Ever In Your Favor

by DigitalMetronome

Summary:

“You would think Reaping Day gets easier when you know you can’t be drawn anymore. It does not. Sitting on the stage, knowing exactly what awaits the two kids whose names are called; that’s a special kind of torture.”

Henry has survived the Hunger Games. Now, one year later, it’s his job as a mentor to prepare the nexts tributes for their Games. This year’s tributes Hans Capon and Jitka Kunstadt are anything but easy, still, friendships form between them and Henry. But only one can survive and the Capitol is watching their every move.

Notes:

Ever since the release of Sunrise on the Reaping this AU idea has been stewing in my brain. A few months later it’s finally ready.
Enjoy!

Chapter title is from the Blue Öyster Cult song.

Chapter 1: Don’t Fear The Reaper

You would think Reaping Day gets easier when you know you can’t be drawn anymore. It does not. Sitting on the stage, knowing exactly what awaits the two kids whose names are called; that’s a special kind of torture.

The mayor is holding a speech about the history of our country and the significance of the Hunger Games. It’s the same speech every year. I’m not really listening. I don’t think anyone is. We don’t need the reminder. Watching the Games is enough to know exactly what the Capitol wants us to remember.

As the speech drones on, I let my eyes wander over the crowd. The reaping always takes place in this huge sports stadium. Only the eligible kids are allowed in. Everyone else watches it on screens outside. Since the stadium is open air, a quarter of the seats are in bright sunlight. Thousands of eyes squint down at the stage. Luckily it‘s not too hot, even in the afternoon sun. Wouldn’t do for a tribute to arrive in the Capitol with a heatstroke.

Still, even in the shade I’m sweating in my dark suit jacket. I know I have nothing to be afraid about anymore, but something about being on the stage in the middle of the stadium, makes my skin prickle.

The stage only covers a small circle on the grass in the arena. We sit, elevated on metal plates, on sleek black chairs set up in a half circle surrounding the microphone.
On either side of the mayor are two pedestals with a glass ball on top, filled with small pieces of paper.

Toady’s the one day of the year where everything stands still. Since viewing the reaping is mandatory, only the absolute necessities are running. The factories shut down and cacophony of machines and electrical humming quiets. It’s as if our district was holding its breath along with us.

The Mayor finishes his speech by reading the names of our district’s victors. For the first time in sixteen years a new name is added to the list. Henry Skalice. My name.

Polite applause comes from the crowd. You can’t blame them for not being too enthusiastic, the worst is yet to come. It begins now, as the mayor calls Hynek Jevisovsky to the microphone.

Hynek is his real name. Here in Three we call him the Dry Devil.

Dry Devil is a every child’s nightmare. The man with the scary grin and scarred face that will take you away to the Capitol if you don’t behave.

The dry part of his name comes from the fact that he delivers the reaping with all the enthusiasm of a weather report. Either that or from his voice which is grating and rough, as if he’s been smoking two packs of cigarettes a day for half his life.

“Happy Hunger Games, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he says. His voice booms through the stadium.

He might be in his fourties, but you never know with the Capitolites. Looking your age is a capital crime there. Today Dry Devil is dressed in a wine red suit. It clashes perfectly with his ginger hair, which is still in a ridiculous bowl cut. But aside from the dropped shoulders and puffed sleeves it looks normal enough.

He’s certainly not as bad as the guy we had before. Ulrich always showed up in full military getup and liked making a show of the reaping. My mentors told me he also regularly beat tributes who didn’t follow his plans to a T. Suffice to say, the Devil is harmless in comparison.

With his usual nonchalance he walks over the glass ball filled with thousands of paper slivers. His hand, fingernails all varnished black, hovers over the bowl, before pulling out a single paper. He returns to the microphone and opens it. I hold my breath.

“The female tribute of District Three is… Jitka Kunstadt.”

