules would just exoticize the victors they had and make it harder to develop the freshly minted victors into mentors. Suffice to say, the “Fed Games” was dead, and Fulvia was a little upset about it.

Plutarch joined her a few minutes later. He and Crispus were running camera calls today, and Fulvia would implement the President’s vision for the latest poster campaign tomorrow.

“We’re out of body oil, so we’re just using olive oil. It’ll photograph the same.” Plutarch didn’t seem stressed about it. Fulvia blinked. That was a major screw up, and it could very easily come down on her. She turned to him. “I know, I know.” He added. “We’ll figure out how it happened later, but for now, the olive oil will do.”

“Can we just have one normal day?” She asked. Fulvia rested her forehead in her hands as a movement. She looked up and sighed. Plutarch laughed. He clinked his coffee against hers.

They sped through the first few photos. Max was a seasoned (in this case, literally seasoned) victor who hit his poses effortlessly. Between the flexes and the piercing eyes he sent into the camera, Fulvia knew that every Capitol housewife would be clamouring to buy a calendar or whatever magazine these got printed in. He twirled the prop sword around in his hands like it was a toy in between takes.

They ran into trouble with Felix, as his spray tan had rubbed off on his white tank top when the oil was applied, but that could be fixed in post-production.

“Or, Felix, just take the tank top off?” Crispus suggested. Felix tugged it off over his head and tossed it at Max.

“Wait!” Fulvia called from the camera. “Do that one more time, but throw it at the camera instead.” It put them another few minutes behind schedule, but the pictures were so good that no one cared. Plus, the twos would be quick. The male victors from Two hit their poses effortlessly. Fulvia didn’t mention that the stylists had clearly not collaborated at all here.

“I wanted to do one last personality photoshoot before Charlemagne took over,” Tigris explained to Fulvia. Her voice dropped. “He’s making a lot of changes, as you know.”

“He won’t last. This is very temporary.” Fulvia soothed. Tigris nodded.

“Still. I’ve never had a head gamemaker request certain outfits for certain victors, though.” Tigris’s voice was tense. Fulvia nodded.

“I’m aware. Have you spoken to Crispus about it?” Tigris nodded. Fulvia stirred sugar into her coffee. She looked up.

“Wait…plural victors?”

“Plural victors. I hope someone takes him out soon.” Tigris’s tone was so casual. She could have been commenting on the weather. Fulvia blinked. Take him out? Surely Tigris couldn’t mean… “Excuse me. I need to go check something.” Fulvia blinked harder and stirred her coffee deliberately.

“I’m so excited to eat something that isn’t a chicken breast.” Cael declared as soon as his robe was back on. “Felix, save me a doughnut!” He ran for the craft service table. Fulvia took a deep breath. None of this was new information. She had to focus. Two years, and then President Snow would remove Charlemagne. They just had to last two years.

Percy still needed help with poses, but he was so coachable that no one minded. His stylist had him shirtless and wearing what looked like woven swim trunks. Crispus ran the camera calls for most of the shots.

“This is an easy one. Just cross your arms and stare into the camera.” Crispus stood next to the camera and mimed the pose. “Great Percy. Now smirk.” He prompted. “Wait, you can do a handstand, right?” Turns out, Percy could do a handstand, but not when the floor was covered with olive oil. He winced as he got up off the floor. Crispus looked over at Fulvia.

“We got it.” She answered. They actually had the fall in slow motion, but for the millisecond he’d been up, it had been amazing. “Percy, are you ok?” She called. Percy gave her a thumbs up and limped over to Cael and Felix. They offered a mocking round of applause, but Felix also offered a doughnut. Plutarch disappeared as they finished shooting the men.

“Looks awesome, Haymitch.” Crispus toggled through more shots. Haymitch did not look awesome. Haymitch looked drunk and like he didn’t want to be here. In fairness, no one wanted to be here, but Fulvia was faking, and so could he! Crispus directed more. “Try to relax your shoulders a little.”

“Tilt the crown a little,” Effie called from the background.

“Thank you, Effie. We got it,” Crispus added. “You’re good, Haymitch. Go enjoy your day.” Crispus stepped away from the viewing screens. “Thank you, everyone. Let’s reset and get ready to do it all over again.” Fulvia nodded. She was more excited to see what the stylists had come up with for the women. Their outfits were just better overall. With the male victors, it was always the same variation of a suit or something wrapped around their waist. Maybe someone got creative with materials and color. With the women, you never knew what the stylists had cooked up. Plutarch reappeared with the call sheet.

“We’re redoing the schedule. Mags is up first now. Something about something not fitting someone right.”

“Classic,” Crispus replied. He grabbed the call sheet from Plutarch. Fulvia glared at him. He looked up at her. “What? This happens all the time. The stylists have to guess on sizes, and a lot of the girls fluctuate.”

“I am well aware of how women’s weight fluctuates, thank you,” Fulvia replied. She rolled her eyes. Cripus was arguably her best friend, and Plutarch was less of an anathema than he used to be, but she was not having this conversation with them. Crispus took the sheet from Plutarch and nodded.

“Ok. Mags first, and then let’s get Maeve done. I don’t want her doing this in front of Charlemagne.” He commented. Plutarch nodded, and Fulvia did the same.

“Where is he anyway?” She asked. “I figured he would want to micromanage us?”

“Dunno. Wherever he is, I hope he stays there.” Plutarch admitted.

“Ditto.” Agreed Crispus. The three shared a smirk. The games complex was intolerable these days. Charlemagne had an ego bigger than any of Fulvia’s ex-boyfriends (not that she had a lot of those). He yelled at junior staffers for even the slightest misunderstandings. He’d reduced one of the interns to tears last week! The media staff only left the spin suite if they needed to, and the other staffs did the same. It was honestly so sad. Some of Fulvia’s favorite memories of being a younger staffer were of wandering the complex and meeting other junior staffers. “Auerlia, is Mags ready yet?” Crispus shouted down the hall. The clacking of high heels sounded, and Mags appeared next to Four’s escort. The stylists had put on a military style jacket in a nod to her victory tour poster. She looked great. Fulvia wished she were that unafraid of aging.

“Yes. Yes. We’re ready.”

“Admittedly, I thought I had aged out of this.” Mags muttered. Crispus smiled.

“You’re a legend. And legends don’t age out of anything.”

“Lucky me.” Crispus didn’t reply. He squatted and rested his hands on his knees. Fulvia resisted the urge to laugh at him. He took this aspect of the job so seriously, but he also needed to be teased, or his ego would get too big.

“You know how to pose for this?” Mags stood on the x and tilted one shoulder to the camera. Fulvia checked the lighting. It was perfect. A few clicks, and then Maeve was next. Fulvia exhaled as the redhead took her mark. Her hair held a bounce again, and there was color in her cheeks. Again, the stylists from Four or any other District had not communicated with each other, but Fulvia was so happy to see a healthy Maeve that she didn’t even care. “Ok. And Maeve, your turn.” Crispus called. Maeve nodded, and she lifted her hitched skirt so she could get to her mark. Fulvia needed to ask about those black platform boots. Black leather arm bangles, paired with a strapless, cinched top, complemented her fiery red hair and grounded the entire ensemble.

“She almost looks like Boudicca,” Plutarch commented.

“I think for it to be burlesque, she would need a corset,” Fulvia replied. Plutarch made a face. “What?” Fulvia asked.

“Nothing.” Maeve hit her poses like a seasoned professional. She was a seasoned professional. Snow, has it been 10 years already? She barely needed any prompting.

“Can you flip the hair a little more?” Crispus asked. Maeve nodded.

“I can try. It’s just a lot of extensions.” She replied. She flipped her hair off to one side.

“Well. Don’t do it if it’s going to be painful.” Fulvia overruled. She gestured to the nearest associate. “Turn the fan on. We can fake the rest of it in post production.” Fuvia showed the subsequent shots to Crispus. He nodded.

“Yeah. So much better.” He agreed. Victoria was similar, but her stylist had taken the opposite route. Typically, the stylist for District One employed soft pastels, clean lines, and allusions to angels, birds, or jewels. The ethereal contrasted well with the reputations their victors earned in the arena. Well, there were certainly allusions to birds in this outfit.

Victoria wore a metal miniskirt and a smaller metal top, with a pink tulle shrug draped over her shoulders for ease of posing. The main attraction, however, was the hair. Giant feathers came out of her victor’s crown, and at least 30 diamonds twinkled on her neck. Silver glitter streaked across her bare stomach.

“You look really good,” Maeve commented. She ripped a piece of a doughnut off and gave some to the escort standing by her. Victoria lit up at the complement.

“I like it! It’s fun! And look how well it moves!” She did a half-twirl as she moved to the X marked in front of the camera.

“You look awesome.” Fulvia agreed. She checked the light and signaled that they were ready to roll again. Honestly, maybe the stylists should just all go rogue more often. The victors looked great! And it was showing in the pictures. Victoria finished taking her pictures, and then Crispus pulled her and Maeve aside. Fulvia reset the cameras, and Casey was up next. They would need to redo the entire call sheet at this point. Whatever. As long as Charlemagne didn’t show up, Fulvia didn’t care. She called out a few instructions for Casey and kept an eye on Crispus. He was speaking quietly to the two victors.

“Real talk,” he began. “How are Percy and Cecelia holding up?” Maeve and Victoria glanced at each other. Victoria smirked.

“Percy’s fine.” Maeve opened. Victoria nodded.

“Cecelia is, too. She’s honestly a little bit of a bitch.” She added. Crispus rolled his eyes. Maeve nodded excitedly.

“I know!” She tapped Victoria on the shoulder with her open palm in a move that was very reminiscent of how Fulvia used to gossip with her social club friends. “I was expecting her to be like Wiress, but she’s like us!” Maeve sounded shocked.

“Guys…” Crispus sounded tired. Maeve took a deep breath.

“We know,” Victoria replied. “But, really, she’s doing well.”

“Ok.” Crispus nodded. “Please encourage her to come to me if something goes wrong. What happened to you two should never happen again.” Fulvia made a mental note to ask him about that. Crispus raised his voice, just loudly enough so the nearest associates would be able to hear him. “Also, let’s watch the figures now, shall we? You’re not as young as you used to be.” Fulvia fought to keep her face passive. What a horrific thing to say to someone! The two closest game maker associates, both young women, seemed similarly horrified. Victoria nodded.

“We just follow your example, Gamemaker Ravinstill.” She smiled sweetly. Fulvia pivoted so that she could focus back on the current session.

Ironically, Cecelia struggled the most with getting a good picture. Crispus had retaken his seat next to Fulvia at the viewer. He zoomed in on a close-up of Cecelia and bit his lip. Fulvia could tell Cecelia was watching them, and not looking at the camera. Their whispers were stressing her out. Unfortunately, Crispus was also stressing Fulvia out.

“You cannot say that,” Fulvia whispered. “Tell the escorts, but in public? Crispus…”

“I know, I know.” He muttered. “Why do you think I did it like that?” He smirked at her. She rolled her eyes. Crispus bit his lip and looked up at Cecelia. “Try and stand up a little straighter!” He called. Cecelia nodded.

“I know. I’m sorry, I’m trying.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulders again. Fulvia frowned. What was the issue here? The outfit was cute and matched her personality well; she’d done photoshoots before without many problems. She just didn’t look comfortable or like she wanted to be there. Crispus tugged his uniform jacket off and then stood by the associate, taking pictures.

“You’re doing fine.” He commented. “Watch what I do and then copy me. Widen your stance a little. Good. Weight in your left leg, and then put an arm behind your head. No, angle it more.” Cecelia followed along.

“Much better,” Fulvia called. Cecelia physically exhaled. Crispus did two more poses with her and then called it a day.

“How much post-production will these need?” He asked quietly. Fulvia shrugged.

“Standard.” She replied. Cecelia was still learning some aspects of her job. She was allowed to struggle. There was nothing more to be said.

It took another few hours to get everyone through, but Fulvia thought the individual shots looked great. Charlemagne never showed, and Fulvia didn’t really care. Seeder finished the day off, and then Crispus stood up.

“Great work, everyone. Let’s spend 10 minutes cleaning up, and then we can get ready to do it all again tomorrow.” Crispus shouted. Fulvia clapped. Plutarch high fived her. She dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

“Now we need to look at all of the proofs!” It was the worst part of every photoshoot. She would delegate to the associates, but proofs were too important. Besides, she was still trying to decipher which of her newest staffers were quality hires and who was a nepo baby. Some were both, but she had a feeling Charlemagne wouldn’t have let her have a competent staff.

“I thought that was your favorite part of the job?” Crispus teased her. Fulvia rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, no.” She began clicking through images and tagging them based on the amount of retouching they would require. “My favorite part of the job is when tributes turn into victors and victors turn into mentors.” He nodded. It was one of his favorites as well.

Day two of the photoshoot rolled out. The president’s vision for the next wave of Panem pride posters involved stylized portraits of the victors from each District, accompanied by their crowns and the weapons they had used in their respective arenas. Messages like “Your District needs a victor, will you rise up?” would be attached, along with other district-specific taglines. Fulvia had thought of the one for District Nine, and she was very proud of it.

Some of the posters involved all the District’s victors posing together, while others required solo shots (Sorry, Haymitch). They ticked off the districts one by one. Zara straightened Victoria’s victor crown in between pictures, and Palladium poked Felix with a spear as they were setting everyone up.

“Can we do a silly one?” Felix asked as they finished. Cripsus froze. He made a face and then nodded.

“Yeah. Be quick.” Fulvia cheered when the extra shot came up on her viewer. Max choked out Felix from behind. Victoria slid into a split on the floor. Palladium flipped the spear.

“Yes!” Fulvia pointed. “New poster. Great work, guys.”

And it all seemed normal? It was too much to ask for these days. Fulvia promised the Fours that she would get them a copy of their group picture. Mags commented that she would hang it on her mantle, and Fulvia resolved to get all of the older mentors their group posters. They would photoshop the Sixes. Fulvia wasn’t stressed about it. And for once, they were running ahead of schedule? Plutarch disappeared again and showed up just as they were breaking for lunch.

“Hey, we have a situation.” He grabbed Fulvia’s arm and Crispus’s shoulder.

“What’s up?” Crispus asked. He smacked Plutarch’s hand off his shoulder. Fulvia nodded.

“Charlemagne’s not coming. His youngest daughter’s in the hospital.” Plutarch whispered. Fulvia’s jaw dropped.

Chapter 2: Fulvia hates gossip

“What?” Fulvia gasped. “Is she going to be ok?” This wasn’t gossip…this was a tragedy! Crispus crossed his arms.

“What happened?” He demanded. Plutarch shook his head and then glanced at the cameras. Crispus followed his eye line and then nodded. “Can you guys help me review some of the proofs from this morning?” Fulvia opened her mouth to reply that they had just shot the proofs, and no one alive could edit raw images that quickly. They would need to Photoshop a few of the men to ensure that everyone was as muscular as needed, and all of that took time.

“Yeah,” Plutarch replied.

“Come on then.” Crispus pulled the two of them into a janitor's closet. Fulvia side-stepped the mop on the floor. Hopefully, the chemicals wouldn’t damage her shoes.

“Ok, so. This is all a rumor, so take none of it as fact.” He led. Crispus motioned with his hands.

“We know. Out with it.” He crossed his arms.

“His personal assistant told me he was at the hospital for a family emergency. So I checked the hospital admit logs,” Plutarch continued.

“Why do you have access to those?” Fulvia asked. Had he checked her mother’s records last summer? What an ass. Just when she was starting to tolerate him...

“Long story. I dated a girl, and she left her login on my tablet.”

“That feels illegal.” She replied.

“It’s a gray area,” Plutarch offered. Crispus snickered. Fulvia glared at him.

“This isn’t funny.” She replied. “I hate him, too, but the man’s child is in the hospital.” She turned to Crispus. “Can we plant a story to keep this out of the tabloids. He needs privacy.”

“I’m not sure that’ll be helpful here.” Crispus offered. Fulvia rolled her eyes. How could it not be helpful here? Crispus paused and looked to Plutarch. “Do we…do we think?”

“What else could it be?” Plutarch asked. Fulvia paused. Surely they weren’t implying? No. They couldn’t. Even thinking it felt like treason.

“Choose your next words carefully.” She warned. Plutarch shifted his weight. Crispus crossed his arms.

“This is new. The great Plutarch Heavensbee with nothing to say?” He smirked. Plutarch exhaled. Fulvia exhaled slowly. She thought back to the August day atop the training center. Crispus had theorized that the president would frame Charlemagne’s elevation as a promotion before orchestrating a very public downfall. They might be entering stage two.

“Look. I don’t know any more than you. I know that the president promised retribution on Charlemagne, and I know that he can’t get it yet. Now the youngest Royage girl is in the hospital?”

“President Snow wouldn’t kill an innocent child!” Fulvia sputtered. These had to be unrelated incidents. But something inside her whispered that there was no such thing as coincidence. She took a breath. Yes, she knew the rumors. Every Capitol socialite did. Failure of those at the highest level wouldn’t be tolerated. People were given the chance to resign with dignity, but if they refused, someone needed to take action. And President Snow didn’t want to hurt anyone. They gave him no choice. She swallowed. There had to be another explanation!

“Fulvia, we kill 23 innocent kids every year on orders of President Snow.” Crispus offered. He sounded exhausted. Fulvia gasped.

“That’s different! They’re tributes!” The treaty of treason dictated it! It was so different. Why couldn’t Crispus see that? What was he even saying?

“They’re teenagers!” Crispus replied. He sounded frustrated.

“Actually, the 12-year-olds aren’t even teens. They’re tweens.” Plutarch weighed in. Fulvia and Crispus pivoted towards him. He nodded. “That’s not helpful right now. I see that.”

“Whatever,” Fulvia replied. “Let’s submit the proofs for approval, and then we can eat.” The others nodded. Crispus and Plutarch were weird, she knew that. But she couldn’t lose focus. They needed to work together to protect their departments from Charlemagne.

It took another few hours, but finally, Haymitch stumbled off the set after Crispus announced he was good. Fulvia thought it was a nice touch that so many of the younger victors came out to support him. Maybe someone would sober him up and get Chaff away from him. The man was clearly a bad influence. Victoria handed Haymitch a drink of something clear, and he took it like a shot. Maybe they were all bad influences on each other. It was like Crispus said, what can you expect from someone who earned a lifetime’s worth of money at the age of 16?

Time really was flying. It felt like just yesterday, Fulvia had been a junior on staff staring at Maeve and the victors with stars in her eyes, and now she got to talk to them. Life was amazing. Charlemagne couldn’t take this from her. The thought instantly made her feel guilty. His kid was in the hospital. She needed to be kinder. Fulvia cheered with the others as they finished. Crispus used his forearm strength to boost himself up so he stood on one of the chairs. Fulvia stopped cheering. It was impressive- she had no idea he was so graceful. Plutarch shook his head.