Relief floods me for a moment before guilt washes after it. Just because she’s not my friend doesn’t mean she’s not doomed.

There’s movement in the seats. The girl must be roughly sixteen from her position in the stadium. The others in her row stand up to let her through. A guard escorts her down the steps and onto the field. She’s wearing a preppy navy dress and her dark hair flows like a veil down her back. Her head is held high and she doesn’t stumble as she takes her silent walk up to the scaffold.

Shes takes her place on the stage and holds her hands behind her back. I can see her fingernails, nail-beds bitten red.

Dry Devil follows her with his eyes, then asks the crowd if anyone wants to volunteer. The silence is answer enough. It’s not that we never have volunteers, but those have never won.

The Devil notes the silence with a nod, then turns to the other ball.
“And now for the boys.”

For a moment I think he says my name. That the past year was just a dream, and in a moment I will climb the stage again. Blood rushes in my ears and I barely hear the name he calls.

“The male tribute of District Three is Hans Capon.”

A sharp inhale sounds to my right. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe it’s a twelve year old? No one’s happy when a young teen is drawn.

A murmur runs through the crowd, but no one stands up. Dry Devil repeats the name and finally the group of seventeen year olds lets a boy through.

His bright yellow shirt makes it look like there’s a spotlight following him. The boy’s blond hair is gelled back, his face is blank. Seems he’s in the denial stage.

As he takes the steps up to the stage, his eyes meet mine and suddenly something clicks. I’ve seen him before, at the victory celebration in the justice building. He’s the mayor’s nephew. I don’t think we spoke, but I remember not liking him. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sorry for him. His name couldn’t have been in there more than six times, that’s just bad luck.

Once he’s taken his place on the stage, Hynek again asks for volunteers. Again, no one does.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the tributes of the sixty-seventh Hunger Games.”

The crowd gives polite applause. Dry Devil has the tributes shake hands, then he ushers them off the stage and into the corridors under the seats.

The mayor follows him with quick steps. A pair of peacekeepers escort us victors after them. We enter the corridor just as the footsteps of thousands of teenagers begin to rumble above.

Last year I didn’t really take it all in. More concerned with the prospect of my imminent death. But now I have all the time in the world. It’s not much to look at. White concrete corridors lit by long strips of lamps overhead. Identical anthracite grey doors along the walls.

As we enter the foyer, Jitka and Hans disappear into an elevator with a peacekeeper.

The tributes have one hour to say goodbye to their loved ones. For at least one of them that means forever.

Two people, who must be Jitka’s parents, are already at the door and are swiftly escorted to the elevator. The mayor on the other hand is arguing spiritedly with Dry Devil. I try to drown out their voices, I know begging is no use. The Hunger Games stop before no one.

“Ready to go?” I turn around and meet Godwin’s expectant gaze. I nod. I’ve already said goodbye to my parents before the ceremony. No point in having them push through the crowd of parents waiting for their children.

Godwin was my mentor last year. He won this thing decades ago and in contrast to the people in the Capitol, he looks every bit like the 61 he is.

This year him and I will be mentors together. The oldest and the youngest victor of district three.
I don’t know what wisdom I have to offer to these tributes. But I guess the Capitol wants to introduce me to my new roll as soon as possible. Strike while the iron is hot, the memory still fresh. To me it feels like a reminder that being a Victor doesn’t mean shit. You survive only to spend the rest of your life watching others die.

We say goodbye to the other victors, and are taken outside, where a black car waits for us. Its a twenty minute drive to the train station. Apparently we avoided the worst of the traffic that inevitably follows when you put every child in the district in one place.

The city drifts by us. Glass towers glitter in the sun. The southern sky is clear for once. Usually a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the industrial wards. The further we move from the city center, the more glass and steel give way to concrete and bricks.

We exit the car and head into the old industrial train station. This is the place where traffic between our district and the Capitol happens. Its a large hall, the walls are made of red bricks like almost every building on this side of town. Sunlight filters through the dirty glass roof, which probably hasn’t been cleaned since the times trains ran on coal. Not that we don’t still derive power from coal, mind you. Whatever electricity they make in District Five is reserved for the Capitol.
Freight trains loaded with everything from coal to cars are waiting for traffic to resume tomorrow. And at one platform stands our train. Its sleek silver hull gleams in the light like a freshly polished sword. Godwin and I quickly step inside. I’m sure I’ll have ample opportunity to admire the metal work later. This thing will be my home twice a year for the rest of my life.

The train‘s interior is just as polished as its exterior. Sleek metal walls, soft carpet floors, and large windows. The carriage we’ve entered is a kind of lounge area. Three couches form a C, opposite which a large TV is mounted on the wall. Off to the side there’s a table with refreshments.
Godwin pours himself a whiskey. I’d tell him not to drink before we’ve even talked to the tributes, but I suspect this isn’t his first drink today. I settle for a glass of chilled water from a crystal pitcher.

I sit down on one of the couches, which gives me a good view out the window. When the tributes come, I’ll see them. Godwin sits down across from me. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a sip of his drink. Then he asks, “So what do you think of them?”

I shrug. What do I think of them? My first impression wasn’t exactly positive.
“I’m glad they’re no kids, at least.”

He nods. “I’m glad too. And they’re rich, so hopefully they know how to behave in front of a camera.”

I leave the crude humor uncommented and say, “I’ve met the boy before and I have a feeling he’s gonna be difficult.”

Godwin chuckles. “If he’s anything like his uncle, you might be right. But remember, Henry,” his expression sobers, “it’s our job to help them survive, no matter what we think.”

I nod and turn to the window. We stay silent for a while. Godwin and the other victors have already given me a thorough run down of what to expect from mentorship, and any introductions will have to wait until we’re in the Capitol.

The rest of the hour passes without incident. Peacekeepers and mechanics scurry around the train station. Godwin and I move on to more casual topics; what food we look forward to, what the stylists might have designed, what outrageous hair color Caesar Flickerman might have this year. The conversation is easy, safe.

I don’t even notice the arrival of the others, until Dry Devil throws open the sliding door with full force.

“Here we are, fresh from the auction house.”
He unceremoniously saunters over to the refreshments table and drinks something blood red straight from the bottle.

The tributes walk in after him. Jitka takes a seat at the very edge of the couch, legs crossed and hands folded. I scoot a little closer and offer her my hand. “I’m Henry,” I say. I reckon she already knows that.

She shakes it. “Jitka.”

Hans, who’s followed Devil to the drinks, doesn’t bother with introductions. He mixes some neon yellow concoction of juice and spirit, complete with ice and a lemon slice garnish. After a long sip he leans back against the bar.

Godwin raises his glass in his direction. “Here’s a tribute after my own heart.”

I bite my tongue and say nothing. While I can’t say it’s not my problem if the tribute’s drinker, I won’t deny a man his last drink either.

With a quiet whirring the train comes to life and begins pulling out of the station. Within minutes we’ve left the boundaries of the city. The countryside begins to fly past us. Open fields turn into lush forests and winding rivers.

The TV plays the other reapings. Since our districts is one of the last, we only catch the ones from two and one live. As career districts their tributes are tall and strong as usual. I don’t see why they even bother drawing the lots, when they always have volunteers anyway. We see the rest of the tributes in the recap. All twenty four of them flash by. Hans comments freely on the others, Jitka only occasionally replies. When three is shown they’re both quiet. Hans makes a face when the do a close up of him and runs his fingers through his hair. Is he seriously worried about how he looks? That was the last thing on my mind.

The other escorts also catch my eye. This year extreme silhouettes seem to be trending. There’s one lady in a floor length fur coat, even though it must be scorching hot in district ten. The guy in four is sporting a shimmering blue ensemble with what can only be described as a wasp waist. Really puts Dry Devil, who’s lounging on the couch with Godwin, into perspective.