“Great work, everyone. I’ll confirm who we need for the reshoots, but most of you'll be heading home tomorrow. I’ll also let you know who's invited to the presidential palace for the victory tour party, too.” There was some good-natured cheering from the victors. Fulvia let herself exhale. She submitted more proofs to Charlemagne for his approval. Maybe his assistant would take care of it? The man should be with his family right now.

Plutarch invited her and Crispus back to his place while they waited for the final all clear. The Heavensbee manor was one of the few mansions Fulvia had never been inside. She'd seen a few of the gardens and everyone knew about the famous Heavensbee Greenhouse, but Plutarch had a reputation for being a recluse among high society. He attended parties often enough, but he just never threw them. Crispus seemed unfazed by the generations of Heavensbee portraits blinking down on them from vaulted walls and stained glass windows. Fulvia wondered if he’d been here before.

Fulvia gasped when she saw the library. Shelves towered up to the ceiling with deep leather couches and dark green plants scattered about. A soft fire crackled beneath a dark wood mantle. A grand piano sat off to the side, along with some longer tables like Fulvia remembered from University. Plutarch smiled at her as she took it all in.

“My great-grandfather’s legacy. I don’t know how they kept it all through the war.”

“It’s…” Fulvia was at a loss for words. These books couldn’t all be real. Surely some of them were fake. She touched one of the spines uncertainly. Crispus popped behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of something.

“Nightcap?”

“I’m good for now,” Plutarch replied. Fulvia ignored him. Plutarch dropped onto the couch. Fulvia heard the clinking of glass on glass, and then Crispus joined him. Fulvia tore herself away from the books.

“Have you read all of these?” She asked. He couldn’t have. There was no way. Plutarch shrugged.

“Some. Don’t have as much time for it as I’d like.” Fulvia nodded. He was so pretentious. “I used to bring a book for the ride out to Twelve when I was on their camera crew, but it became impossible once I moved over to Gaia’s staff.” Fulvia nodded.

“My camera crew assignment was One,” She replied. “Not much time for anything else on the train other than being nervous.” She smiled at the memories of spiraling out on the rides back from the Reapings in One as they scrambled to assemble a video package. Plutarch nodded. Crispus sipped his drink. He’d done his camera duty in Four? Or maybe Crispus had skipped camera crew duties. He usually got lucky like that.

“Sorry for what I said earlier.” Crispus raised suddenly. He looked over to Fulvia. “I shouldn’t have spoken about your family that way.” Fulvia made a face. President Snow was her Uncle, yes, but was he family?

“It’s alright.” She replied quickly. “We have…intense jobs, and sometimes that manifests in our words.” She picked at her nails. Plutarch sat quietly. Crispus slapped his leg.

“I say we give it an hour before we just tell all of the victors to go home tomorrow. We got our shots, and Photoshop can do the rest. Plus its not like Charlemagne can really tell us anything else right now.” Just as he spoke, their datapads buzzed. Fulvia grabbed hers.

“You cursed us.” She commented as she opened the reply from Charlemagne. Why was he working right now? He could have easily delegated this to an assistant. She furrowed her brow. “What the fuck. He wants reshoots on half the Victors?” Plutarch got up and made himself a drink. He threw back a shot of a purple liquid and then grabbed his datapad.

“He just wrote ‘no.’” Crispus scanned through his own data pad. “Fuck. He even CC’d the stylists.” Plutarch’s sudden laugh caught them both off guard. They glared at him.

“Sorry. He told the stylists their visions were ‘flawed.’ That’s a little funny.”

“It’s going to make enemies out of the stylists.” Fulvia weighed in. She stood up and headed for the bar. She was going to need something to take the edge off this. Plutarch offered her the purple bottle. Fulvia didn’t recognize the label, but she took a swig anyway. She kept reading.

“Someone from his team will bring new costumes tomorrow.” She read aloud, and then her jaw dropped. “Gamemakers Heavensbee, Cardew, and Ravinstill are excused from the shoot. Gamemaker Laurentio will be running it in my absence.’ Can he do this?”

“He has carte blanche privileges,” Plutarch replied. “Who needs a reshoot?”

“Literally all of the women.” Crispus tossed his data pad to the side and brought his forehead to his palms. “And he’s blocked Maeve in for a huge time slot. Fuck.” Plutarch crossed his arms. The silence in the room was heavy. Fulvia picked at one of her nails. She’d need to get them redone soon. Her stomach hurt. She should reduce her coffee consumption; the caffeine was giving her stomach pains. Charlemagne clearly hadn’t learned anything from what he’d put Maeve through last year, and he seemed intent on pulling the victor down with him. Her pants were cutting into her stomach. That must be why her stomach hurt. That or the caffine.

“Well. We can use the extra time to finish tour logistics, talking points…really, there’s a lot to do.” Plutarch whispered as he clenched a fist on his knee and then relaxed it slowly. “I know we don’t like it but,” Fulvia picked at her nails again. This was fucked. There was no other word for it. Could she go to President Snow? No, he couldn’t care about this because it didn’t directly threaten the Games, and then there would just be more eyes on them. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

“Laurentio has no idea how to run a photoshoot,” Fulvia stated quietly. He was an engineer. What was Charlemagne thinking? An idea was in the base of her mind. What was she suggesting? “We should offer to help him.” Who was we? Crispus lifted his head up.

“Fulvia, I knew you had some rule breaker in you.” He smiled.

Notes:

Fulvia Cardew is actually a national champion in Panem for mental gymnastics.

Chapter 3: Fulvia hates photoshoots

Notes:

Content warnings: Charlemagne is creepy and abuses his power. Nothing graphic

“Laurentio, do you know what gaff tape is?” Crispus asked. Laurentio’s mouth dropped open, and then he closed it. Plutarch smirked.

“I was going to ask if you even knew how to turn on the camera.” He and Crispus stood in front of Fulvia, blocking Laurentio’s entrance to the studio. Fulvia ran a hand through her hair. This was mean. They weren’t going to get anywhere.

“I’m just as qualified as you all are.” He replied. He glanced over at Fulvia. “Maybe even more so, given that my daddy didn’t get me my job.” He threw the last phrase at Fulvia as if it were some kind of gotcha. Fulvia pitched her head back and laughed. Crispus did the same. He stepped to the side so Fulvia could reply.

“First of all, I’m a Cardew through my mother’s side.” She paused. Why was she explaining this? “Second, we came to help you because we didn’t want you to fail. Now, I think we’ll let you.”

“The President loves it when gamemakers waste time and resources.” Crispus agreed. Laurentio went pale. Plutarch cackled. Fulvia glanced at him. The cackling was a bit much.

“I…How hard can it be?” Laurentio looked at all of them. The three gamemakers glanced at each other. Fulvia smiled. She was part of an exclusive club, people who knew what gaff tape was and how to turn on a camera.

“You’ll have to tell us.” Crispus grabbed Fulvia by the arm and began walking toward the door at the end of the hallway. Plutarch followed.

“Wait!” Laurentio shouted. “Why don’t you all stay and have breakfast at least?” Fulvia and Crispus froze. Plutarch stumbled into them, ruining what otherwise would have been a great moment.

“We’d love to,” Cripus spoke for the group.

“Charlemagne didn’t leave me with a lot of instructions,” Laurentio began explaining as they clustered around the breakfast buffet. Cripus poured himself some coffee. “All I know is that the stylists and Tigirs will handle most of it.” He pulled up a briefing on his datapad. “These are the instructions I was given.” Fulvia smiled when she saw the brief. Someone, probably Charlemagne, had used an engineering data report form to fill in instructions for the photoshoot. The formatting was all wrong. Crispus took the datapad and bit his lip.

“Gonna be one of those photoshoots.” He looked up. “How many gamemakers do you have scheduled to come in?”

“Uh.”

“Ok.” Crispus turned the datapad off. “Generally, for these types of shoots, Tigris and I keep a closed set.”

“A what?”

“Open sets and closed sets,” Fulvia explained. “Open sets are when anyone on staff can come and watch. Gaia might have brought her kids. Family-friendly content.” Fulvia’s sets were usually open ones. Actually, had she ever been on a closed set?

“Closed sets are private.” Crispus finished, “Invite only. Smaller group. Less distractions.”

“Ok. So it sounds like this should be a closed set.” Laurentio led. Crispus nodded. “How do I do that?”

“Controlled area. Peacekeepers at the door. No one gets in unless they have clearance from you.” Crispus answered. Laurentio nodded.

“Ok.” He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Fulvia went through her preshoot checklist on the viewer. There weren’t a ton of red jackets around; the majority of people seemed to be stylists and a few prep team members from the professional staff. Hair and makeup had been set up behind a thick black curtain to organize the space a little better. Chairs sat off to the side. These shoots functioned exactly like interviews for the games. One on camera, one on deck, and the others in prep. Her stomach clenched. Being here felt wrong. She hadn’t been invited to be in the closed set initially. Despite what Crispus may think, rule-breaking was not her forte. Crispus reappeared next to her.

“Charlemagne amended the call sheet at 3 am, because that’s exactly when professional decisions should be made.” He leaned over the viewer so she could see the beginning of the brief. “New list is Maeve, Victoria, Cael, Felix, Percy, and then Cecelia. Everyone else got dismissed, but some of these prompts are wack.” He showed her the list. Fulvia nodded. It… made sense. A photo campaign using recent attractive victors who were all public darlings was a regular call. Multiple looks for each victor made sense. Functionally, it was similar to the work of the previous two days, so why did it all feel so wrong?

“We’re supposed to drench someone in fake blood?” She read. Fulvia looked at Crispus. This was just gauche.

“Yeah, a couple of them. Asshole is making us choose. I think Cael will do it, though,” Fulvia nodded. Cael would have been her choice as well. Fulvia bopped her head. Crispus pulled back and then looked around again. “Huxley! Faustus! Why is it so cold here?” He called two gamemakers Fulvia didn’t recognize. One shrugged. “Fix it, please.”

To his credit, Laurentio did exactly what Crispus told him to in terms of setup. He sat next to Fulvia’s spot at the view screen. As much as it killed Fulvia, this was his set, and he was the director. Cael, being the good sport that he was, volunteered to get doused with fake blood first. Fulvia rolled out a plastic sheet on the photostage so they wouldn’t lose too much clean-up time.

Crispus appeared with Cael in tow. He wore a bathrobe and a victor’s crown. It wasn’t his Victor crown; it looked like an older one. It didn’t matter. Fulvia forced a fake smile on her face. “Thanks for volunteering! You ready?”

“Yeah. Well. Volunteering’s my thing.” Cael shrugged off the robe and handed it over to Crispus. He wore a tight set of shorts under the robe. Crispus grabbed a watering can. Fulvia swallowed a laugh. There was nothing funny about any of this, but surely there was a better way to apply fake blood?

“Ok,” Crispus hefted up the watering can. “Dip a finger in now so you know what it feels like and so we know the temperature is ok.” Cael nodded and did as he was told. He didn’t react as Crispus poured the fake blood over his head.

“I never would have thought of that,” Laurentio whispered to Fulvia. She shrugged.

“Our jobs are so weird.” Fulvia agreed. “Ok. Cael, you look good. Crispus, we’re go on lighting.” Crispus handed Cael a sword that looked like the one he had used in his arena. The fake blood had trickled down into his mouth. Cael licked his lips.

“Why does it taste funny?” Cael asked. His eyes popped against the red blood. The image itself was striking, but Fulvia had no idea what these images would even be useful for.

“Corn syrup, beet juice, and milk,” Crispus replied. “Honestly, let’s try the same poses as yesterday.” Cael crossed his arms and stared into the camera. The images popped up on Fulvia’s viewer. She gestured towards them and Laurentio.

“So, because you’re in charge of the shoot, you’re technically supposed to tell us which images to keep and when we have ‘it.’”

“What’s ‘it’?” He sounded confused. Fulvia blinked. This man had the nerve to accuse her of being a nepotism hire? 

“The image. The one for the campaign.” Cael kept posing. Crispus called out a few more instructions.

“Well, how would I know when we have it?” He asked. Fulvia shrugged. She didn’t even know what these images would be used for.

“We just kind of know.” She replied. “Like here,” She demonstrated how they now had a variety of bloody poses with Cael, “We probably have it.”

“We got it?” Crispus called.

“Yep,” Fulvia replied. Crispus tossed the robe back around Cael’s shoulders, and he pulled it closed.

“I still don’t understand what it is.”

“No one does.” Plutarch sat next to Fulvia. Fulvia exhaled and called for the set to be cleaned. Two avoxes rolled up the plastic sheeting and set out a new one. Victoria was the next bloody volunteer.

“I heard it’s sticky.” She commented. She tugged her robe off and tossed it into a waiting chair. She wore a similar white bikini look with a little garter on her thigh. Fulvia watched through the viewer screen. Her stomach clenched, and she told herself it was just because she’d skipped breakfast. Victoria shut her eyes as the blood came down around her. Fulvia’s skin felt like ice. This was a closed set. Why was she and Plutarch here? They shouldn’t be here.

“Sword?” Crispus offered. Victoria wiped some of the fake blood from her eyes with one hand as she took the sword from Plutarch. “Basic poses. You know what you’re doing.” Victoria sighed and twirled the sword easily in her hand. Images started flashing across the screen, but Fulvia didn’t see Victoria. It just looked like 1F from the last games. Her eyes were gouged out, blood pooling out of all the fatal stabs, and still reaching for 1M. Plutarch touched her shoulder.

“Hey.” He whispered. Fulvia jumped. “Are you tagging images or what?”

“I…I….” Fulvia sputtered. What was wrong with her? Plutarch nodded.

“Got it. Take a breath.” He began tagging images as they went. “Victoria, I think we’re good.” He called.

“Great, thanks.” Crispus handed her robe back, and she tied it around herself. Felix was their last volunteer to get bloody.

“Should it be warm?” He asked as Crispus dumped the watering can on his head.

“Well. Would cold corn syrup and beet juice be more fun to wear?” Crispus stepped back.

“I’m just glad it doesn’t smell like the real stuff,” Felix replied. He tossed a sword from hand to hand. He gave the camera a smoldering look identical to the one Max had given two days ago. Sometimes it was so obvious who had mentored whom. “You should add some vanilla to it for next time, or a sugar cookie syrup.” He put an arm against the back of his neck and flexed. “Any other poses?”

“I think you’re a seasoned professional. You got it.” Fulvia replied. Laurentio nodded next to her. Fulvia’s skin progressively got colder as they moved through the brief. Her stomach churned. This wasn’t right. Cecelia was in a bunny costume that looked like something a university student would have worn at Halloween.

“Arch your back a little.” Crispus was demoing how to pose for her again. He was on his knees and pushing his chest out, and it was a little funny to see him like that, but he was also treating this all like it was normal? It wasn’t normal. Cecelia didn’t bother to put her robe back on after Cripus handed it to her. Percy, being dressed in a glorified fishnet, wasn’t normal. He shifted his weight from foot to foot while Crispus told him to take a breath. Maeve, having nothing but two seashells to cover her chest and scraps of seaweed around her waist, wasn’t normal. Her hair was teased higher than it had been yesterday, and on camera, it still held its lustre, but every other part of her seemed tired.

Fulvia blinked. She was acting like a first-year associate. She needed to focus on the images and not the people in them. She needed to look at this from a marketing perspective, even if she did hate Charlemagne. This had to all be for a reason. Still. She tried to use their victor designations to put a layer between her and the victors. But it wasn’t working.

It wasn’t V54 being photographed holding weapons from his area, with the bloody weapons of the fallen tributes from his arena scattered around him; it was Cael. And he solemnly knelt to pick the weapons from the floor and tried to wipe the blood off.

It wasn’t V53 posing with a champagne bottle while wearing tiny spandex and gold dust; it was Felix, and he slapped Crispus’s shoulder on his way out, leaving a glitter handprint that wouldn’t come out.

It wasn’t V51 dressed up like a cat, and asking if people in the Capitol put leashes on their cats because no one in the districts did. It was Victoria, and she was right.

Fulvia did her job. Image after image. Cecelia wearing nothing more than white lace and white stockings. Maeve in a maid costume. Crispus sipped something from a water bottle and took a deep breath. He looked at the briefing sheet, and Fulvia knew she saw him shudder.

“Is it always like this?” Laurentio asked. “You guys have all the fun.”

“No.” Plutarch and Fulvia replied simultaneously. Fulvia exhaled softly. Fun? This was the most uncomfortable Fulvia had ever been.

The poses got more suggestive. The clothes got smaller. No one was naked, but nothing was being left to the imagination either. The implications got meaner. Felix dressed in a uniform from his arena, complete with the fake blood and torn strategically to show his scars. Cael had fake blood all over again. Victoria in a ballet skirt and pointe shoes. Crispus offered to help her balance into an arabesque, but she said she had it under control. It took her three tries to find her balance, and she ran off the second Fulvia called it, ripping the skirt off as she went.

Fulvia saved the images and tasted bile in her throat. She had no idea if they had gotten something usable; she just couldn’t watch any more. Feathers, gems, spandex, Fulvia saw it all. She saw too much.

They took a break for lunch. Fulvia managed a bite of a risotto and ran for the bathroom. She vomited her breakfast, her coffee, and the purple shot from last night. Her body felt like it was moving in slow motion. She put a hand on her forehead. Why was it so hot in here? Why was her skin so cold? Who had designed this photoshoot? This was a closed set. She and Plutarch shouldn’t be here. Why were they even taking these pictures anyway? She’d never seen any pictures like them before. No reputable marketing house would want to buy a picture of a bloody Cael to sell a product. This was a waste of time and resources. Fuck Charlemagne and fuck whoever else thought this was ok. What was President Snow thinking? How could she be expected to work in these conditions and keep Charlemagne on track? It wasn’t worth it. If this is what Charlemagne was like at the beginning, what would the next games be like?

“Thought I’d find you in here.” Plutarch was at the stall door.

“This is the woman’s restroom,” Fulvia replied. She wiped her mouth off on the back of her hand and sank to the floor. She could just wash her uniform later. It was fine. “I’m fine. It was a bad clam.” Plutarch sat down next to her. She glared at him.

“I think you’re having a very normal reaction to a very ugly part of our job.” He offered. His voice was so neutral. Fulvia swallowed. Tears pricked up in her eyes.

“If it’s this bad now, how are we going to survive two more years?” She started fully crying. Fulvia Cardew was crying at work in front of Plutarch Heavensbee. Fuck. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Who even carried handkerchiefs anymore? She took it.

“I would love to tell you that things will get better, but I think it’s only going to get worse.” He rested his head against the stall. Fulvia nodded. She agreed. New tears rolled down her face.

“What do we do?” She dabbed at her eye makeup. She’d need to redo it. Ordinarily, she could borrow some from Tigris, but she didn’t want to go back into the victor prep area. That felt like a violation. She was already on a closed set when she shouldn’t be.

“We suck it up.” Crispus was at the door. “Honestly, people. We’re fine.” He dropped to the floor next to Fulvia. “Fulvia, I’ll be so honest with you. You have nothing to cry about right now.”