The tributes eventually withdraw to their cabins to shower or change or just to be alone for a moment. I stay in the lounge with Godwin and Hynek, only half listening to their gossip on the Capitol. Watching the empty land pass by, I try to think of nothing at all, until a young attendant comes in to tell us dinner is served in the dining car.

‘Dinner’ is a lavish buffet of all kinds of food; casseroles kept in heated trays, several types of cold cut meat, a small salad bar, a plate of artfully arranged fruit. Last year I was absolutely overwhelmed by the choices, but I’ve developed a palate and a method now.
The two tributes join us, now dressed in more casual clothes. While Jitka doesn’t seem to have an appetite, Hans loads a bit of everything on his plate. My gaze apparently lingers on him for too long, because he defensively says, “What? I might be dead in two weeks. I’ll enjoy life while I can.”

“It doesn’t harm your chances to put on a few pounds before the game,” Godwin says. “Searching for food will be one of your main priorities.”

“They’re not called the Hunger Games for nothing.” Dry Devil adds.

Hans nods and raises a brow in my direction, as if to say ‘see, I was right’. I just roll my eyes and return my attention to the roast beef.

After dinner, Godwin tells the tributes to get some sleep, because they have another long day ahead of them. I also decide to call it a day. My cabin is easily identified by the paper plaque beside the door. Underneath my name smaller letters denotes me as ‘Assistant Mentor’.
With a press of a button the door slides open. The cabin is functionally identical to the one I was in last year, both before and after the Games as well as during the tour. It’s spacious, almost the size of a full room, with dark paneled walls and carpet flooring. Another door of to the side leads to a bathroom. Golden lamps stand on the dresser and nightstands, bathing the cabin in dim light. The bed is large enough to fit two. I know because Bianca and I shared it, the one night we were on this train together. Suddenly the room feels colder.

I close the door and get to undressing. I’ve barely gotten out of my shoes, before there’s a knock. Godwin stands in the corridor, looking like the picture of tranquility with his fingers intertwined over his stomach.
With a smile I say, “Hi Godwin. What can I help you with?”
Maybe there’s a secret mentor supper no one’s told me about yet.

“I just wanted to remind you of something, in case I forget tomorrow.”
A frown replaces the smile on my face. I look at him expectantly.
“This is a test for you as well.”

Godwin means well, but the reminder is unnecessary. Since the tour I’ve been to more times than I can count that my performance as a Victor and Mentor would be closesly judged. My mentors said the Capitol was keeping their eyes on me, because… How did they put it? Ah yes, I moved from heartbroken lover to vengeful system critic a little too quickly.

I exhale quickly and give him a nod.
“I know. I’ll smile and wave and be grateful.”

Chapter 2: Crazy Train

Notes:

Welcome back! The journey to the Capitol continues and we’re about to find out more about the tributes. It’s a bit of a shorter chapter and a lot of build up, but we’ll get to the juicy parts soon. Stay tuned and I hope you enjoy.

Chapter title is Crazy Train by Ozzy Osbourne (RIP)

I wake up feeling more tired than last night. The afterimages of my dream still cling to me like sweat; a cocktail party, a steam train chugging through a snowy field, clammy fingers that wrap around my wrist.
For a moment I lay in bed, seriously considering just staying there. Maybe I can wait it out until the train returns home. But no, we’ll be in the Capitol soon and I don’t want to arrive clammy and hungry.
Rubbing my eyes I drag myself to the small bathroom adjacent to the cabin. The water temperature in the shower ranges from fridge to freezer. Last year this didn’t bother me. I’ve gotten too used to the Victors’ Village standard. What can you do?

After my unsatisfactory shower, I brush my teeth and return to the bedroom. My suit has been ironed and hung up. Apparently it’s been deemed appropriate to wear in the Capitol. The bed is looking really tempting, but I’d never miss a meal.