“Crispus…” Plutarch started.

“Fuck you,” Fulvia spat. When did she start cursing so much? Probably when she started hanging out with Crispus and Plutarch more.

“Fulvia, I say this with deep, deep respect for you.” Crispus paused. “You cannot fall apart right now.” Fulvia nodded. He was right. She was at work. They were all at work. “It does not matter how reprehensible we find any of this; we do our job and we protect them from whatever we can.” He looked at her. A breath passed. “Ok?” His gaze was steady. Fulvia nodded. Crispus put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “We ready to go back out there?” Fulvia took a breath. She nodded. “Good. Cecelia’s bullying the makeup artist, and it’s really funny.”

“She is?”

“Yeah, she’s actually got quite a mean streak. The girls were right.”

Fulvia couldn’t bring herself to eavesdrop on the prep area, and there was nothing in the country that could convince her to walk past the curtain giving the area a shred of privacy, so she had to settle for eavesdropping on the prep team staff as they took their break.

“Who does the little witch think she is?” One asked. “We feed her, we clothe her, and she asks us if we get paid to do this?”

“Maybe she meant it as a compliment?” The other replied. “Like, you know, they don’t have makeup where she’s from. She’s probably just never seen it before.”

“No. Because then she followed it up by asking if it was my first day on the job.”

“Urg. Ingrate.”

“Five-minute warning, people,” Crispus shouted. He noticed Fulvia eavesdropping on the prep team and winked at her. “Let’s reset, and finish strong.” And they rolled again. Fulvia swallowed. She didn’t know where to look. Sequins, jewels, more feathers, more leather.

“What are these photos even going to be used for?” Fulvia whispered to Plutarch. Everyone else clearly thought this was normal. It shouldn’t be. Plutarch shook his head.

“Nothing good.” He replied. “Nothing good.” Fulvia nodded. She needed to talk with Plutarch and Crispus. What else didn’t she know? Plutarch pointed at Percy’s most recent image. He hadn’t looked that pale a few minutes ago. “Uh…” Percy swayed on his feet in front of the camera. He blinked. Fulvia had seen that glazed over look before in tributes in the arena, typically on day three. Cecelia was in the on-deck chair. She stood up. Percy went down.

“Woah, hey, Percy.” Crispus was already on the move. He threw Percy’s arm over his shoulder, and Fulvia watched the victor’s eyes roll back. His knees caved in. Crispus strained to keep him upright. “Come on, dude. Plutarch!” Plutarch ran over and grabbed Percy’s other side. “Maeve!”

Plutarch and Crispus managed to get Percy into one of the nearby chairs. Fulvia stood up and observed from a distance. Laurentio stood next to her. Maeve joined Percy and the gamemakers. Laurentio looked at her. “What’s…”

“You know as much as I do.” She replied.

Maeve rubbed Percy’s back as he blinked back into existence. Crispus turned around and looked at Fulvia. ‘Waterbottle,’ he mouthed. Fulvia nodded and brought one over.

“Percy, you with us?” Crispus took the water bottle from Fulvia and produced a packet of electrolytes, the same ones the medical teams used when victors were recovering, from one of the inner pockets of his jacket. He shook the electrolytes into the water. Percy nodded. “Sip this, and take a break. You’re so close to being done for the day.” Percy nodded again, and Maeve helped him stand up.

“Yeach. Lean on me, I gotcha.” Percy’s head rolled against Maeve’s shoulder. They stumbled along. Cecelia watched them go.

“Can I?” Her voice was hesitant.

“Yeah, take a minute.” Cecelia went after them. She slipped Percy’s other arm over her shoulder and got him behind the curtain. Crispus watched them disappear before pulling the briefing sheet back out. He flipped to the last section.

“This is doable.” He pointed. “Let him rest for the next round, and then we see if he can do one last costume. And if not, we call it there.”

“Will Charlemagne tolerate that?” Plutarch asked. Crispus knit his hands together and rested them atop his head.

“I don’t think there’s another option? If it were a physical pain, I could do something about that. But dehydration and exhaustion are always the real enemies here.” He sounded tired.

“Like the arena.” Fulvia whispered. Her eyes went wide. Did she just say that out loud? Crispus nodded.

“Exactly!” He seemed excited that she made the connection. Weird. He clapped. “Ok. We’re fine.”

“Not fine.” Laurentio ran over. “The peacekeepers at the main entrance radioed me. Charlemagne just entered the building. You need to go.” Crap. Fulvia looked at Crispus. Plutarch was already moving for the door. Crispus looked exhausted all over again.

“Can we just say that we didn’t see the message from last night, and we’ve just been helping Laurentio?” Fulvia suggested. “It’s pretty close to the truth.” Plutarch stopped moving.

“I couldn’t have done this without you all,” Laurentio confirmed. “Fulvia had to show me how to save the pictures. “ Fulvia blinked. She thought he'd been kidding earlier. He looked to Crispus. “Just don’t pick a fight with him, and we’ll be fine.”

“I promise I won’t pick a stupid fight,” Crispus replied. Fulvia blew air out of her mouth slowly. Charlemagne’s daughter was in the hospital. His child was fighting for her life, and he was here, doing whatever they were doing. Crispus ran a hand through his hair again. “Let me warn the others.” And he disappeared behind the curtain.

The group lie came together effortlessly once Charlemagne was there. It was like being in high school again, and convincing the teacher that no problem sets had been assigned.

“We didn’t see your message.” Crispus led.

“I asked them to stay and help me with the cameras,” Laurentio added.

“I could have been at brunch.” Fulvia chimed in. Plutarch only nodded. Charlemagne glared at them.

“You should have cleared it with me.” He pivoted towards Laurentio.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Well. Have you gotten what I asked you to?” He crossed his arms as if this were some sort of gotcha. Fulvia bit the inside of her cheek. Crispus had said he would do that! Crispus handed over a datapad with the raw images.

“We’ve followed all of your instructions. Some will need some editing, like Victoria can’t hold an arabesque anymore. But I think that was the only major issue.” Charlemagne nodded along.

“Where are the bloody pictures?” He asked. Crispus swiped back. “These look good. You followed the prompt.”

“Of course we did,” Crispus replied.

“Any behavior issues from them today?” Charlemagne scrolled to the pictures of Felix. Fulvia exhaled softly. He was asking Crispus. Were they abandoning the pretext that Laurentio was in charge?

“No, everyone’s been behaving.” Crispus crossed his arms. His posture was perfect. “This group usually does though.”

“True.” Charlemagne zoomed in on a picture of Felix in his arena costume. Fulvia swallowed. “These have been popular recently.” Crispus shrugged. He flipped to a section of Maeve’s pictures. Fulvia thought she was going to vomit again. He really had no shame. He scrolled through. “I like this.” He pointed at the picture of Cecelia in the white lace. “Well done there.”

“Thank you.”

“How much do you have left to do?”

“One more cycle of costumes,” Crispus answered.

“Let’s do it, then.” Charlemagne clapped. And everyone jumped. Fulvia’s earlier assertion that this was the worst photoset she’d ever been on was proved incorrect. Charlemagne poured liquid anxiety onto all of them. He took Laurentio’s seat at the viewer and told Crispus to begin whenever he was ready. The last set of costumes were swimming costumes. Not the type that someone would have worn to actually swim, but the string type that you worse when lounging by the pool. Percy never reappeared. Fulvia was grateful for that.

In her middle school years, when her parents fought in the kitchen, Fulvia learned to separate her mind and her body. She did so again now. Her worldview narrowed into angles and shadows from the lights. She tried to pretend she was seeing the pictures in a magazine. For the most part, Charlemagne was quiet. Occasionally, he’d chime in about someone needing to stand wider, or angle their shoulders more, or puff their chest out. Maeve was last. Fulvia snapped herself back into her body. Maeve couldn’t go through this alone. Not again.

Charlemagne gave her some of the same critiques the other girls had received. Crispus didn’t contradict it. He stood off by one of the cameras holding Maeve’s robe. Charlemagne wanted more. More chest, shift her weight to her knees, tuck her hair back. She didn’t speak through any of it- just made every adjustment and blinked.

“We’re still missing something,” Charlemagne commented. “Fulvia, what do you think?” Fulvia wanted to evaporate.

“I don’t know, sir. I think the pictures look great.” She willed Charlemagne to move on, to go back to his sick child so they could all go home for the night. They could have the victors on trains back to their districts by sunrise. They’d delete the pictures and pretend this never happened. Charlemagne stood up and began to pace. Fulvia bit the inside of her lip.
The air left the room. Gamemakers from Crispus’s staff that Fulvia didn’t know seemed frozen. Plutarch leaned his shoulder against hers. It was a comforting gesture. Fulvia needed it.

“Ravinstill? Heavensbee?” Fulvia mentally rolled her eyes. Of course, the boys got to have their last names used instead. Crispus shook his head. Plutarch smiled.

“I think we’ve got enough to work with.” He offered neutrally. Diplomacy was his gift. Fulvia gave him the slightest head nod of acknowledgment.

“No, no. Maybe the problem is we don’t have enough to work with.” Patronizing, cruel, unfaithful man. He started walking towards Maeve. She didn’t react. He ran his hand down her hair and shoved it forward so it covered her chest. “Maybe, we just need to see a little more.” She smirked as he pulled the top away from her body. Had she been expecting this? Had this happened before? “Leave your hair forward, you are a role model after all.” Fulvia’s tongue choked her out. She wanted to scream. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t right.

“Head Gamemaker Royage, there are rules.” Crispus made his move. Fulvia sent up a silent thank you to him.

“And I violate none of them.” Charlemagne smiled. Fulvia swallowed. Her brain coursed through the manual. Technically, he was right. She’d re-read the rule book later. It could be good information to have. “I appreciate your dedication to our craft.”

"Carte blanche," Plutarch whispered. Fulvia didn't look at him. 

“Of course, sir.” Crisps spat out the reply. He looked back at Maeve. She was staring off. Charlemagne stood by the camera and smiled.

“Look at the camera, Maeve. Hate to disappoint your fans.” Fulvia tasted bile in her throat. She swallowed. More images came up. “Hmmm. Maybe we need a little more.” Charlemagne began walking towards her again.

“Maybe we do,” Maeve spoke up. She flipped her hair back so her entire chest was visible. Maeve stood up. Fulvia looked away. This could not be happening. A beat later, the swim costume’s bottom flew through the air, and Charlemagne caught it. The cameras whirred. Fulvia just saved the images. She didn’t look.

“Well,” Charlemagne stated. “I think that will be all for today.” Maeve didn’t move. Fulvia didn’t move. No one moved. Charlemagne started for the door. Crispus watched him go and extended the robe to Maeve with his head facing towards the door.

“I’m good.” Maeve headed back into the prep area. No one spoke.

“Well.” Laurentio led. “Now, I see why you all like media so much.” Fulvia vomited on him. She didn’t even feel bad.

---

The victors were on trains headed for home by sunrise. Fulvia waited a few hours before ending up in Crispus’s office. She didn’t knock. There was an empty bottle of the purple liquor already out, and empty coffee cups all over. It was barely past lunch.

“What will those photos be used for?” Her voice was quiet. Crispus nodded.

“My staff edits them, and then they go up in a special subscription media channel. Posters, ads, private consumption, whatever. My university roommate used to have one of Zara.” Fulvia rolled her eyes.

“And you’re proud of this?” Crispus stared at her with bloodshot eyes and picked up the empty bottle.

“Obviously not.”

“So why do it?”

“Because whoever replaces me would be worse.”

“Didn’t seem to concern you when you wanted to be head gamemaker.” She pushed back.

“Head gamemaker signs off on all of this. All of it.” He hissed. “Even your precious Gaia.”

He tipped the bottle upside down and grimaced. “Whole place is rotted to the core.” Fulvia bit her lip. Crispus looked back up at her. “Don’t act like you’re better than us. You were on those sets, too.” Fulvia nodded. She’d been on a closed set when she wasn’t supposed to be.

“I apologize if it came off that way.” She started. Was Crispus having another episode? Two years ago, the stress of his job had prompted…something. It couldn’t be easy to do his work.

“Plutarch and I agree. This system needs to change.” Crispus ran his hand through his hair again.

“I agree too,” Fulvia replied. She sat down on the couch. “And I’m assuming President Snow knows about all of this?”

“He’s the one who set it up,” Crispus replied. That was as much as they could say. Anything else would cross the line. Fulvia swallowed.

“Ok. So when you or Plutarch become head gamemaker, I’ll be on his staff, and we can explain it to him.” That was ok to think, that was ok to say. There was nothing wrong with appealing to the President’s reason. He was a rational man. They’d just need to find a way to explain how this was costing them money. Fulvia could do that. Crispus nodded. He ran a hand through his hair again, and his shoulders trembled. “He’s a reasonable man,” Fulvia whispered. Crispus shook his head and leaned back.

“It’s a good plan.” Crispus smiled at her. He was about to cry. Fulvia didn’t know what to do. “Gonna be a long two years.” He laughed. A few tears leaked down his face. Fulvia punched his shoulder.

“We’re got like 19 months left.” She pointed out. “Like you said, it’ll fly by.”

“Promise?” He asked.

“No.” She sat for a minute. “But I promise we’ll ride it out together.” Crispus nodded.

Notes:

When Crispus Ravinstill first walked into our story two years ago (and I do mean walked in because originally this was all about Fulvia and her media staffers), I had every intention of him being a nepo baby creep who enabled Charlemagne's abuse. Obviously, he's evolved. So may we all.

Chapter 4: Fulvia Cardew hates meetings

A few days passed. News of Charlemagne’s daughter being in the hospital spread around the social scene. Fulvia seethed. Her hair colorist told Fulvia that she was hoping for the girl’s quick recovery. Her personal trainer mentioned how unlucky it was for the girl to have gotten so sick. Her dermatologist wished everyone on the staff well. If, and Fulvia recognized it was a big if, if someone had made Charlemagne’s daughter sick on purpose to punish Charlemagne, it was having the opposite effect. It seemed the whole city was now pulling for him. Fulvia wanted to scream at the others in her workout class when they wished him well. She did scream into a pillow later that night.

A Cardew, Ravinstill, and Heavensbee regrouped in Plutarch’s library the night before the next all-heads meeting. It was like the setup for a terrible joke.

“Why is Charlemagne even in charge?” Fulvia threw a dart at the wall. She wasn’t very good at it, nor was Plutarch. Crispus was a natural.

“I maintain Charlemagne has blackmail on Snow, and that’s the real reason for this two-year period.” Crispus poured another glass of whiskey.

“Where’s the proof?” If they were a comedy show, that would have been Plutarch’s catch phrase. It was all the man ever talked about. Proof, ideals, truth. Every rumor he heard, he passed on with the caveat that it was unlikely to be true. The man had no idea how to gossip.

“Do we need proof?” Fulvia asked. She gave up on darts and dropped into the nearest chair. “I’d be happy just to throw baseless accusations at the man. Drink, and then move on.” Crispus made a face and sipped the whiskey.

“We need proof if we want to know for sure,” Plutarch replied. “Plus, what blackmail expires after two years?” It was a good thought. Fulvia picked at her nails.

“Maybe he’s bluffing, and Snow needs two years to figure out if it’s really a bluff?” Fulvia suggested. Crispus nodded.

“That’s actually a good idea, Fulvia.” Plutarch leaned forward. Fulvia scoffed. What did he mean, actually? She always had good ideas.

“But what about the rumor that Gaia's firing of Charlemagne is what caused the arena to go haywire?” Crispus asked. He leaned back into his chair.

“What about it?” Plutarch replied. “It’s just a rumor. And do you really think Snow would promote Charlemagne if there were even a whisper that he’d threatened the games?” That was a good point.

“Have we considered that Charlemagne poisoned his own kid?” Fulvia asked. “Seems like something he would do.”

“Damn.” Crispus led. “You really do hate the man.” He sipped his whiskey.

“I do,” Fulvia confirmed. “Think about it, what does President Snow get out of Charlemagne’s daughter nearly dying?” She hadn’t thought this theory through, but she liked where it was going. Any theory that left President Snow exonerated was a good one.

“A threat,” Plutarch replied. He picked at one of the loose threads on his uniform jacket.

“A lot of ways to threaten someone.” She replied. “Plus, as we’ve all noticed, not only is the entire city now sympathetic to Charlemagne, but his daughter is still alive.”

“For now,” Plutarch added. “She’s alive for now.” Crispus just sipped his drink.

Fulvia woke up in a cold sweat. She checked her clock. She had three hours before she was needed at the games complex for their first all-heads meeting since the photoshoot. She laid her head back down on her pillow. What was wrong with her? She didn’t even have a nightmare, but she woke up early anyway? It was just the stress of everything right now, she decided. Everything would be fine. She ran a hot shower and sipped her coffee. She was exactly where she needed to be, she had good friends and they were all working together to fulfill President Snow’s vision of a glorious Panem without Charlemagne Royage as the head gamemaker. She could do this. She just needed a positive attitude.

The Royage girl was still in the hospital, but she seemed to be on the mend. Fulvia was grateful for that. She focused on that gratitude as she dragged herself through the games complex for the department heads meeting.

Fulvia thought about staying seated when Charlemagne entered the room, but then she realized she wasn’t really the openly rebellious type. Crispus caught her eye as they stood.

“Be seated.” Charlemagne declared. Fulvia exhaled. “I’d like to congratulate Laurentio on successfully running the photoshoot. The president is pleased.” Plutarch began softly clapping. Fulvia joined in. Crispus followed. Charlemagne paused and then joined in. Laurentio smiled.

“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without the others.” Plutarch led the clapping just a little longer past what Fulvia would consider socially acceptable. The look of bewilderment on Charlemagne's face made her want to cackle. She wondered if Plutarch did it on purpose of if it was just another Plutarch-ism.

“That may be true; however, it doesn’t fix the problem at hand.” Charlemagne stood up and began to pace around the room. Fulvia rolled her eyes internally. She set her palms flat on her knees, and tried to ignore the scratchy feeling of her uniform pants on her skin. Someone had put too much starch on them again. “The Victory Tour begins in just two weeks, and Cardew, Ravinstill, and Heavensbee decided it was more important to have some fun on set than finish their tour responsibilities. This cannot go unpunished.” Fulvia latched onto the use of the word fun. She would have described that set with many words, fun wasn't one of them. Laurentio made a face.

“Sir, with all due respect, we’re ready for the tour.” Plutarch broached. Fulvia nodded. Even if it wasn’t entirely true, they were ready.

“Really?” Charlemagne smiled.

“Really.” Fulvia agreed. It wasn’t a complete lie. She had assigned some associates to cover it. They were excited. She had written a few talking points for the district speeches and had full faith in Brento’s ability to deliver them. Someone from the president’s office would finalize the talking points early next week. She assumed Crispus and Tigirs were ready with the outfits, and surely the escort knew what was going on. They were right on track!

“So if you had to leave now for the tour, you could?” Charlemagne began. Crispus blinked. He looked at Laurentio. Laurentio refused eye contact. Fulvia bit the inside of her lip.

“We’re on track per the traditional schedule.” He closed the discussion. Plutarch nodded. Charlemagne stopped circling the table and rested his hands on Plutarch’s shoulders. He squeezed his hands. Plutarch made a face that was somewhere between amused and horrified.

“Associates cover the tours. It’s a good growth opportunity for them, and they like getting to travel.” Fulvia answered. Speaking up meant Charlemagne shifted his attention to her, but Fulvia figured it was worth it. In earlier years, each district had a team of associates to cover it, and the appropriate team covered the victory tour. That actually might’ve been one of Plutarch’s years covering 12? She couldn’t remember. At a certain point, it all began blending together.

“Well.” He released Plutarch’s shoulders and began circling again. “You’ve taken a learning opportunity from them then.”

“What?” Crispus asked. Charlemagne smiled.

“Oh. We can’t trust just anyone to retrieve the tour footage now, can we?”

“But we’re needed here to run our departments.” Fulvia led.

“Can your associates not survive without you? Fulvia, that speaks poorly of your leadership.” Fulvia shut her mouth. How dare he? Urban, Lysterna, and Cicero were perfectly capable of running the department in her absence, but not for a month-long victory tour.

“What Gamemaker Cardew is trying to say-” Crispus tried to cover her. She glanced at him. He wasn't looking at her.

“I’m not interested. You’ll leave in two weeks.” Charlemagne gave Crispus’s head a patronizing pat. Crispus blinked and then opened his mouth. Fulvia shook her head at him.

“Fine.” Plutarch seemed uninterested. Fulvia realized he’d done it before. He’d been on 12’s camera crew the year Haymitch won. “This is typically a seven-associate job through, and we need an assistant or two. Is Tibby still on staff?”

“Seven associates translates to three department heads, surely.” Charlemagne grinned. Fulvia knew they had lost, again. She picked at one of her fingernails under the table. At this point, it was time to just leave so they could strategize and lick their wounds.

And the meeting was over. Laurentio followed Charlemagne out like an obedient little puppy. Fulvia glared at him as he left. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed. Plutarch rolled his eyes. Crispus crossed his arms. Fulvia moved towards Crispus, and Plutarch followed immediately. They had to alert President Snow to this development.

“Not here,” Plutarch spoke up. He looked around, and Fulvia knew his eyes landed on the corner where one of the safety cameras was hidden. “My place. Tonight. I’ll bring the big man.”

---

The big man was President Snow. Fulvia wasn’t entirely surprised by how comfortable he seemed in Plutarch’s library. She clearly had a lot to learn about the country.

“I heard you’ve all been given quite the reward for your work in rescuing your compatriot from his hubris.” Snow smiled. He leaned forward. Fulvia breathed through her mouth. There was a weird scent in the air. Roses, but also metallic?

“He’s a difficult man to keep on track.” Crispus surmised. He played with one of the rings on his hand. Fulvia wanted to tell him to stop that. President Snow nodded.

“I’m aware. And the outpouring of sympathy for him over his child? Who knew he was so beloved?” He smiled and leaned back in his seat. He motioned to Plutarch, and Plutarch leaped up. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured a glass.

“I don’t think he’s beloved,” Fulvia replied. Plutarch handed President Snow the whiskey. Snow turned to her. She kept talking. “People see a devoted father with a child in the hospital, and they rally. Makes them feel good for being sad for him.” Her uncle smiled at her, with something that Fulvia thought might’ve been pride.

“Astute.” He turned to the others. “This is precisely why I advised Charlemagne to send you all out on a tour of the districts.”

“What?” Plutarch asked. “This was you?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you hide behind your screens as our enemy amasses support, did you?” President Snow smiled again. He took a sip of his whiskey. Fulvia felt a chill down her spine. She nodded. Of course, she’d do anything she needed to do to help. All she'd ever wanted to do was help the country remember the dark days through the Hunger Games and help prevent another war. 

“Ok. So what do we do?” Crispus had fully dropped the confident swagger that he usually carried. 

“You do what you’ve always done. You see each district. You talk, you learn.” Snow leaned back on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. Plutarch made a face. Fulvia wondered if the wood was valuable. “You'll be doing the job of seven with three people. It should be educational. Aside from that, I found my own time in the Districts to be formative.” Fulvia blinked. When had he been in the Districts? She looked over at Plutarch and Crispus. They thought this was new information too. “Do something to get the narrative back around the three of you. Fulvia, what was it you did, the Fed Games?”

“Yes, sir.” He knew about her work? Of course he did, but knew about her special projects by name? She fought the glow off her face.

“It was quaint. Something like that,” He sipped his drink. Fulvia swallowed her joy. “Make people like you. The three of you. This was a boring Victor from a forgettable games. We can use that." He smiled as he leaned forward. "When it comes time to announce you three as the next generation of this country’s leadership, I want you to be ready.” Fulvia blinked the shock off her face. Next generation of the country’s leadership? What? What an honor!

“Sir?” Crispus seemed similarly surprised.

“Make sure you capture One and Two's contempt for the Victor. It should have been one of them to win." He added. Fulvia nodded. "You three seem to be the best that the old families have to offer. Be charming. Be smart, and in a few years, you’ll find that doors have opened.” He stood up. “That’s all.” Fulvia’s head spun.

Notes:

Snow sending his protégés out on a gap year adventure so they can learn to hate the districts better. Surely this won't backfire at all.

Chapter 5: Fulvia hates family dinners

Summary:

Ted Lasso once said that meeting someone's mom is like being given an instruction manual for why they're nuts.

Her staff had already heard the rumor by the time she shared the new plan with them.

“We’ll be in contact the entire time.” She offered. “Please don’t stress over this, and we’ll make sure you have press releases ready to go before I leave.” She felt terrible about about the whole situation. Guilt was the wrong word for it. The situation had been designed by Charlemagne and President Snow, it was beyond her now.

“Don’t worry about us, boss. We’ll figure it out.” Urban promised.

“Just give some candy to the Adler twins for me.” Lysterna requested. “They like the chocolate balls.”

“They’re 14?” Cicero replied.

“And?”

“They’re a little old to be bribing with candy?’

“I’ve never met a 14-year-old who didn’t like candy. Have you?”

“Let’s focus, please.” Fulvia offered. “I’m also aware that Minerva, Nero, Lysterna, and Cicero were supposed to go on the trip, so we’ll find a way to get you another learning opportunity.” Minerva and Nero nodded. She took a breath. “For now, I need to relearn how to walk with a camera rig. Who wants to help me?”

Her staff insisted on accompanying her to the tribute training gym so they could have her complete a camera rig obstacle course. It was fun, and Fulvia found herself laughing at work for the first time in ages. Fulvia made everyone try the obstacle course at least once before she invited Plutarch and Crispus down to practice.

“Back in my day,” Plutarch demonstrated how to rest a camera on his shoulder. “We would hold the camera like this. It was how all of the cool people did it.” The newest associates clustered around the three department heads like school kids on a field trip. Her senior staffers stayed a little further back, but they were interested too.

“No one cool was on cameras,” Crispus clarified. “The cool people did their camera duty and all switched into Victor Affairs or Arena Elements.”

“If you were cool and talented,” Fulvia explained as she swung one of the training cameras around on her shoulders like it was a toy. “You went into media and logistics. And you always secretly wonder why media and logistics are grouped together when logistics really should be its own department by now.” The camera felt at home in her hands again. It was like Victoria getting her hands on a knife or Cael grabbing a sword. The associates were in hysterics. Fulvia smiled at Plutarch and Crispus.

Plutarch’s skill with the camera was evident. Fulvia could tell by the way he was able to move backwards while carrying a camera and keeping it in focus. He could even refocus a moving image from 20 meters away! It was impressive. Crispus struggled. This wasn’t something he did often, and it showed.

“Competition!” Someone screamed. Fulvia looked at Crispus and Plutarch.

“No,” Crispus replied.

“Yes.” Plutarch ruled.

Uniform jackets were thrown off to provide better mobility. Fulvia had half a mind to take off her uniform skirt and wear shorts for ease of movement,, but she decided that was too far. She won the camera refocus competition easily, but Plutarch moved faster than her. She was better at getting sound. Plutarch was bigger and thus able to get steadier pictures. Crispus lagged in every event they did.

“I had no idea you weren’t a nepo hire,” Fulvia whispered to Plutarch.

“Could say the same to you.” He replied. He smirked. She smirked. “What are we going to do with this guy?” He jerked a thumb at Crispus as he fell off the balance beam.

“I’m ok?” He called. He laid on the ground for a minute before pushing himself back up.

“Is the camera ok?” Lysterna asked. Crispus made a face. Fulvia nodded.

“She’s being real. One camera is three associate salaries. It’s why we reuse camera lenses from past arenas.” Fulvia explained. The competition rapidly devolved into Fulvia, Crispus, and Plutarch standing in front of the balance beam pretending they were at a post-elimination press conference, passing around someone’s waterbottle like it was a microphone. Fulvia was impressed with the quality of questions coming from her staff. Sure, there were a few roasts toward Crispus from the more senior associates, and a few of the more established gamemakers asked sillier questions about pre-game traditions and rituals, but for the most part, her staffers were displaying a deep commitment to their craft.

“Mr. Heavensbe, how did you get the footage of the reaping for the 50th Hunger Games?” Someone asked. “Is the rumor true?” Plutarch smiled.

“I can neither confirm nor deny whatever you’ve heard.” He said as he nodded.

“Do you all have any tips for picking which department we want to specialize in?” Someone else asked. Fulvia shrugged. She looked at Plutarch.

“I was an executive assistant. I’m not one to give advice here.” He explained. Crispus nodded.

“Where ever you end up, you’re going to work hard. So pick the department where the problems are interesting. Helping victors become mentors is interesting for me, so that’s where I am.”

“And the media side of how we tell the story of the games is what interested me,” Fulvia added.

“Ultimately, whatever you choose, your parents are going to be proud, but they won’t understand what you do.” Crispus finished. Fulvia nodded.

“Pretty sure my mom thinks I built the arenas.” She laughed.

“Ms. Cardew,” Someone else asked. “If you have to set up a shot, how do you make it look organic while also controlling the situation?”

“Great question.” Fulvia leaned against the balance beam. “This is why I always push for you all to build trust with the victors, because those relationships are foundational.”

“How are you such a good boss?” Someone else asked. Crispus pretended to take the water bottle that was serving as their fake microphone. Fulvia’s staff booed him. Fulvia snatched it back. Crispus laughed.

“Practice.” She offered. Plutarch gave her a mock round of applause. Fulvia rolled her eyes.

“Mr. Ravinstill, how do you choose who mentors for what year?” Minerva asked. Fulvia blinked. That was an unusually informed question from the girl. Crispus smiled.

“Good question.” He answered. “Generally about a month from Reaping Day I call the most senior victor in each District and we have a short conversation about who it makes sense to bring in a particular year. With District 12, that’s a very short phone call, and usually Haymitch doesn’t answer the phone, but others can take longer. Once I have a rought draft, I give it to the Head Gamemaker and they have a conversation with the President’s Office. And then we adjust as needed from there.”

“What are some of the traditions your staff has?” Fulvia asked. She knew a few of them, but her first-year associates had no other exposure to the different departments right now, and part of her job was to get them settled into a staff where their skills could be useful. Plus, traditions were what their jobs were all about.

“Another good question. You should be a department head of two tangentially related departments.” Crispus said to her. Fulvia smiled. “My staff has traditions, and the victors have traditions that we participate in. So I think my favorite staff tradition is probably all hanging up the new victor portrait together, and I think my favorite victor tradition is when they haze the new victor the following year. They create these really elaborate pranks, and it’s interesting to watch.”

“Give us a recent one.” Fulvia egged him on.

“Percy’s first year out, Cael and Blight convinced him that they were actually from the opposite Districts- so Blight was from Two and Cael was from Seven- and they committed to it, to the point where even their mentors thought it had gone too far.” Fulvia smiled. She didn't remeber that happening, but Crispus would know better. If a victor wasn't with her, usually they were with him.

---

Fulvia threw a duffel bag onto her bed and sighed. She’d never had to pack for a victory tour before. What should she even be bringing?

She’d need jumpsuits to wear while working the camera, and then she’d need some sleep clothes…oh my. Associates all shared a train car when they did camera shoots for hometown visits and victory tour footage. She’d be sharing a room with Plutarch and Crispus. Worse, she’d be sharing a bathroom with Plutarch and Crispus! Crispus would make fun of her skin care regimen; she just knew it.

She dragged out her uniform jumpsuits from three or four years ago from the back of her closet. Thankfully, they still fit. She had no idea what she would have done if they didn’t. Probably go to Tigris and beg for an emergency alteration. She’d bring three jumpsuits. One to wash, one to wear, and another just in case. Some lounge sets for the train. Candy and snacks, maybe a deck of cards? She nodded to herself. This would be fine. It might even be fun.

Her communicator buzzed. The chat with Plutarch and Crispus lit up. Crispus had sent a picture of his duffel, loaded with candy, alcohol, homemade cookies from his mother, and two jumpsuits smushed on top of nicely folded sleepware. They looked never been worn, and Fulvia realized they probably hadn’t. Plutarch advised them each to bring an extra blanket as the train could get cold. Plutarch was bringing two jumpsuits, lounge wear, and three books—one for her, one for Crispus, and one for himself. She made a face. Was he pretentious on purpose, or did her just not realize how he came across?

She sent a picture of her duffle, complete with only seven of her 15-step skincare routine. Plutarch replied that he was excited for cards.

She had dinner with her mother and sister the night before she left. They ate at the Cardew Manor. Public opinion was swinging again. High society thought it was so lovely of Gamemakers Cardew, Ravinstill, and Heavensbee to take a load off of distraught Charlemagne Royage’s plate. Her hairstylist told her it was ‘brave’ of her to go to the Districts. The other women from Fulvia’s pilates class gave her a bon voyage package of cleaning wipes and wine.

Her mother, however, wasn’t taking the news well. “I thought you were too senior for this sort of thing.” She took a bite of the roast. “Let’s call Aunt Livia. She can get you out of this.” Her mother sipped the wine and motioned to the avox for a refill. It would be her third glass of the night. Fulvia sipped her glass.

“Mom, it’s an assignment.” Fulvia reminded her. “I don’t get to pick.” Her mother sighed.

“Still! You’re not getting any younger, and it’s been such a long time since you’ve been on any dates.” She waved her hands. Symphonia looked down at her plate and tried to hide her laughter. Fulvia ignored her. “Wait. Plutarch is the Heavensbee heir, isn’t he?”

“I guess?” She paused. He technically wasn’t the heir. The Heavensbee house was his; he was the Heavensbee. When had his parents died? He’d only been one year ahead of her in school; she would have heard about it? Her mother cut off another bite of roast.

“And my bridge ladies heard that the Ravinstill heir broke up with his girlfriend.” She seemed satisfied with herself for knowing that. The bridge ladies were the bane of Fulvia's exisistence. They had commentary on everyone and everything that happened in the Capitol. If someone's son enlisted as a peacekeeper, they talked about it. If someone's son went to become a Peacekeeper Officer, they talked about it. If someone's daughter-in-law opted to stay home with her kids, they talked about it. If someone's daughter-in-law went back to work after having kids, then they all clucked and shook their heads. Fulvia nodded. Crispus had told her about the break-up, but he said it was for long-distance reasons. They were going to be on the road for almost four weeks. That took its toll, but they could have made it work. “A good family. They’ve had their trouble, but haven’t we all?” Wait what? “He’s an option too!”

“Mom. I cannot date Crispus.” For so many reasons, but chiefly because she was pretty sure that Crispus and Plutarch were an item. But if she told her mother that, she might prompt another heart attack. And her mother would have replied something insane about how fake marriages used to be more common and young people these days had no idea how to be discreet.

“Well, I’m just trying to help you have options.” Her mother sighed. Symphonia wouldn’t make eye contact with either of them. She sipped her wine smugly and tried to keep from laughing. “Come back with one of them. Obviously, you don’t need to love each other; you just need to be a team.” She fluffed out her napkin, and Fulvia knew the matter was settled.

“Was that how it was with you and dad?” Fulvia asked. She regretted the question almost instantly. Her mother made a face. She waved the avox over to refill her wine glass. Fulvia didn't recognize the avox. Usually one named Cassandra

“No. I married him for the money, and then the money went away, and I still had the man.” Her mother paused. And then she continued. “Ask Symphonia. You need some combination of a title, love, money, or looks. You don’t need all four, just two would do.”

“Please don’t ask me.” Her married sister chimed in. Their mother rolled her eyes.

“When the sex is good, that helps too.” Her mother cut the steak and gestured with the knife for emphasis. “But monogamy…I wouldn’t recommend it.” Symphonia began aggressively sipping her wine.

“Mom, please stop talking,” Fulvia begged. Her mother nodded.

“Alright, fine. No one wants to hear about the escapades of an old lady. Symphonia, how are you and your husband?”

“We’re great,” Symphonia answered.

“You’re drinking wine, I see.”

“I am.” Symphonia smiled.

“I maintain two is a lovely number of children to have. I only want the best for you two, my beautiful, brilliant girls.” Fulvia smiled.

“We know, Mom.”

Chapter 6: Fulvia loves the Victory Tour

The train left at six am, so Fulvia needed to be up and moving at 4 a.m. She braided her hair into something smart but also casual. A little bit of glitter on her eyes said, ‘I am excited to be here.’

Crispus helped her up into the train just as the first rays of light peered through the clouds into the city. He waved to someone in the distance near the parking area.

“New girlfriend?” Fulvia asked.

“No, my mom drove me.” Crispus grinned at her. Fulvia cackled. “It’s not funny.”

Plutarch led them back to where the associates slept. “So the victor gets their own room, the mentor gets their own room, the escort gets their own room, and the outfits get their room,” Plutarch explained. “We share this.” He brought them into a room lined with bunk beds. Plush green carpet warmed the floor, and a sitting area with a table built into the wall offered a utilitarian area for working and relaxing. There was a terminal with an editing station. Fulvia groaned. The chair didn’t have any padding, and she hadn’t thought to bring something to sit on. Maybe she could use a sweatshirt?

“Twin beds?” Fulvia commented. Three weeks of sharing a room with Crispus and Plutarch, and they were all in twin beds. Yay.

“Yeah, but there are curtains you can close for privacy. Bathroom is back there.” He pointed. “I checked for bugs. Found two and moved them to the dining car. No one’s listening in.”

“So we can speak freely?” Fulvia clarified. She almost didn’t know what to do. Plutarch nodded.

“Forgive me for double-checking,” Crispus muttered as he pulled a computer board out of his overstuffed duffel and attached it to his databad. He pressed a button, and a small ping rang out. “Huh. You’re right.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Plutarch agreed.

“How did you make that?” Fulvia asked. Crispus showed her the computer board.

“I play with the bugs in the tribute center a lot.”