Just as I’m putting on my shoes, there’s a knock on the door. Probably Godwin or Dry Devil, here to drag me to a war council breakfast. “Door’s open,” I say.

It’s neither of them. It’s not even a train attendant. It’s Jitka.

“Good morning,” she says. She seems nervous, fidgeting with something in her hands. If she came to see me alone this early, it must be serious.

“Good morning. Can I help you with anything?”
Truth be told, I don’t know how useful I can actually be. My experience includes only one Game that I survived by chance. It’s the other Victors that have been analyzing the Games for decades.

Jitka takes a step forward and asks, “What if I get my period in the arena?”

Straight to the point, but I like that. Finally, something I can help with! I give her a smile that I hope is reassuring. “My partner had the same question last year. Godwin said it’s unlikely to happen, between all the stress and malnutrition. But if you do, then just act like you’re in pain and we’ll sort it out with the sponsors.”

Jitka scoffs. “Won’t have to act much.”

“Of course, I meant— let it show. This isn’t the time to act strong. Better exaggerate. The sponsors can be pinch purses, they want to see their donations have an impact.”

She nods. I smile and turn my attention back to my shoelaces. But when I hear no sounds of her leaving, I look up again.
“Anything else?”

She takes another hesitant step into the cabin. Looking down at whatever’s in her hand, her next comes out so mumbled and fast that I don’t understand a word.
“Sorry, what?”

“I’m on antidepressants,” she repeats.

I blink at her. Once, then a few more times for good measure.
“Okay, that’s…” I rack my brain for what the appropriate reaction to that is. I guess I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it, but she must have told me for a reason. “And you don’t have them with you, is that it?”

Jitka shakes her head slightly. “My parents gave them to me after the reaping. My mother always brings them just in case.”

She holds up a palm sized pill bottle.
“But I… will I be allowed to take them in the arena?”

“I don’t know if you can,” I say apologetically. “Godwin knows a lot more about the rules than I do. And he’s something of a psychologist, so he’ll be able to help you more than me. He should be at breakfast. Should I talk to him or do you want to do it yourself.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“None at all. I’m here to help you.”

 

As expected we find Godwin in the dining car. Opposite him sits Hynek, who’s drinking coffee with a look that says ‘talk to me and they’ll never find your body’. At the sound of the door sliding open, Godwin looks up. “Good morning you two.”

It’s laden with a wide spread of food. Crisp bread rolls, jams, butter, scrambled eggs and bacon, pancakes and syrup. My stomach grumbles at the sight. But I have to stay focussed.
“Hey Godwin. Jitka here is on medication, and we were wondering if she’d be allowed to take them into the arena.“

He puts down his fork and turns his full attention on us. His tone is straightforward, but carries a certain warmth. “What exactly is it you’re taking?”

Jitka hands him the pill bottle. Godwin inspects the label closely. He’s a real expert on these things. All of the victors have some kind to thing they specialize in to keep life interesting, both for themselves and the audience. Godwin’s devoted his time and money to developing psychological medication. I once asked him if he takes any himself, but he said they hadn’t been invented when he really needed them. Besides, ‘they don’t pair well with alcohol’.

“Don’t just stand there, have some food,” Dry Devil says. Sleep has made his voice even raspier. In spite of the tone I follow the suggestion and sit down next to Godwin. Jitka takes a seat the head of the table, next to me. While Godwin inspects the medication, we load up our plates.

“That’s a strong dosage,” Godwin comments, handing the pills back to their owner. “Now I’ve never had a tribute that was taking medication of this kind…”

Dry Devil looks up. “There was that one boy with the migraines. Farah what’s-his-name.”

“Farad,” Godwin corrects. “But he didn’t want to take his meds into the arena.”

“Not that it mattered. Kid died on the first day.”

“Assuming this doesn’t happen to Jitka,” I say with a pointed look at Hynek.