“Cool.” Fulvia almost didn’t know what to say. The train whistle sounded, and she felt the train shift under her feet. “Why don’t we unpack a little bit, and then we can make a plan, or something.” Crispus flopped onto the bottom bunk.

“Kinda glad it’s just us. This would be cramped with seven people.”

“It’s fun, but you do learn too much about people.” Plutarch agreed. He got up and claimed the cubby closest to the entrance. “I remember it was like being in university again. We drank like fish and didn’t sleep.” Fulvia smiled. “Other task is we need to figure out how to make people like us.”

“That’s easy,” Crispus called from his bunk.

“It’s not,” Fulvia replied.

“Yes, it.” Crispus sat up. “I’ll write ‘hi mom’ on something and one of you pans to me. We’ll make it look random. People like people who get along with their moms.” He directed that last bit at Fulvia. She shrugged. “Then we get Brento to film a little Q&A; he compliments Fulvia. We pan to Fulvia as a producer, looking proud and involved. People like an unscripted moment that makes the boss look good. After those two teases, we’ll film a little tour of the train. Plutarch will lead it, and we’ll have given them just enough to want more.”

“That’s a plan.” Plutarch agreed. Fulvia nodded. It would need workshopping, but it would do as a first draft.

“What shots do we want of Brento in Six?” She asked. They also had their real jobs to do.

“He’s still on morphine as pain management, so we need to aim for chest up. He can do short distances without the brace.”

“He’s still in the brace?” Fulvia asked.

“Yeah.” Crispus nodded. “It’s not visible, but it is needed for longer distances. I think we let him make the calls about using it versus not using it in Six.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

The mayor of District Six met them at the train station. The camera was at home in her hands. Fulvia’a jumpsuit felt tight in all of the right places. She didn’t need to slather on makeup. It was weird. A good weird. She and Plutarch gave Crispus a little drone camera to fly so that he could still feel important, and Brento read the cards the escort gave him without issue. District Six seemed a little more alive than they usually did on her screen. Six passed without incident. Brento and Maureen joined their little adventure West towards District 12.

“This District layout makes no sense.” Fulvia pointed at the map Plutarch had hung on their cabin door. “Why are they numbered like this. Five should actually be Three, and why is Six inbetween Seven and Eight?” Where had he even gotten this? It was way more detailed than the basic one they used in school.

“Probably because they don’t want people to actually know where the districts are?” Crispus replied. He was in bed reading the book Plutarch had given him. Fulvia hadn’t touched hers yet. Fulvia shrugged. It was a meme in the Capitol. Their geography classes were a joke.

“District One produces luxary items!” Plutarch shouted from the editing terminal, in a nod to the meme.

“District Two does not produce peacekeepers.” Crispus added. Fulvia rolled her eyes. She dropped onto the bottom bunk that they had converted into a couch. Being so hands on with the cameras was destroying her nails, and there was nothing she could do to fix it.

Brento was a model victor all through District 12. Fulvia hated every moment of being in that District. A layer of coal dust seemed to settled on everything and Fulvia could feel it in her hair, on her body, and coating her previously clean jumpsuit. The distirct was impossibly tiny. Fulvia could see the mountains rise up into the distance from her spot on the stage. It was probably beautiful in the summer, but the snow and ice mixed on the ground to form a layer of sludge that seeped around her boots and made the entire place seem desolate.

Haymitch smelled of alcohol, but Crispus smiled and waved at him anyway. Haymitch nodded back, and even Fulvia got a wave! Plutarch did not. Brento read the cards he was given, shook hands, and thanked the mayor. He stumbled back into the building, and Maureen grabbed him a chair. Fulvia didn’t let the cameras linger on the families of the fallen. The girl’s family seemed decently put together, but the boy’s family were filthy and the five children on the platform being honored didn’t seem to even understand why they were there. The mother’s eyes were glazed over. Fulvia wondered if she was high. Did 12 have an issue with morphling dependency the way Six did?

Thankfully, they didn’t film the dinner or social gathering. There was such a thing as too much B roll. The camera rig was digging into her shoulders and neck. Maybe she could get Plutarch to help her adjust the straps. She massaged the space under the neck strap gently.

As they loaded back up into the vans, Crispus dug out a duffle from the trunk and disappeared back inside the Justice Building.

“What was that about?” Fulvia asked. He nodded.

“Effie asked me to pass some stuff to Haymitch.” He replied. “She worries about him, you know?” Fulvia nodded.

“I was thinking we should have him get a cat or something. It’s just not good to be alone the way he is.” She suggested. Crispus bopped his head in agreement.

“It’s what I’ve been telling him.” He was silent for a minute. “Can you, Plutarch and I make a secret handshake?”

Their secret handshake was something that Fulvia would have done in elementary school, but Crispus and Plutarch were both excited about it. It was a fist bump to the top and then to the bottom and slapping their palms together into a snap. It was fun. They did it in Eleven as they strapped on the camera rigs and positioned themselves to get footage. Brento was starting to limp. He could make it through the first half of a visit, but as the morning’s morphling wore off and the pain registered, he rapidly deflated into himself and lost the ability to celebrate. Seeder wrapped a blanket around him as he dozed off at the Reception in the Justice Building. Maureen knelt by his side. She looked exhausted. The escort was running around apologizing for any offense given by the unscheduled nap. Plutarch followed her smoothing any feathers that she inadvertently ruffled.

“Gamemaker Ravinstill, can we borrow you?” Seeder called. Crispus pulled Fulvia over with him.

“Technically right now, I’m camera operating number two, but what’s going on?” Crispus smiled, and Seeder smiled back.

“Camer operator three,” Fulvia corrected. “You are definitely the weak link here.” Crispus shrugged.

“Oh well.” He wasn’t bothered. “How’s Brento?”

“Exhausted and in pain.” Maureen muttered. Her forehead was against the arm of the chair. Seeder knelt by her. “He needs rest, and maybe a higher morphling prescription.” Crispus nodded and looked back to Fulvia. He exhaled softly and then looked over to Seeder.

“Is your Mayor going to get offended if we take him back early?” He asked. Seeder shrugged.

“I doubt it. Though I only see the man on Reaping Day and Tour Day.”

“How?” Fulvia asked. Seeder looked over at her. “Pardon, I thought everyone knew everyone in the Districts?”

“Maybe in some of the smaller ones.” Seeder replied. “But not here.” Fulvia nodded. That made sense. Eleven was huge. She’d marveled at it as the train pulled into the station. Crispus looked back at her.

“It’s so late already, I think we just call it.” He suggested. Fulvia nodded. Chaff helped carry the sleeping victor out to the van, where Crispus swapped him for a large sack. Fulvia squinted at him as they climbed back into the trucks.

"Did their escorts ask for you to pass along food too?"

“Fulvia, it’s just extra food for the families of the fallen. No one is going to miss it.” He told her. “Don’t the families deserve something for their children’s sacrifice?” She opened her mouth and closed it again.

“It’s fine.” Plutarch agreed. “Doesn’t your office do the same thing during hometown media for the final eight?”

She let it go until they were in Nine. Again, the place would be beautiful in the summer, but in the winter it just seemed depressing. Icey slush swirled around her boots and only the thought of a warm shower pulled her through. The audience didn’t want to be there, Fulvia was starting to get homesick, and Nine’s victors had always kept to themselves. Brento slogged through his speech, and them stumbled back inside. Plutarch did a slow pan to Crispus with ‘hi mom’ written on the side of his camera. It had everything it needed to create a viral moment, with a little extra help from Caesar to shove them on their way. It would work. The escort had already prepared a chair for Brento.

“Can we get you food, water, a blanket?” Crispus suggested. Brento shook his head. He closed his eyes.

“Just’s tired.” he slurred. Crispus nodded. He quietly unloaded two sacks of food to nine’s victors and wished them a pleasant winter.

“Crispus, what you’re doing is against the rules.” She hissed as they settled back down for the night. It was her night to edit footage. She didn’t want to. Her hands were cramping from the cameras. Her hair was wrecked from the wind. Wind burn was apparently a thing? They didn't have that in the Capitol. The excess butter in the food was destroying her digestive system. Plutarch passed her a heating pad. How had he known that her neck was hurting? It was the harnesses for the camera rigs. He was probably feeling it too.

“You gonna report me?” He asked. Plutarch collapsed back into bed, and pulled the curtains closed. Crispus looked at Fulvia. He knew she wouldn’t.

“No. Of course not.” She paused. Plus, who would she even report him too? Charlemagne would probably salute the rule breaking. Pig of a man. “I would never do that to you.” Fulvia looked at Crispus. He leaned in.

“Fulvia, we control the cameras right now. We know where the bugs are. No one is listening. What you do now is who you are. I know who I am, and I will behave accordingly.” His words lingered as she edited the footage from Nine. The families of the fallen did look….skinny. All of the families of the fallen had. Extra food to get through the winter was surely an a gift, and the families certainly deserved something for sharing their child with Panem. She had done the same thing with the girl from 10’s body two years ago, and the portraits last year. And Crispus was right, how would they get caught? They controlled the cameras, and the security bugs that had been in their car had been moved to the hallway area.

For the first time in…maybe ever, Fulvia didn’t have any associates looking to use her as a role model. She didn’t need to constantly project confidence and happiness the way she needed to in the games complex. Crispus and Plutarch could handle themselves, she didn't need to take care of them. Well, she and Plutarch had to rescue Crispus when the ladder to the platform he'd been shooting from fell away. They got him down after a half hour, but the process was a little more convoluted than it needed to be. Cecelia laughed so hard Fulvia was worried for her, and even Brento cracked a smile. She happily passed along a case of chocolate balls to the Adler twins and didn’t think twice about it.

Fulvia could complain about the camera rig digging into her neck without judgement because Crispus and Plutarch were feeling the same way. She could moan about the workload because they were sharing it. Crispus had brought a gel they could use to numb muscle pain and Fulvia added it to her skin care routine. Plutarch shared his heating pad. They all missed home, they were all sore, and they all hated Charlemagne.

Despite the lack of sleep and stress, Fulvia was enjoying herself. The boss she needed to impress was several thousand miles away. The heating pad was their team’s most valuable asset and they chugged coffee like it was lifeblood. Fulvia helped Crispus hand two bags of food over to Blight and Oakley. This was the freest Fulvia had ever been. It was like being a first year student in university!

“See you in six months!” She called as their vans pulled out.

Crispus stretched out on the floor of the train while Plutarch edited. Crispus could still do a middle split, which Fulvia envied. She’d been able to do it as a younger dancer but social conventions dictated that upper class Capitol girls really only danced until they were eleven or twelve. Any further than that implied something was wrong with the girl’s academics. Maybe she should try and pick it back up. It was an acceptable hobby for an adult.

Fulvia put the heating pad on Plutarch’s upper back and he mouthed thanks at her. She dropped to the floor next to Crispus. Fulvia flipped open the the book Plutarch had given her. She’d made it a few pages into the first chapter. It was called “The Beautiful and the Damned.” and it was old, older than Panem. Reading was more of a challenge than she would have wanted to admit. She could read! Her grades had been quite good in school, but the language was far older than she was used to. Plus it wasn’t something she did as much these days. She liked the descriptions of the parties though.

“I’m ready for lights off whenever you guys are.” Crispus climbed into his bunk. Fulvia closed the book and followed. She’d try again another night. One when she wasn’t so tired. Her eyes drifted closed with the slow rocking of the train.

She bolted awake as one of the trap’s from Percy’s arena closed on her. What time was it? Where was she? She grappled with the blankets and swallowed a scream. This wasn’t her room. It wasn’t even the Cardew manor. Someone was screaming? She rolled out of bed, and screamed on the way down.

“Fuck!” She was still on the train. Her knees took the brunt of the impact. Crispus glanced at her.

“You’re fine.” He whispered to Plutarch. “You’re safe.” He looked back over to her with concern. Fulvia nodded that she was ok.

“Nightmare?” She whispered to Crispus. It wasn’t like they were uncommon with the gamemakers. Crispus nodded.

“Did you have one too?” he asked. She giggled. Not a happy giggle, but something between pure exhaustion and disbelief.

“I did! Percy’s arena from a few years ago!” She answered. He smiled at her and rubbed Plutarch’s back. Fulvia felt like she was intruding.

“Come on Plucky, floor time.” The three clustered together on the floor in their sleep clothes and blankets. No one turned the lights on. She could hear the soft clack on the train and the quiet breaths coming from the three of them.

“It was the car crash that killed my parents.” Plutarch whispered. “I almost stopped them this time.” Fulvia’s heart broke for him. No one spoke for a few minutes. Crispus radiated body heat and she nestled herself against him. She hadn’t realized how cold the train was. “What was it for you, Fulvia?”

“Percy’s arena.” She answered honestly. “The traps. Usually mine are all of the department heads in the arena and the head gamemaker kills me.” Crispus lifted his head, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “Crispus, your turn.” She could just barely feel the sensation of someone breathing on her skin through her sleep shirt. It felt nice.

“I didn’t have one tonight, but mine is always the same one. It’s the last family dinner we ever had. The last time we were all together and happy.” Fulvia wanted to ask what had happened. She knew Crispus had a younger sister who worked in finance, and she knew he was close with his mom, but beyond that, she’d never heard him mention the original Ravinstill. Maybe her mother knew what had happened. "That, or I get made into an avox." He admitted. Fulvia frowned. Avoxes were all traitors who had wronged the government. Peacekeepers who comitted desertion, murderers, anyone who threatened the country's safety. Crispus had no reason to worry about that. Nightmares weren't rational though. She would never end up in an arena, and as much as she hated Charlemagne, he would never try to kill her.

“I love you guys.” Plutarch whispered. Fulvia could hear him reshuffling. “I think if I had to do this alone, I’d go insane.”

“Sometimes I think our whole country is insane.” Crispus agreed. They stayed woven like that on the floor until the sun rose and bathed the train in natural light.

They never spoke of that night, or any of the other nights where one of them suffered a nightmare. It was strange. Even years later as the line between nightmare and reality blurred, all they could really do was bear witness with each other. Even when she found out that Crispus hadn’t only buried his father, but his beloved older sister too after a separate accident, and that Plutarch had always secretly suspected Snow of having his parents killed, they never spoke of the demons that only came for them when they slept. There wasn’t any point.

Chapter 7: Fulvia tolerates roadtrips

“Your hair is getting long,” Fulvia commented to Crispus as they loaded up the van to head into District Five. Crispus ran his hand through it. The brown curls had always had a life of their own, especially when he dyed them, but now they were becoming ungovernable.

“You should wear a headband.” Agreed Plutarch. He ran a hand through his bland mess. “We should all wear matching headbands.”

“Just show up for reapings in matching bandanas?” Fulvia asked. Crispus shook his head.

“Matching tattoos.” He clarified.

They filmed a short video at the halfway point with Brento and Maureen on the train. Crispus panned his camera view to include Fulvia wearing the sound microphone and camera rig halfway through. She smiled. It was perfect. A little glimpse behind the scenes, and it left the entire Capitol wanting more. And they wanted more. Brento’s calm demeanor meant that Panem had little to obsess over, and as a result, Capitol teens had taken to assembling edits of her, Plutarch, and Crispus and the few film snippets of them when they briefly appeared on each other’s cameras. Jumpsuits were coming back into fashion. One of the prep team members had excitedly shown Fulvia the articles about it in the van back from Five. The three-step updo she’d been doing in her hair every morning to save time was being hailed as “working chic” and people were copying it.

“Brento, I’m so sorry that you’re not getting more good press from the tour.” She apologized over coffee the next morning. “You deserve more recognition and praise. I’ll talk to my friends in the press corps and we’ll make sure you’re hard work is appreciated this summer.” Brento smiled at her and sipped his coffee. Fulvia was glad to see that his plate had a pile of pastries and doughnuts.

“It’s all good.” He said through a mouthful of eclair. “I don’t care.” Maureen gave him a look from down the table.

“Manners.” The escort muttered. He nodded and swallowed.

“It’s all good, I don’t really care.” He clarified. Fulvia nodded.

“Fair.” She offered her mug of coffee with a "cheers." He responded in kind. “The one thing we do care about is your pain level. Where’s that at?”

“Bad.”

“We’ll get you to a doctor once we’re back in the Capitol,” Cripus added.

Four was fun on the tour. It always was, according to Crispus. He had ripped the sleeves off one of his undershirts and now sported a homemade headband to hold back his hair. Fulvia accused him of being jealous of the good press her hair was getting. Brento gave his speech, little kids gave him flowers, and they partied on in the Justice Building. Brento continued his tradition of falling asleep in a chair, and Four had plenty of victors to drape a blanket over him and then continue the party on their own. Some of the more seasoned mentors with victors of their own were engaged in a conversation with Maureen. Crispus passed Mags two bags of food for the families, and she stashed them in a corner.

“What time are you all heading out?” She asked as another round of drinks came out. She was drinking tea. “Normally, we sneak the new victor down to see the ocean and get them back before the escort knows they’re gone.” She looked over at the sleeping Brento. “I’m not sure that’ll happen this year.”

“He needs the sleep.” Crispus overruled. “His body is still working on healing. Maureen’s been incredible with him, though.”

“How’s everyone here?” Fulvia added. Her eyes lingered on Maeve. The woman seemed fine? She and Percy were laughing about something and were teaching the stylists a game with a fishing knife. “We’re all feeling the stress of our new boss, and I imagine that’s felt here too.” Crispus nodded. He sipped his drink silently. Mags looked at him and made a face. Crispus made one back.

“I’ll use a fishing metaphor,” Mags commented. “We’re the ocean. We endure.”

“Hopefully, you won’t need to endure for long. Who will the mentors be this year?” He asked.

“Not Maeve,” Mags replied. “Percy and maybe me.”

“You know you can take a year off?” Crispus commented. He sipped his drink again. Fulvia squinted at his glass. No matter how much he seemed to drink, the amount of fluid in his glass never went down. “Or bring a fourth? Or a fifth?” Mags shook her head.

“Not while the situation is ongoing.” She replied. Crispus nodded. “Besides. I worry about Haymitch.” Fulvia nodded. Who didn’t worry about Haymitch Abernathy?

“I saw him, what, 10 days ago?” He looked over at Fulvia to confirm how long they’d been on the road. “He looked good. He was drinking, but he was with it. Fulvia suggested that Effie convince him to get a cat or something. Like you did with the raccoons in the village.” Mags smiled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She looked over at Fulvia and grinned. Fulvia smiled at the reference.

“You should try possums next.” Crispus agreed. “I hear they do wonders for flower gardens.”

Fulvia and Plutarch sat up with Crispus that night when the nightmare came. They just sat pressed together against the bottom bunk while Crispus cried quiet sobs into his pillow. Occasionally, he came up for air.

“It’s the anniversary of my dad’s death.” He whispered. His eyes were focused on something in the distance. As if his father were there in the shadows, and he would emerge any moment. Fulvia swallowed. Crispus was shaking. “And I’m on a fucking train somewhere between Four and Three.”

“Your family understands,” Fulvia whispered. Did they? “And you’ll call your mom tomorrow or when we have service again, and it’ll be ok.” He nodded. It was a crappy solution, but it was the best she could offer. Fuck Charlemagne for doing this to them, and honestly, Snow shouldn't of suggested it. Crispus should be with his family right now. Granted, gamemakers were a sort of family given the hours they worked but it she and Plutarch were a poor substitute for his real family. She moved her head to the side so he could rest his head on her shoulder.

Fulvia had seen tributes in the arena align with their younger and smaller district partner, and part of her had always wondered why they would tank their own odds just to be with a friend. She got it now. It wasn’t about the odds. It was about wrapping a person up and saying that they were yours and you were theirs. It was about facing the arena together until the canon fired. Plutarch was weird, Crispus was a party boy, but it’s not like she didn’t also have her faults. Whatever storms were coming, she’d ride them out with her boys by her side.

Two was, predictably, the worst spot on the tour. Palpable anger coursed through the crowd, and one woman shrieked at Brento that he didn’t deserve to win. Brento finished reading the cards and withdrew quickly. Another man shouted that it should’ve been Rollo who won instead. Fulvia counted to three in her head to collect footage of the angry crowd, and then pulled her camera up. Brutus followed Brento off stage with Lyme by his side. Fulvia kept her distance.

“Don’t stress over it.” Lyme was saying. The Victors from Two had clustered around Brento while Maureen rubbed his back gently. “The runner-up’s district is always the worst for the victor. I had apple cores thrown at me in eleven.”

“When I was in One, they all just stared at me with nothing but judgment. No boos, no cheers, nothing.” Cael admitted. “Was horrible.” He shuddered. “Anyway, we baked you bread.” The Twos handed over a loaf of homemade bread as if it were the most normal thing in the world before they headed back for the vans.

“You know our kids don’t need this,” Brutus replied as Crispus handed over the sacks of food.

“Yeah, but we’re not trying to get accused of favoritism,” Fulvia explained. Brutus nodded.

“So find someone who does need it. Make Cael do it. He needs a hobby.” Crispus ordered with a smile and a wave. “See ya in six months.” And Fulvia closed the van door.

Two had been angry, and One was sorrowful. Silent snow drifted down from a gray sky, matching the crowd’s somber mood.” The trap had taken out their two promising tributes in a brutal way. A man and woman stood on the platform with a picture of 1F behind them. There was no family resemblance. Fulvia wondered if they were actors or if they really were the girls’ parents. She kept her camera on the crowd, but eyed Ones victors off to the side in perfect lines. Normally, the victors did seniority order when they had these types of appearances, but here Victoria and Felix were both next to their mentors. Fulvia was honestly glad. The trap had been brutal for One’s youngest mentors. Though Felix wasn’t actually that young. He was three years younger than Fulvia? So he would have won before her first year of university? It was tough to keep track of them all sometimes. Especially the quieter ones.

Crispus nudged her and pointed at a group of teenagers stage right and in the middle of the crowd.

“I think those are the kids in training.” He whispered. “If we came back in 10 years, I bet one or two would be on the stage and the rest would be dead.” Fulvia nodded. That was a…weird thought. She didn’t like that thought.

Brento finished his speech, collected some more flowers, and then limped back inside. They already had a chair ready for him to drop into. Felix made an effort to engage him in conversation before the newest victor promptly fell asleep. Felix shrugged and followed Victoria to join the gamemakers at the reception. Maureen joined Zara, Max, and some of One’s older victors nearby. Fulvia hadn’t realized the extent to which the victors operated with an adults table and a kids table dynamic. It made sense, but still.

“How’s stuff here?” Crispus asked. He crossed his arms. He’d rolled his jumpsuit sleeves up so that his long sleeves were visible. Between that and the headband, Fulvia wondered if he would just wear the jumpsuit full-time now. They were certainly more comfortable than the regular uniform jackets.

“Snowy,” Victoria replied. “The way we like it.” She smiled as if it were a clever joke. Felix nodded. He glanced back over to the older mentors.

“We brought food for the families of your fallen,” Fulvia added.

“Thank you,” Felix whispered. He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter.

“They were both group home kids, so we’ll make sure it gets to them.” Victoria nodded. Fulvia paused. What was it like to watch your friend train and lose, and then continue to train yourself? Hadn’t that been Victoria’s situation? She’d watched Carat and Silka die and then raised her hand to go in anyway. Was there any comfort in learning from a friend’s mistakes? But what had 1F and 1M done wrong this year? The odds had just shafted them. “Is Heavensbee around?”

“He’s here somewhere.” Fulvia replied.

“So who were the people on the platforms?” Fulvia asked. It all fascinated her. If she could make a documentary about them, she would. Unfortunately, it would put too much open in the open secret.

“Typically, people who trained but either washed out of the program or weren’t selected to go into the arena by the time they were 18,” Victoria answered. “Someone tracks who appears when, so we’re not doing repeats.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Fulvia commented. Felix nodded.

Plutarch submitted their last video package and slumped to the floor with Fulvia and Crispus. It was six hours until they would be back in the Capitol. The only way to spend it was getting drunk. They didn’t have cups, so they just passed around the bottle of vodka Crispus had brought.

“I don’t want to go back,” Fulvia muttered. “I miss my blow dryer, but I really like just seeing the victors and their districts.” She wasn’t a fan of 12 or 11 or 10 or 9, or most of them, actually. She liked Four! But she had liked seeing the victors at home.

“I know!” Crispus sat up. “No one was stressed to see us!”

“And we knew where all of the bugs were!” Plutarch agreed. “I hate needing to think about what I say before I say it.” Fulvia nodded. She was going to need to be a responsible department head after this! She was going to need to show her associates proper behavior at work, which included not talking about how much she hated their boss.

“I hate Charlemagne. I hate him so much.” Crispus took another swig of the vodka. “Like if the man disappears, I’m going to need one of you to provide an alibi.”

“You assume we won’t help you do it?” Fulvia teased. She was drunk. “Fuck it. Let’s get one of the victors to kill him. They’re good at killing people!” Crispus shook his head.

“No, that won't solve the problem.” He pouted. “We’re looking for skeletons in his closet, though. And we’re good at finding those!” Fulvia nodded. This was such a good plan, and it wasn’t just the vodka talking! They were all so smart. Plutarch giggled.

“We’re going to fix everything that’s wrong with this country.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. Crispus scrambled towards him.

“Stay on your side!” They heaved Plutarch up and clustered together on the floor like they had during the nightmares. Fulvia pressed herself into Crispus and Plutarch. They would fix everything that was wrong with the country. They were going to take out Charlemagne, and then they would be President Snow’s most trusted advisors. It was a great plan, even the vodka agreed.

The train pulled back into the station, with three hungover gamemakers and the rest of the District Six team. Fulvia handed the book Plutarch had lent her back over. He shook his head.

"Keep it. Yours too, Crispus." Fulvia expected the press and adoring crowds to follow Brento from the train station, and some of them did. But a sizeable portion of it stayed to cheer for the gamemakers as they hopped off. “Brave new world,” He muttered. Crispus nodded.

“Charlemagne’s going to be pissed.” He followed Plutarch off the train.

“Let him.” Replied Fulvia. They had the protection of President Snow, what else could they need?

Notes:

RoTR screwed up my Victor order, and I'm only just now realizing the impact that it's going to have; thus, Maeve and Felix are back as 47 and 48. The important thing is that they're in a similar age bracket to Fulvia, and she's going to realize just how different their lives are from hers.

Sure is crazy how these three gamemakers with absent/ dead parents, significant trust funds, and connections to most of the Capitol's old families are now being mentored by Snow. I hope nothing nefarious is going on!

Chapter 8: Fulvia hates new uniforms

Summary:

Reapings, new uniforms, and gamemaker drama!

The President sent her white roses and a card congratulating her on the successful tour. He also suggested that perhaps a different apartment would better reflect her status as Panem’s rising star. Her old place was apparently “drab.” It was on the cheaper side, but it was safe and perfect for a career woman in her late 20s. Or was she 30 now? She’d stopped counting. The face cream was doing its job, and that’s all that mattered. She moved into a new building with a doorman and rooftop bar, and she was happy with that. Plus, Crispus now lived in her neighborhood, and there was a great park and subway access nearby. He helped her check her new place for bugs (there weren’t any) and unpack a little.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Crispus whispered. “But Brento had eight drinks at his reception and projectile vomited all over half of the old families.” He was borderline giddy. “My boys on duty that night cleaned it all up, but he’s my new favorite.”

She, Crispus, and Plutarch worked late at least once a week and then went back to one of their places for dinner and drinks. Winter turned into Spring, and the games were around the corner.

Fulvia drowned in reports. Charlemagne constantly demanded analytic summaries on viewership numbers or audience satisfaction rates, and then he wouldn’t even read them. It got to the point where she and Urban were just submitting the same report repeatedly with a new intro page. Charlemagne never commented on it.

“At least Snow defended your budget.” She offered to Crispus. He huffed and collapsed into a chair after a particularly bad day.

“I shouldn’t have needed to call Snow, but I really shouldn’t have needed to call Snow when Charlemagne already made me write four reports on victor monetization and income streams. Do you know what that did to my soul?” She shrugged. They were all feeling the stress.

Charlemagne went through what Plutarch described as the “Treaty of Treason” era. The game-making staff had a daily all-hands meeting where they were forced to read the Treaty of Treason one line at a time. Charlemagne would then lead a discussion on why their jobs were important. Fulvia actually didn’t mind this era as much as Plutarch and Crispus did. She just brought her datapad and used the time to write reports when Charlemagne wasn’t looking at her.

After the treason era, it was the “Film Club” era, where Charlemagne made them watch old Hunger Games. Charlemagne had this habit of cold-calling gamemakers to identify areas where the tribute, victors, and gamemakers had made mistakes as if they were all students again. Fulvia would have expected more pushback from Crispus when Charlemagne publicly trash-talked some of the victors, but he joined in on the bashing.

“Wiress’s games were lame and she’s an odd duck, I agree.” Department Head Crispus Ravinstill offered. The other gamemakers all nodded.

“Thank you, you may be seated.” Charlemagne decided. He moved on to someone else and queued up footage of Percy drunkenly falling down a set of stairs last year. Fulvia bit the inside of her lip. Was today just going to be a PowerPoint of Victor Gaffes? She had analytics reports to write. The next victim was also from victor’s affairs.

“He’s an alcoholic. What about it?” The girl replied.

Fulvia’s staff held their own in the cold calls, except Minerva (a seasoned staffer who should have been doing better and cried after every meeting) and one of Fulvia’s first-year staffers, Pollyanna. Fulvia just made them sit between herself and Lysterna and took notes on what they missed for later review. She took a lot of notes. Crispus seemed to have a similar strategy for his staff. His first years sat between himself and his senior staff like they were lost baby ducklings. Sash colors aside, it was obvious who was on victor’s affairs once May hit. Crispus and his staff went through the gamemaker’s handbook line by line until the vast majority of them were chanting rules in hallways like it was some bizarre bonding ritual. Fulvia didn’t go that far, but she did have her seniors lead a weekly rule review, so if Charlemagne did something, they could get him.

Plutarch’s staff struggled the most in these meetings, mainly because Plutarch was struggling. The transition to department head was never easy, and his path from assistant to department head reeked of political favoritism. The Arena Elements staff weren’t taking it well. Plutarch had no idea how to praise the first years when they did something right or how to calm them down when they spun out in the hallway after getting an answer wrong in the large group meetings. In fairness, they were a difficult group to lead due to their weird mixture of social engineers and real engineers. Half of the staff missed Laurentio as their department head, and half were delighted to have a well-connected socialite as their boss. Fulvia just had her team start whispering answers to their struggling associates; if only to get through the meeting a little quicker.

On top of that, they were still having the problem-solving meetings daily, so Fulvia had no actual time to do her job. They all logged record overtime hours, and Fulvia missed her niece’s birthday party. She missed spin classes and haircut appointments, and she needed to see someone about her nails. Tigris finally took pity on her and remedied the situation. They just had no time, and it wasn’t even game season yet.

The debriefs between Fulvia, Crispus, and Plutarch escalated. President Snow occasionally joined them. Fulvia hadn’t realized how funny he was. He had been a gamemaker too! Which, she had known, of course, but to hear him tell stories about how much he hated one of his head gamemakers at the time felt like a commentary on their lives. He let them complain about Charlemagne and assuaged some of their fears. Spring turned to summer, and Reaping Day was a week away.

“I think you’ll like the paper tomorrow morning.” President Snow announced to them one night as he stood up to leave.

“Sir, are you finally axing Charlemagne?” Asked Crispus.

“It's a bit close to the start of the games, but we can make it work.” Agreed Plutarch. Fulvia nodded. President Snow smiled.

“No. You all have more to learn from him.” He laughed and then walked out. Maybe Charlemagne had blackmail on Snow, and Snow was hoping they would figure out what it was? It was their best theory.

Fulvia didn’t have time to grab an edition of the paper on her way to work. She had forgotten about it until Crispus ran into her office, screaming with Plutarch right behind him. Most of Crispus’s staff had followed him. The staff chattered in excited bits, and Fulvia caught every third word.

“A hot list? What are we in middle school?”

“He’s gonna be pissed.” Someone else whispered. Crispus climbed onto the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the esteemed game-making corps! Panem’s most reliable news has spoken.” Plutarch stepped next to her and shook his head. He covered his grin with a hand. “Presenting, ‘Top 20 Hottest Gamemakers of all Time.’” Crispus unfolded the paper.

“What?” Fulvia asked. She blinked. Their job was about helping Panem remember the horror of the dark days; looking good was irrelevant! Granted, she did put a lot of effort into her appearance. Crispus kept reading.

“Gamemakers are among our nation’s most valuable workers.”

“Yeah, we are!” Someone yelled. He continued.

“‘These bright, hardworking, young men and women serve our country every day to ensure Panem maintains peace and security! And,” He waggled his eyebrows at the group. “They look good doing it. Maybe it’s their jackets,” He did a little shimmy. “‘Maybe it’s their uniforms, or maybe it’s their camera skills.” He lowered the paper. “It says wink wink, which I think is implying that we’re all good in bed, which is just not true.”

“Read it!” Lysterna shouted.

“Faustus, take over. I’m on this, and I can’t be thought of as vapid.” Crispus handed the paper over to his staffer, who had climbed up next to him. Fulvia paused. Her staff of 30 was here, Crispus’s staff was here, and most of Plutarch’s staff was here. Charlemagne’s team and Laurentio’s limited staff were nowhere to be seen. Crispus jumped off the table and landed next to Fulvia and Plutarch. Fulvia didn’t know Faustus, but Crispus trusted him, and he had been on the closed set a few months ago. And the staff meetings had revealed he had an incredible head for statistics. He could recite death orders and facts of every game on command. Fulvia was a little jealous that Crispus had him; he would have been such an asset in media. Faustus cleared his throat.

“To celebrate the 59th Hunger Games, let’s count down the 20 hottest gamemakers of all time. In twentieth place, Gaia Templesmith!” Faustus read the short bio on Gaia that the paper had printed. The 19th Hottest Gamemaker of All Time was Charlemagne Royage. Faustus didn’t read Charlemagne’s bio; he just flipped to the next page. The next few were all Gamemakers in the 30s and 40s whom Fulvia easily recognized. They all worked for the government or were retired but active in philanthropy. “And,” Faustus read, “‘The 13th Hottest game maker of all time is Plutarch Heavensbee! This gentle giant is a titan of thought. After graduating cum laude from Panem University, Plutarch earned national acclaim when his tribute won the 50th Hunger Games. Plutarch now leads all arena elements for the gamemakers. You might have seen him this winter as he assisted with cameras for this year’s victory tour.” Faustus finished. Everyone cheered. Plutarch’s face went beet red. He bent over. Crispus cackled and rubbed his back.

“Next!” Faustus shouted. “‘In Seventh place, the incomparable Fulvia Cardew.’” Fulvia felt blood rush to her face. What. Her staff cheered, and Faustus paused to let them get it out of their system. Crispus put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘“Another summa cum laude graduate of Panem University, this dynamic lady is known for her ability to wrangle her staff.’” Faustus paused and looked over at her senior associates. Urban, Lysterna, and Cicero all nodded. Lysterna gave her a thumbs up. Her others whooped. “‘And victors. You’ve definitely watched something she’s produced, and you definitely sent it in your family’s group chat. Want to see this game maker make the game? Watch the 59th Hunger Games.” He turned the paper and displayed a photo of her to the group. Fulvia had to admit, it was a good picture. It was her looking over her shoulder as they prepared for the mentor parade last year. Her wig looked amazing, and her uniform was pressed. She was smiling at something off camera. The staff cheered.

“We’re going to skip the next few because we have places to be, but it’s all names and faces, you know.” Faustus flipped through the following few pages to show off the faces of more government officials. Fulvia had no idea so many of their leaders had started as gamemakers. She should be less offended that President Snow wanted her on his staff then. He flipped to number two and then looked at his boss. “Sir, can I just say before I read this, you’re the hottest gamemaker in my heart, and I have the utmost respect for how you lead our department.”

“Get on with it, Faustus.” Crispus leaned against the console and grinned. Fulvia smacked his shoulder.

“At number two, Crispus Ravinstill!” The VA gamemakers all cheered. Fulvia joined them. “‘A graduate of Panem University, Crispus competed on the school’s gymnastics team and can regularly be found volunteering with a youth gymnastics club during his free time.’” Fulvia hadn’t known that. ‘“This reformed wild child knows the wilds of the districts and as the leader of Victor’s Affairs, we’ll all be watching the 59th Hunger Games to find out who will join his flock.’” Faustus spun the paper so they could all see Crispus’s picture. There were some wolf whistles from multiple staffers. Fulvia cackled, and Crispus went bright red. They’d use his ID picture; at least it was a good one. Fulvia’s ID picture was cringeworthy. Crispus cackled, and Fulvia slapped his shoulders. “And, at number one, President Snow!” Faustus finished.

“Oh, so you are the hottest. He rigged it.” Plutarch muttered. He sounded so bothered. Was he offended that he was only the 13th hottest game maker of all time? Fulvia was laughing so hard she could barely get air in.

“‘After graduating summa cum laude from Panem University, President Snow enjoyed a long career as a gamemaker, where he participated in the solemn remembrance of the Dark Days. He’ll be watching the 59th Hunger Games, and you should too!” Faustus flipped the paper so they could all see a much younger and a much blonder President Snow. The staff was in hysterics. Faustus and Urban began separating the pages of the paper and distributing the pictures and blurbs to their owners. Lysterna and Cicero taped it to her office door.

“Ok!” Crispus shouted. “If I sign your timesheets, go back to our offices. We need to finish stocking the tribute center.” He began to herd his staff out the door. “See you guys soon.” He waved.

“And Snow knew it was coming…” Plutarch whispered to her. He began heading for the door with a bemused expression on his face. Fulvia rolled her eyes.