“By the way,” Godwin continues, “you don’t happen to take any contraceptive pill?”

Jitka shakes her head. She looks down at her plate and rearranges her scrambled eggs. I guess she tried to avoid having this talk with the older men, so she came to me first.
With that in mind, I try to steer the conversation back on topic.
“Couldn’t she take it as her token? The rules just say ‘one thing from the tribute’s district’. Can be anything right.”

Godwin hesitates for a moment. “It might be possible. The Gamemakers are strict when it comes to tokens. They don’t want anything that could be used as a weapon. Or anything that might give you an advantage.”

“What gives us an advantage?”
Four heads look up at the door to the sleeping carriage and watch Hans approach the table. His hair is brushed back, but without any product it falls a little softer. The furrowed brow and slight squint show no relaxation though.

“Your token,” Godwin says. “Do you have one?”

In response Hans holds up his right hand, where a heavy gold ring sits on his index finger. He sits down next to Dry Devil, and immediately reaches for a bread roll.
“How would that help me?”

“People have tried to smuggle in poison before,” Hynek explains. “And bombs.”

Seems Jitka’s interest is piqued by that. “I’d like to see how a bomb could fit in a ring.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Hans says, demonstratively pulling his hand away from the table. I help myself to the jam he was reaching for.

 

When everyone has mostly finished their breakfast, Hynek breaks the peaceful atmosphere by slapping his palm on the table.
“Alright men! And woman. Time for business.”

Jitka and Hans look at him with matching looks of distaste. Dry Devil pays them no mind.

“These Games are going to be big. Last year was too dull for the Capitol’s taste. Half the tributes dead to hypothermia and avalanches, and a victor that has all the stage presence of a fridge. No offense,” he adds in my direction.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say. I had my run for a while but I guess I wasn’t tragic enough for them. My plain looks and working class humor didn’t help either. But instead of picking a fight over it as I might have last year, I just take another piece of bacon.

Devil continues, “My guess is the arena will be safe. No slow starvation or dehydration for you. But there will be traps or mutts. If the tributes aren’t trying to kill each other over resources then they have to guarantee spectacle deaths another way.”

The two tributes silently consider Hynek’s prediction. Not having to worry about food too much may be a blessing, because those two look like they’ve never even had to buy their own groceries before. But the careers never have to worry about food either. At least not in the Games. If the game makers want a brutal show, then it might be over before food becomes an issue anyway. Mutts on the other hand… I shiver, remembering the army of rabbits with blood red eyes that gnawed that girl from four to the bone, their pelts as clean and white as the fresh snow around them.

Hans breaks the silence. “So we’ll be butchered because they fucked up last year. Great.”

I’m don’t know who he means by ‘they’, the Gamemakers or the tributes that had the gall to die in an unspectacular way. Either way it pisses me off.
“At least be glad you won’t be dying of starvation or cold. That’s what always takes out the most tributes.”

Hans glares at me. “I shouldn’t even be here! I had six damn papers in that ball. Six! Out of a million.”

“How many do you think I had? How many did Bianca have? The odds aren’t in your favor, that’s the fucking point.”

I’m halfway out of my seat when Godwin pulls me down. He throws a glance at the doors and more quietly says, “What Hynek was saying, is that resources should not be a problem, so the main thing will be watching out for yourselves.”

Jitka apparently deems the conversation calm enough to join. “What about the sponsors? Would you say we should or shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves?”

“We’ll see about that once we decide your strategies.”

“When will that be?” Hans asks. While he speaks the train enters a tunnel. White daylight is replaced with the warm glow of lamps.

“Tonight at the earliest,” Godwin replies. “Your stylists play a big role in shaping your image. Depending on what they do with you, you might be charming or intimidating, sexy or aloof. Whether people think you’re interesting or not impacts the sponsor rates.”