---

Fulvia blinked. Crispus blinked. Plutarch blinked. To his credit, Laurentio blinked. Fulvia was exhausted; they had less than 24 hours before the tributes were selected. She’d had a check-in meeting with the escort for Seven, explaining that there could not be a repeat of last year’s performance, and spent the day drowning in paperwork. Charlemagne had changed the staffing rotas (again), and now everyone was confused. Fulvia couldn’t keep up.

Charlemagne had decided that the best time to pitch new uniforms was now, at the last heads meeting before the all staff dinner. It was a terrible idea. Gamemakers were possessive of their jackets. Most of them had made alterations so the uniform fit them well, and even the most rule-abiding gamemaker had added secret pockets for snacks or cigars. Fulvia had a tiny packet of gum tucked into her hidden breast pocket. She could only take it out when she was alone because she just wasn’t about to share with her staff or her boys.

The new jacket was less of a jacket and more of a tunic. He clicked through the slides, demoing each department’s new sash color. Now, gamemakers would be able to earn pins from the Head Gamemaker for meritorious service to display on their sash in addition to their rank. She had a feeling Laurentio would earn a pin. She doubted the rest of them would.

The worst offense was the socks. They were knee high with little colored ribbons that poked over the edge of their boots. The ugliness was abated by the fact that their uniform pants covered the entire boot, so at least no one would see them.

“Alright. We did a last-minute arena change last year. Why not change the uniform this year?” Crispus had turned into Charlemagne’s hype man the past few days. She understood why he was doing it, but she still resented it. “I love it.”

“Good.” He seemed unexpectedly relieved. “We’ll distribute the new uniforms tonight at the staff dinner. We’ll debut the new set for opening day.” Fulvia ran the calculation in her head. Were three days enough time to get everything tailored? It would need to be. She wasn’t good enough at sewing to make it work otherwise. “I thought about adding a hat, but I decided against it.”

“A wise choice, sir.” Plutarch agreed.

Fulvia could feel the entire staff watching her and looking for some kind of reaction to the new uniforms during dinner. They wouldn’t get one. She ate a filet mignon with the other department heads and made small talk about families, the weather, and general excitement for this year's games. That was deemed impossible when Charlemagne showed the new uniform PowerPoint to the entire staff. She pressed her knee hard into Plutarch, and Crispus put his foot on top of hers. She made eye contact with Laurentio, and he nodded. It felt nice to all be in agreement again.

“And no wigs for anyone,” Charlemagne added. A murmur of shock spiraled through the group. They needed to wear wigs. Did he expect them all to do their hair every day? They were all about to look poor on TV! “You are gamemakers. You are not stylists, escorts, or prep teams. You are charged with punishing the districts to prevent another rebellion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” They all shouted.

She touched the fabric of the new tunic as Charlemagne called on the department heads, and they presented updates. It was a cotton-poly blend. The new sash was satin. Hopefully, the fabrics would all look good together. And at least she wouldn’t need to wear white during the games anymore. It made eating in uniform such a hazard.

“The socks are wool,” Crispus said through clenched teeth while Plutarch presented his team’s updates. Something about the arena being 'electric' this year. “Wool knee socks in July.” Laurentio tipped his wine back. Fulvia finished her glass.

She sent the slides of the new uniform examples to her entire staff. Someone was going to screw this up and incur the wrath of Charlemagne, and it wouldn’t be her or any of hers. She’d check them all herself before sending them out for their opening day assignments.

Reapings were seamless, which Fulvia was grateful for. Low intervention again, and no wrinkles that she needed to prep for. Her staff ran the camera calls while Fulvia sipped a coffee in the spin suite, supervising. They cut live to District One.

Victoria and Felix were mentoring again, with Zara and Max serving as secondaries. Fulvia hoped they could have a good year. That trap had just been terrible for everyone last year. The boy from One was brunette this year, which Fulvia thought was a nice change of pace. Victoria tried to catch Felix’s eye about something, but he looked away. Fulvia called for the cameras to focus on the tributes and not the mentors.

Lyme and Brutus were bringing a slimmer boy and a broad-shouldered girl. Cael was coming as an alternate mentor and for media appearances. Fulvia nodded.

Wiress and Beetee had an underfed girl and an older boy who might’ve been a contender were he not so skinny.

Mags and Percy had two volunteers. They both towered over the escort Aurelia and were both muscular. Maeve smiled and clapped with the other victors. Fulvia sent silent wishes of strength to the woman.

Porter and the male mentor (whom Fulvia could never keep track of because he drank so aggressively) had an older girl. She was pretty, but looked on the more lithe side. The boy was a tiny 13-year-old, and Fulvia’s heart broke for Porter that she would have another hard year.

Six went all out. The crowd was mostly sober as the escort introduced Brento as a past victor. Fulvia wondered if their cheers were shaking the cameras. And it would not be a repeat year for District Six. The boy was 15 but looked so small he could blow over in the wind, and the girl was 16 and looked equally small. Fulvia sipped her coffee. They would all look fine once remake was done with them.

Seven’s escort had dyed his beard and hair green and wore platform ballet heels; the look was atrocious. But once they had the tributes, no one was looking at the escort. The sevens had two contenders. Blight and Oakly knew it, and so did every gamemaker in the room. The girl was tall with thinning hair, but great features. The boy stared at the skyline with something unreadable on his face. The escort was excited and told the tributes to shake hands. The boy was frozen, but the girl hugged him. Fulvia blinked. Did they know each other?

“We just had a romantic pair from the same district. This is so lame.” Lysterna commented.

“Maybe they’re friends? Cousins?” Fulvia suggested. She glanced at the information coming up on her datapad. Different last names, but similar ages. Maybe they were friends from school? It would have been great to ask about at the opening press conferences, but Charlemagne had killed that, too. “Seven’s not even that small.”

The eights were skinny and older. Fulvia breathed a sigh of relief when Cecelia didn’t seem to know either tribute, and neither did her siblings.

9M was older and stocky. “Contender,” Urban muttered. He had good features. The stylists could do something with him. 9F was pretty and willowy, and her shoulders trembled on stage.

Casey didn’t react as either tribute was announced. The girl was tall and classically beautiful. Fulvia couldn’t tell her age, but she came from either the 16 or the 17-year-old pen. The boy was well built, but on the younger side. Fulvia wished he were coming as an older tribute. He would have been a contender.

Seeder and Chaff were model victors all through the reaping. Both of their tributes were thin and all elbows. Both blinked in shock. They had to use the applause track because the sound of a woman screaming flooded the sound system. Urban handled it. Seeder gently ushered them into the Justice Building for goodbyes.

Haymitch went pale as a skinny older boy and a tiny young girl were called up. Someone had to shake the shock from the girl to get her moving, and two other girls gave her a push forward. Fulvia made a face and motioned for the cameras to focus on Effie.

“Ok!” Effie clapped. “Shake hands, you two!” The girl burst into tears, and the boy wasn’t far behind. Haymitch fell off the stage.

They cut back to the Capitol. Caesar Flickerman was on stage. His color this year was burnt orange, featuring glitter. It was so tacky. Fulvia automatically recoiled.

“Happy Hunger Games!” He shouted. “May the odds be ever in your favor!”

Notes:

I swear I didn't know the new Taylor Swift album color scheme when I drafted this.

There is a method to all of Charlemagne's actions. He's a monster of a man, but he also is strategic in his vision for what the corps of gamemakers needs to be. The new uniform/ brainwashing sessions are part of a larger picture that Fulvia only sort of grasps. The wool socks are just bc he's a sadist, though.

Chapter 9: Fulvia tolerates opening parades

“Alright, everybody. Welcome back to sleep deprivation.” Crispus started talking. Fulvia tuned him out. She eyed the year's mentors with interest. “Normally, you would all have a press conference at this time, but leadership has made some changes to programming, so Gamemaker Cardew and I wanted to go over those changes with you all.” He paused. “But first, let’s all please welcome Brento to this side of things.” The victors gave a polite round of applause, Fulvia joined them. “Let’s all be welcoming.” Did his eyes linger on Blight and Cael? “Alright, Cardew, floor is yours.” Fulvia stepped up.

“Welcome back, everyone!” She tried to force a cheery smile. “Thank you for welcoming my colleagues and me into your homes this winter, so we’re excited to have you here in our home.” That got a few smiles and shrugs. She missed not needing her work personality while she was at work. “As you’ve all figured out by now, no more welcome press conference. You’ll still be expected to attend elimination press conferences. We’ll still have ‘Victors on Victors’ and a few similar projects, but you’ll see me less, and Gamemaker Ravinstill more.” She sat back down and sipped her water bottle.

“Sorry, guys.” Crispus joked. No one laughed. He shrugged. “The two biggest changes that affect us are that you’ll be soloing all engagements and parties now.” A murmur of shock traveled through the group. “I will make exceptions where we can, but this is something we’ll deal with.” Crispus paused. “The other big change is just the sheer volume of requests our office is processing. This is the most…demanding year I’ve ever been on staff for. Obviously, that put you all under a lot of stress, and that puts Victor Affairs in a really,” He emphasised that last word. “visible position. So please look out for each other. I want to send everyone home with your fallen once the games are over, but we should all mentally prepare for another long haul. Any questions about all of that?” No one raised their hands.

Fulvia could have heard a pin drop. He toggled up the same spreadsheet he had from last year with Victor Designations, districts, and van numbers. “Ok. Here’s our next 48 hours. Maeve and Cael, you guys are doing Good Morning Panem. That’s a 4:00 am wakeup, sorry. Catherine and Zara, you’re on the Morning Show. Also, a 4:00 am wakeup, again sorry. Max and Porter, Panem Today, 4:00 am.” It had been surprisingly easy to get exceptions to the new solo rule for the joint appearances. All Fulvia had to do was point out that a duo was easier to interview than a lone victor, and Charlemagne had agreed. It was honestly a little suspicious.

“Escorts will receive all of this shortly, along with your talking points, but if anyone figures out the difference between these shows, please tell us,” Fulvia added. The joke landed. She got some smiles and laughs. She smiled. Crispus kept going.

“Brento and Maureen, you’re on Caesar’s show with a 5:00 am wakeup. Felix, Cecelia, and Lyme, the games museum is opening a new exhibit about arena fashion. Call time is 10:00 am. You’ll have time for breakfast with your tributes. Beetee and Wiress, something at the University. I know it has to do with magnets and computers, but those were the only words from the briefing that I understood.” Everyone laughed at that. Crispus made a face. “It’s not funny, science was my worst subject in school. Your escort has the brief, though.” Crispus kept going.

Tributes would be in training from breakfast to dinner time, and the Victors were going to be booked and busy during that time. It was going to be exhausting for them, with events during the day and mentoring the tributes at night. And then the games would start! “As always, I’ll make sure the escorts, Tigris, and medical know what’s up, too. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

The lack of a press conference meant that Fulvia was officially done for the day until the opening parade.

“Your schedule looks insane.” She commented as they headed for the control room. Crispus nodded.

“Yeah. We’ll make it through, we always do. I might need to draft you, if you’re open to it. I don’t like sending my juniors out until I have a sense of who is good at what.”

“Yeah. Let me know what you need, and I’ll give you people.”

Plutarch had already completed the tribute briefs by the time they were back in the control room. Associates operated a few camera stations, but since there was no arena to control, they were operating on half-staff. Plutarch threw a packet of paper at each of them. That was a 24-hour turnaround; maybe he was starting to get the hang of leadership? Crispus mumbled something about coffee first, and Laurentio brought over two mugs. Crispus nodded at him.

Charlemagne had axed the tradition of hanging tribute portraits on the wall in the control room, and he’d opted for white boards instead. The engineers did math on one to prove they were smart. It didn't even look relevant to the situation. Plus, why were they doing it here? They had their own labs for this stuff. Plutarch had claimed the other one to track emerging storylines. That was a good use of a control room whiteboard. He uncapped a marker.

“1M is the son of Max’s roommate from his days in their training program.” Plutarch began. He drew out a mini family tree. “So best of luck to Felix there.” Crispus accepted the mug from Laurentio and flipped his datapad open. Fulvia grabbed a highlighter and underlined 1M. That must’ve been why Felix looked stressed at their reaping ceremony. Mentoring your mentor’s best friend’s son was a tough assignment. Why would Max let him do that? Max should be the mentor this year, not him.

“Officially, there is no training program, though, so I think we stick with the group home and wrestling team story,” Fulvia suggested. That would put less pressure on Felix in media should he need to do an elimination conference. It was still a horrible position for someone to be placed in.

“12F is another McCoy, like LouElla in the 50th.” Plutarch continued. Cripus blew air from his mouth slowly. Laurentio blinked.

“Who?” Fulvia asked. She could remember Maysilee Donnor, what Capitol teen didn’t, but the other name didn’t sound familiar. In fairness, there had been 48 tributes that year.

“Snake girl,” Crispus replied. Fulvia nodded.

“She was funny.” What else did Fulvia remember about her? Not much. “That’s horrible for Haymitch to need to mentor her, though. And 12 is small enough that I’m sure everyone knows everyone.” Poor Felix and Haymitch! “And what’s going on with the Sevens?”

“Only connection I could find is that their dads are in the same work crew, so expect an alliance there.” Plutarch offered. Crispus made a face. Laurentio tapped a pen on the desk absentmindedly.

“Were we just not briefed on wrinkles this year?” He asked. Crispus sipped his coffee and shrugged. Fulvia nodded.

“It could all be a coincidence. Like the Ones volunteer, and 12 is small, and the Sevens, tesserae?” She guessed. She tried to remeber tesserae statistics. A lot of people in 12 took it. That could also have contributed to the repeat of 12F.

“All good storylines, though,” Plutarch concluded. “All good stories.”

Fulvia hid in her office for the next several hours to get ahead on paperwork. One of her staffers brought in a tabloid list of Panem’s 20 hottest victors; she could hear Lysterna and Urban giggling about it in the spin suite. There was a part of her that wanted to look and see who had earned her equivalent number seven spot, but her sense of professionalism dictated that this report needed to be submitted first. Besides, the press had raked Maeve over the coals last year for no good reason, and Fulvia had resolved to avoid tabloid news when she could. Part of her job was to read those headlines, but she didn’t need to read every headline. Surely someone would tell her if the information was important enough to know.

The department heads and senior gamemakers were actually able to watch the parade from their box this year and enjoy it. The crowds screamed for them as they took their seats.

“How much do you want to bet District 12 are coal miners?” She whispered to her boys through smiling, clenched teeth. She waved to the crowds.

“Same amount that District Four does something with nets and fish,” Plutarch replied. Laurentio grinned. They took their seats. They all had to stand up and clap with the crowd when Charlemagne joined them, and Fulvia imagined President Snow announcing right then and there that he was fired. The thought made her smile real. Charlemagne took his seat, then they all had to stand and clap for President Snow and Aunt Livia to appear on their balcony.

The drumming began, and Fulvia could hear the horns play the first notes of the anthem. Feathers, gladiators, gadgets, fish, solar panels (?), wheels, trees, fabric, amber grain, ranchers, birds, and coal miners.

1M whispered to 1F as their carriage went by. He was confident, so was she. They were decked out in orange feathers and sparkles. Fulvia wondered if the stylists had matched them to Caesar’s color for the year. She looked to Felix and Victoria in the mentor section. They were both next to their own mentors and seemed pleased with the look. 2F towered over 2M, and it’s not like 2M was tiny. He was just lean. They ignored each other and waved separately. The threes were forgettable. The fours were fish again.

“I just don’t like the fish costumes.” Fulvia offered. The tributes were being good sports about it and smiling and waving, but Maeve and Percy weren't impressed.

“There’s so much you can do with Four’s character.” Agreed Plutarch. “Why are we stuck on fish?”

The fives were some type of solar panel. They were covered in body suits and reflective surfaces. It was like the arena from a decade ago. The sixes were forgettable. Fulvia nodded approvingly in case a camera was on her.

“It’ll be a volunteer this year, right?” Laurentio asked. “We just had an outlier girl, then an outlier boy. The volunteers will be smart about it.” Fulvia could see it coming down to the arena. Surely the volunteer mentors would instruct their tributes to stick together until all of the other tributes were gone? It's what she would do if she were a mentor this year. The sixes were wheels. Fulvia smiled and nodded. It was ugly.

“Depends.” Crispus decided. He lifted a program to cover his mouth. “Assuming no wrinkles, I think sponsorships and arena luck could be huge this year.” Fulvia nodded. In a twist, the sevens were trees. They needed a new stylist. At this point, university students could do better. She glanced over to Plutarch and Charlemagne.

“Any arena hints?” The additional thought occurred to her that Charlemagne was technically leading both engineering and being the Head Gamemaker, which she thought was way too much for one person. Plutarch smiled at their boss. Charlemagne shrugged.

“Hints! Hints!” Crispus chanted. Charlemagne sighed. He covered his mouth with the program so he could speak freely.

“It’s a complicated one. We went over budget for a reason.” Fulvia used a work smile. The last complicated arena they’d had had been Percy’s maze trap situation. Simple arenas were better for storylines but complicated ones were amazing to watch, when they worked. This'd better work or it would make her life difficult.

“Not a big mutt year though.” Plutarch agreed. “The tributes are going to work.” What could that mean? Fulvia glanced at the 24 tributes now returning to the tribute center. 12M was holding the hand of 12F. She was too little to work. She wished the outlier districts would train too so that they didn’t need to send their little ones. Fireworks went off overhead, and Fulvia followed her team back inside.

Notes:

Local woman begins to explore her capacity for empathy in her day-to-day work environment: more next week

Chapter 10: Training

“Heavensbee, take your camera and my engineering officers and fly to the arena this afternoon. I’d like them to film a short explanation of the arena.” Plutarch stopped taking notes. They were halfway through training, and Fulvia’s world had devolved into meetings, the observation box, and the backstage area of Caesar’s show. She gave Brento a high five for a job well done in his last interview as the reigning victor and chugged another coffee. She confirmed with Plutarch that enough arena wear outfits of the appropriate sizes had been delivered to the arena. She told herself everything was fine. There were dynamics this year, and the gossip reached her through excited side comments from staffers. Max was micromanaging Felix, the arena engineers were falling asleep at their desks, and the escorts all seemed mad at each other. Fulvia could barely keep up.

“Sir, we don’t do arena explanations anymore because the mentors were able to send coded messages to the tributes. Not to mention, Fulvia’s staff would need to edit the footage.”

“Fine,” Charlemagne added. “No messages with sponsor gifts then.” Fulvia frowned.

“Oh, I like the messages with sponsor gifts.” She shifted her weight in her seat. This might be a losing battle. “The bigger concern is the time constraint.”

“Is it doable?” He asked her. Fulvia nodded. Charlemagne looked over to Crispus. His shoulders were slumped.

“You’ve been unusually quiet today.” The head gamemaker prodded. Crispus shrugged.

“I don’t have an opinion here. It doesn’t really affect me.” He didn’t look at Fulvia. She frowned.

“Good lad,” Charlemagne replied. He glanced back over at Fulvia. “This arena is about showing the districts what we’re capable of. Besides, I want my engineers to receive credit for all of their hard work.”

“Yes, sir.” Fulvia knew a losing argument when she saw one. She mentally apologized to her staff. They’d be pulling an all-nighter, the night before interviews. Lysterna, Cicero, and Nero all flew out with Plutarch’s team to see the arena and film a teaser. Plutarch wouldn’t say how it went, but they all had to sign NDAs, and Lysterna said she thought it was a good one.

4M and 1M achieved the highest training scores of 10, while 12F received the lowest score of 4. Some of the associates had wanted to go lower, but Fulvia felt that was unfair. The girl was really trying! She had done a nicely woven basket as her skill. It wasn’t her fault that she was 14 and tiny! Plus, Effie raved about what a sweet little thing she was, and how her family knew Haymitch’s family from before. That deserved at least a four!

“How would we feel about skipping the meetings where we ask the mentors to identify a primary tribute?” Fulvia asked at their final department heads meeting. “I can ask the escorts to get us that same information, and frankly, we’re short on time.” Charlemagne shook his head.

“You can delegate if you need to.” His voice was surprisingly understanding. “The act of forcing the mentors to choose is valuable, though, and I want to avoid surprises with the interviews.” She nodded. “Good luck with interviews tonight. I always enjoy watching the tributes fight for attention.” Charlemagne closed out their meeting. “Odds ever in our favor.”

“Odds ever in our favor.” They all repeated. Fulvia cornered Crispus as they were leaving.

“Thanks for the backup.” She commented. He shook his head at her.

“Not now, Cardew. Oh, hi Laurentio.” He perked up as the man appeared next to them. Fulvia took her last second to face the wall, rolling her eyes, before spinning to greet Laurentio.

“Hey.” He glanced at Fulvia. “Sorry you ended up with more work.” She shrugged. The finish line was close. She was more offended by Crispus's utter indifference to her situation. “I wanted to ask Crispus if he had any more of those photoshoots coming up.” Crispus’s eyes went wide, and his posture changed.

“Um. No. Usually, those are a once-a-year thing. They’re expensive, and it’s input versus output.”

“Aw, man. Let me know when you have another one. The last one was fun.” He slapped Crispus on the back before walking away, taking Fulvia’s desire to snark on Crispus with him. She knocked her arm into him.

“You ok?”

“Tired. Stressed. Hungry.” He replied. He watched Laurentio walk away. She nodded.

“Will it get better once the games start?”

“Some parts will. Other parts will get worse.” She nodded again. There wasn’t really anything left to say.

“I have to get to mentor meetings. Secret handshake?” She extended her left hand. He grinned.

“Always Cardew.”

So she hauled herself and Urban over to the conference room in the atrium of the tribute building and poured herself a cup of tea. Urban grabbed a croissant and managed a few bites.

“I don’t even know who to expect from One?” She whispered. Victoria was obviously mentoring 1F with occasional support from Zara, but she half suspected that Max would just show up in Felix’s place. Urban swallowed.

“Boss, I don’t even know what day it is,” he replied. “All I know is I need to have a brand new uniform ready for tomorrow, and every decent tailor in this city is already booked, so I had to call my sister!”

“That’s funny,” Fulvia replied. “It’s rough, but it’s funny.” She opened her data pad and queued their spreadsheet. 1M and 1F were both in bold due to their high training scores, resulting in higher expectations.

All of the Ones came to the meeting. Fulvia offered coffee and tea, but no one wanted any. Felix and Victoria sat, and Zara and Max stood behind them. It felt like a parent-teacher conference from high school. The Ones lacked their usual polish. Hair was still set in curls and styled, outfits were still tailored and crisp, but there was an exhaustion under everyone's eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

“Trivot is our primary,” Felix said softly. The Ones all seemed to exhale as he said it. Fulvia nodded. She typed the information in.

“Angles?”

“They both just want to honor the Capitol and bring honor home to District One,” Victoria answered. She swallowed. “Diamond will be a little fun and flirty.”

“Trivot’s more about the spectacle.” Felix finished. Fulvia finished typing. Despite all the drama, the Ones would have a fairly normal year then. She paused. Crispus was stressed. She was stressed. Felix and Victoria were both stressed. They had a terrible year last year, and they were giving it another go. They all had bosses to keep happy. And she would be a good boss where she could.

“Well, they both have great mentors.” She looked between Felix and Victoria. That actually got a small smile out of Felix. “And I’m sure they’ll both bring honor to the Capitol.” Victoria smiled widely.

“Yeah.” She turned to face Max. “They both will.” There was an edge in her words. Zara made a face.

“Ok. Let’s go.” She beckoned Victoria. She stood up and followed Zara out with a toss of her hair. Felix looked back at Max and shrugged.

“Went better than you thought it would.” Fulvia made a mental note to tell Crispus that trouble seemed to be brewing on the first floor. Actually, he probably already knew. That must’ve been why he was stressed. She messaged him about it anyway. Maybe they should listen to the bugs tonight? The Twos were next. Spirits were high.

“My girl will be the primary.” Lyme offered. Cael shrugged. He didn’t seem upset. “She’ll make a good run of it. Great with swords.”

“Are we doing standard Two angles?” Fulvia asked. Cael nodded.

“Ado’s funny and sarcastic. You saw him with knives during training.” Fulvia nodded. Had she seen that? Whatever. She would nod anyway. She typed it into the sheet.

“Great. I’m excited for you guys. Have a good year.”

“We’re trying,” Cael replied as he stood up. He smirked and looked over at Lyme. “The Ones are ripping themselves to shreds.” He was practically giggling as her looked between Lyme and Fulvia.

“Not our style.” Agreed Lyme. “Our only real worries now are the Fours and the arena.”

The Threes were fast. 3M was the primary. The boy would be funny and smart. The girl was sweet and funny. No concerns. Fulvia typed it all in and wished Wiress and Beetee a great year. Mags and Percy were next.

“Hello again.” Fulvia greeted them. “Coffee? Tea?” Mags shook her head.

“No, thank you, we’re fine.” Her posture was perfect. Fulvia involuntarily sat up a little straighter. Percy and Urban followed suit.

“What’s the plan?” Fulvia toggled down to the next row of her spreadsheet. Percy shrugged.

“Show up, look good, and then go home?” He leaned back and crossed his legs the way Crispus would have. Fulvia smiled.

“I love it. I can’t put that in my spreadsheet, though.”

“Coral is our primary.” Mags offered softly. “Fisherman’s daughter. Wants to honor the Capitol. She’s very serious.” Fulvia nodded. She added it to the sheet. Serious tributes typically struggled in the interviews. Caesar was good about helping them channel that seriousness, though.

“Nice,” Urban added.

“Puff is more jovial. He’s a very smooth talker. He’ll be fun to watch.” Percy finished. Fulvia typed it all in. She nodded and sipped her coffee.

“Ok. Thanks, guys. Have a good year.”

Porter was optimistic about their girl, but the boy was tiny again. Maureen and Brento were next. Brento did take her up on the offer of pastries. He filled a plate with glazed turnovers and placed a second plate over it as a top on the container so his food was portable. Urban made a face, and Fulvia kicked him under the table. Sometimes, District people had weird habits with food. It was just one of those things they had to accept and move on. Fulvia asked about Brento’s hip, and he said it was actually doing ok.

“Was I your primary last year?” He asked Maureen. She shrugged. He looked over at Fulvia and Urban. “Was I?”

“I don’t remember.” Fulvia lied. Urban followed her lead. Of course, Brento had been the primary, but if Maureen didn’t want him to know that, then she wouldn’t tell him. Fulvia decided a topic change was in order. “You should talk to Cecelia. She had to mentor her first year out, too.” Brento nodded.

Blight and Oakley were shockingly casual. Their girl was the primary. She was going for a humble lumberjack angle (which Fulvia didn’t understand, but whatever), and the boy was proud to represent District Seven. Urban nodded approvingly. Fulvia typed. She didn’t ask about their tributes knowing each other, and they didn’t offer anything.

Fulvia lost track of how many times she wrote the words ‘funny’ and ‘sweet’, and ‘nervous’ and ‘likes the food.’ Truly, the only remarkable thing was that Effie joined Haymitch for the meeting. Fulvia knew that it had been the right call instantly. Haymitch’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Fulvia reached into her bag and pulled out a set of under-eye masks. She set them on the table and offered them wordlessly. Haymitch didn’t acknowledge her. Effie nodded and slid the patches into her own dress.

“So we’re thinking that Poppy will be our primary. She’s very sweet and fun. Tom is very genuine as well. We rode the elevator with him multiple times because he loved it so much.” Fulvia smiled for the first time all day. She thought back to District 12 and its dark gray sky, slushy snow, and the layer of coal that coated everything. She was glad 12M was getting to experience this. Haymitch looked down and tapped his foot.

“I’m so glad. Is he a fan of the food, too? That’s been a trend this year.”

“Yes!” Effie adjusted her posture. “We had the mushroom risotto for dinner last night. I thought he was going to lick the bowl.”

“Please introduce that kid to an ice cream float,” Urban begged. Fulvia nodded. They had jokes in the Capitol about things like this. Similar to ‘District 2 does not produce peacekeepers, ’ the other good one was ‘A single sip of a carbonated coffee would kill a District 12 child.’ Given how much Haymitch drank, Fulvia wasn’t sure if that one was true.

“No snakes,” Haymitch whispered. He looked up at Fulvia for the first time. “Please don’t do it again. Please let her go gently.”

“I can’t control that,” Fulvia replied. Effie gave her a look, and Fulvia nodded. “If she’s afraid of snakes, let’s make sure there are none in her interview outfit.” She wanted to tell Haymitch that the arena probably wouldn’t have snake mutts based on what she’d heard, but she couldn’t. She’d agreed to review her staff member’s edit of the engineers’ arena walk-through after mentor meetings to prevent any accidental information sharing on her part. Her poker face was good, but not perfect.

“It’s not allowed,” Urban offered. “It’s in our handbook. Section 23.14 No live animals are allowed in the building.” Fulvia glanced at him. “What? I’ve been hanging around the VA crew.”

“And it’s a shame because Tigris used to bring her cats,” Effie added. “It was very nice to see them.”

“Oh.” Haymitch made a face.

“Well.” Fulvia decided. “That’s settled.” She didn’t want to kick them out, but she also had places to be. “May the odds be in their favor.” Effie stood and began to herd Haymitch towards the door.

Fulvia took a long and slow exhale as she lifted her braids from her neck to get some air. She’d need to figure out a new hairstyle for tomorrow. Long hair couldn’t be worn down with the new uniforms. She’d probably do an elegant twist or something.

“I’ll get note cards off to Caesar.” Urban stood up. “You ok? You seem different?” Fulvia’s head snapped around to him.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a ton of politics this year, and I don’t think this should be a political role.” Urban nodded.

“Hang in there. President Snow is allowing this for a reason. It must be a lesson of some kind.” He offered. She nodded.

Fulvia had an iced coffee and a muffin for dinner. She ate in the spin suite with her staff after she reviewed the arena footage. Lysterna showed them all pictures of her new baby, and Fulvia suggested they hang the pictures up on the wall. The engineers had done ok on camera. They worked with a different type of angle than she did. And that was ok! They all had different strengths. She was more interested in the engineering officers who had been sent. She’d wait to hear from Crispus and Plutarch before any further thoughts. The arena was spectacular. She couldn’t wait to see Panem react to it.

She tapped her microphone gently. “Ladies and gentlemen. This is Gamemaker Cardew with your 15-minute call to places. Again, this is your 15-minute call to places.”

“Thank you, 15.” Her staff responded. She scanned through each camera absent-mindedly. Everything looked fine. 1F was with Victoria backstage. Neither seemed stressed. 1F’s dress was pink with tulle. She’d been decked out with diamond necklaces and a diamond hairpiece. It was honestly a little much. Just because the girl’s name was Diamond didn’t mean that she needed to be her whole brand.

Felix showed up with 1M. 1M unbuttoned his top button and puffed his shirt out. Felix promptly rebuttoned it. 1F and Victoria thought that was hysterical. Fulvia scanned through more cameras. Caesar flipped through his cards while doing vocal warm-ups. The sparkly orange was growing on her. Maybe she would even like it by the end of this year. Fulvia looked at her staff. “Last bathroom breaks. Drinks on the table, please. No liquid near the console.” Her staff obeyed without comment. Fulvia closed her eyes and stretched out her neck. The 10-minute places call. The five-minute places call. 2F and Lyme were backstage in the queue. She nodded at her allies. The dress was an interesrting choice. It was a sparkly high low in a pastel blue. It didn’t work with her angle at all.
Her earpiece crackled.

“Gamemaker Cardew, you are cleared to roll when ready.” Charlemagne’s voice came through. She nodded and looked around at her staff. They were ready. They always were; she had trained them well.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Standby brass symphony. Standby Caesar. Hunger Games 59. Odds ever in our favor. Go symphony. Go Caesar.” Fulvia could run these cues in her sleep.

“It’s just so nice to be here!” 1F sparkled under the stage lights like her namesake.

“I’m so excited. I’m going to be the best of all time.” 1M added. He’d unbuttoned his top few buttons. Fulvia and Urban made knowing eye contact. Fulvia glanced at her mentor camera and saw Felix face-palm backstage. Victoria and 1F exchanged a look. Imagine going against a mentor’s instructions? This should get interesting.

“I’m so ready.” 2F offered.

“All of these tributes are annoying, and I’m excited to kill them.” 2M deadpanned. Fulvia blinked. Urban giggled.

“I love it!” Caesar shouted. The crowd roared.

“I really liked the chocolate cake,” 3F explained.

“I love the chocolate cake. Tell me. What else have you tried during training?” Caesar kept her going. Fulvia smiled. She had a feeling that many of the tributes would be talking about cake in some form tonight. 3M’s suit had light-up panels sewn into it. The stylist had done an amazing job.

“Look, I can change the color!” he showed Caesar, turning it to a sparkly orange. “We match now.” Caesar gasped.

“No! You look better than me now!” He cried. Fulvia laughed. “Alright, I’ll allow it. Here, take my microphone.” The rest of the bit was 3M pretending to interview Caesar, which culminated in Caesar almost walking 3M offstage to a smiling Beetee. Fulvia nodded. That kid just became a contender.

4F did struggle in her interview. She said that she didn’t understand the point of the interviews. If it was a joke, it didn’t land. It didn’t help that she was between two funny tributes who had a natural acting instinct. 4M was sensational. He wore another seashell suit and stole Caesar’s microphone. Caesar pretended to be offended, and 4M then they took the opportunity to do a free-style rap that had their entire office in hysterics.

5M was so small that the chair swallowed him up, and 5F tripped on her heels. Caesar caught her. She promptly took them off.

“Why do people here wear these?” She asked? The crowd roared in delight. “Caesar, I’ll get you some steel-toed boots from Five. We wear them in the power plant.”

“Do you think I could be a power plant worker?” Caesar put his hand over his heart.

“I think you show potential as a solar panel.” She replied. Fulvia watched Porter smile and laugh. The Sixes raved about the food and clothes. Fulvia nodded. All good. The sevens were standard.

“You have no trees here.” 7F observed. “You should fix that.” The eights were basic.

“The lamb stew was really good,” 8F explained. “But my favorite thing so far has been the chocolate. That and it turns out knives are just bigger sewing needles.”

“Are you going for a knife in the morning?” Caesar asked her.

“No, I’m going for chocolate. But if there’s a knife in the cornocopia, I’ll take that too.” She smiled and posed.

“Gamemakers! Put some chocolate in the arena!” Caesar shouted. They panned the camera to Charlemagne, Plutarch, Crispus, and Laurentio, along with a few others in the gamemaker booth. Laurentio nodded and gave a thumbs-up before remembering that it was technically no longer his job. The nines were good as always. Another solid year from the tens.

“I don’t have a victor prediction this year?” Urban whispered to her at one point. Fulvia nodded. She felt the same way. Prior to seeing the arena edit, she would have said this was 4M’s to lose, and maybe 1M or 4F would take it. But this wasn’t a water arena. It was a brutal one, though. She pushed the thoughts of the arena out of her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about that yet. Plus, these outlier tributes were showing up! The mentors hadn’t been spinning anything; these tributes all seemed funny, sweet, and enjoyable to watch!

The twelves appeared on her backstage camera. Haymitch knelt in front of 12F and mimed smiling and waving. There were no animals or reptiles anywhere to be seen. Effie had an arm around the boy. Little 12F was perfect during her interview. Haymitch watched it with foot-tapping anxiety and a hand over his mouth.

“I like all of the dresses and food here.” 12F admitted. “But the lights block out the stars, and I don’t like that.”

“We’ll get our top engineers on it,” Caesar promised. “You win, you come back, and we’ll have that fixed.”

“I’m counting on it.” She smiled.

12M was similarly perfect. Effie reminded Fulvia of a stage mom as she mimed a big smile backstage. 12F held Haymitch’s hand as they all watched together.

“I don’t understand why you’re not all fat.” 12M offered. “If I lived here, all I would do is eat all day.”

“Well. Some of us do eat all day.” Caesar commented.

“You don’t look like it.” 12M replied.

“You’re very kind. Tell us, in our last minute, what should we be watching for when you’re in that arena?”

“Well, I’m really excited for the tube bit. I rode the elevator here and it was awesome. Haymitch and Effie let us ride it multiple times!”

“Incredible. What a beautiful reminder of simple joys. Ladies and gentlemen, Tom McElroy of District 12!”

“Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Hi Anna! Love you!” He shouted before heading off stage. Effie hugged him, and then the Tweleves shared a nice moment of a group hug. Fulvia didn’t know Effie very well, but she was so grateful to the woman for pulling Haymitch through this year.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” Caesar closed out the night, and Fulvia rolled the anthem. The other department heads messaged her words of congratulations. Charlemagne even said it was “good”

“I will see everyone here tomorrow at 5:30 for a uniform check!” Fulvia shouted to her staff. “Please go home and sleep. No alcohol or merriment tonight!” The staff made a show of booing her. She rolled her eyes. They began to clear out. Fulvia wondered if she should go back to her apartment for the night or if she should just sleep here. What were Crispus and Plutarch doing? She’d do the same as they. Her datapad pinged with a message from Crispus.

‘No bugs tn. Ones are fighting, Fours and Twos are hype.’

Well. Now all she had to do was finish the epilating on her now-tailored uniform, submit more analytics reports, make sure that wool socks (IN JULY) didn’t make her boots too small, polish said boots, and then transfer her gum, Band-Aids, and bobby pins to her new tunic. May the odds be ever in her favor. She bit her lip.

Notes:

Me, to the little fulvia that lives in my head and yaps: hey girl this is supposed to be the vignettes about Charlemagne and how having a terrible boss made you realize the entire system was terrible.
Fulvia: We get there when we get there.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Stories from the Control Room