Jitka looks concerned. Trusting fashion designer with your survival isn’t a great prospect. “And if they don’t take an interest?”

“Even if you don’t make much of an impression, that can be helpful because it keeps you off the radar.”

We exit the tunnel and light floods the carriage. My eyes take a moment and rapid blinking to adjust, but once they do I’m greeted with a full view of a shining city. It’s a dream of silver and pastel. Skyscrapers jut out before the backdrop of the mountains, their reflection glitters in the lake below.

Dry Devil’s voice announces the end of our journey:
“Welcome to the Capitol.”

Notes:

While writing this chapter, I noticed that I left my meds at home, while going on vacation. Luckily, I too have trusty family members who can send them to me. Crazy how life imitates art.

Thanks for reading! See y’all next week

Chapter 3: Welcome to the Jungle

Notes:

Surprise! Guess who’s back. I’ve decided that from now on chapters will be posted every Friday. Pray for me

This chapter can be summarized as ‘lots of drinking, lots of food, and bisexual chaos’. My beta reader says that’s just KCD in general.
Chapter title song is by Guns N’ Roses.

As soon as we step out of the train, Jitka and Hans are carted off to the Remake Center. They have many hours of treatment ahead of them before they meet the Capitol beauty standard. I can only offer an apologetic smile as a farewell.

The rest of us step outside the train station. We’re immediately assaulted by the scorching July heat. The sunlight gleams of the pavement and the roofs of black cars, parked in a neat row before the station. Hynek opens the door to one of them and, surprisingly, he doesn’t burn his hand. He then gets into the passenger seat.
“To the Training Center,” he says as Godwin and I climb into the back seats.

Even with the AC humming along, I can still feel the sweat dampening my back. Life of luxury, my ass.

None one talks during the entire duration of the drive. It takes longer than I expected. There’s a lot of traffic surrounding the Training Center. Maybe people are trying to secure a spot with a good view of the avenue where the tributes will appear tonight. The rooftop bars around here must be making a fortune tonight. From the faint music and chatter that reaches into the car, it sounds like the pre-gaming has already begun.

The driver stops right at the entrance of the Training Center. Immediately after Godwin, Hynek and I get out of the car, it takes off, presumably to some garage deep underneath our feet.

The lobby is large and brightly lit, with marble columns reaching up to the high ceiling. A long carpet walkway stretches from the entrance all the way to the opposite wall, where a number of elevator doors await. The carpet’s dark blue and purple swirls stand in contrast to the marble flooring. Abstract paintings are spaced on the walls and there’s a handful of potted plants placed in the corners. In contrast to the heat outside it’s almost cool in here.

Against my expectations, Godwin does not head for the elevators but leads us through glass doors off to another part of the first floor. It’s a smaller, but no less richly decorated room. Evidently it’s a check room; there’s several rows of coat racks behind a dark wood counter. A clerk in a sharply tailored uniform greets us.
“Ah, Hynek and Godwin! And Mr. Skalice, welcome.”

He takes Godwin’s suit jacket and hands out three wrist bands. They’re about a finger’s width and made out of what feels like carbon fiber. The design is sleek and inconspicuous. “For the elevator,” Godwin says. That doesn’t explain much, but I guess I’ll find out later.

The sound of conversation and gentle music beckons us from beyond the next door. I wipe off my sweaty hands on my pants and smooth down the front of my jacket. Godwin opens the door and I follow him inside.

The hall is similar to the lobby with its marble pillars and large windows, only here the floors are polished ashy wood. And it’s much larger, it probably has more floor area than my entire house in Three. The furnishing is modern, if a little dated. Plenty of standing tables, settees and couches. There’s a grand piano in the corner which a beautiful woman in a silk gown is playing. Her long braids sway to the rhythm of the music.

About one third of the back wall is occupied by a bar. A handsome young man prepares drinks with a polite smile. Behind him the bottles filled with colorful liquor glitter enticingly in the light. Next to the bar are a few tables with cakes and appetizers. I already know where I’ll be going.

Roughly two dozen guests in formal wear are scattered in groups around the hall. Their styles vary from casual to Capitol-level extravagant. I recognize a few people from the Games that happened in my lifetime. Especially the boy that won the year before me catches the eye. Finnick Odair’s bronze hair and natural beauty make him one of the most popular victors of all time. He’s about my age, but he seems to have no problem fitting in. He’s right at the heart of the room, surrounded by victors and escorts alike.
When some of the group look at the new arrivals, he meets my gaze. He smirks and gives me a wink. I look away and blame the heat in my face on the temperature outside.

My eyes land on a waiter that approaches us. They’re dressed in black and white and their face is fully covered by a black mask. I’m handed a champagne flute. Apparently it doesn’t matter that I’m underage anymore. Only as the waiter moves back to their position at the wall, I notice that there are several people in the same uniform around the room. Seems like they take their invisible waiter job very seriously.

Since Godwin and Dry Devil both make a beeline towards the bar, I’m introduced to the Victors that spend their time there first. It’s an odd bunch of slightly shabby folk from the eastern districts. Most of them look and smell like they’ve been drinking since breakfast. But Godwin gets along with them and aside from a few crude jokes they’re nice enough.

Once my companions are sufficiently fortified and armed with drinks, it’s time to introduce me to all the other victors and escorts.

I wonder what Hans and Jitka are being subjected to right now. Are they done with the four showers yet? Is their body hair being reduced to the level of a newborn? Whenever they had me in their hands the prep team would wax off the sad attempt at facial hair I had. I don’t think the Capitol is against facial hair, it just needs to be as extra as everything else here.
I hope those two are alright. I also hope they don’t make too much of a fuss. For their own sakes.

By evening my head is buzzing with names and years and fifty ways to win the Games. I’ve withdrawn to an armchair next to the buffet table and am working my way through the plate of appetizers I’ve taken off the hands of a waiter.

My focus is entirely taken by the choice between the cream cheese and seafood topping. I only notice Dry Devil when he leans on the armrest of the chair.
“How are you, kid?”

I look up at him, surprised by his concern.
“A little overwhelmed,” I admit. The volume of the room has only risen with the amount of drinks consumed. The excitement for the night is palpable.

Hynek nods and steals a canapé off my plate. “You’ll get used to it. And if you don’t, it’s only once every few years.”

“Do you enjoy all this?” I ask. Hynek’s stance towards the Capitol remains a mystery to me. He doesn’t hide his disdain for the ridiculous fashion and lifestyle choices, but at the same time he actively participates in the Hunger Games by being an escort.

“It has its merits.” He’s still chewing. I decide to leave him to it and take a look around. The ever refilling glasses, the fresh plates of food. The expensive clothes that are to be worn once and then discarded. The casual conversation and laughter. All the while twenty four children are being prepared for slaughter in the next building. Before the Games, I never would have imagined this.

“Is all of the Capitol like this?”

“Nah, there’s poor people even in the Capitol. But this,” he gestures at the party around us, “this is what everyone strives for.”

“And the rest of us think it’s ridiculous.”

Hynek grins. “Don’t tell me you never envied the luxury.”

I say nothing. Yeah, when we were kids my friends and I would dream of what we would buy if we were victors. Big houses, pretty clothes, and endless food; any child would long for that. We were all poor and our district hadn’t won since the year we were born. It was a fantasy that got us through the nerve-wracking reapings. Until two of us did get chosen.

“I’m kidding,” Hynek says eventually. “You don’t take it for granted. I like that about your district. Teaches the rest of us some much needed humility.”

“I’m glad it has that effect on someone,” I remark dryly.

Our conversation is interrupted by the national anthem playing through speakers. Hynek straightens up.
“Showtime.”

He takes another cracker with sliced meat and gold flakes and wanders over to another door through which the victors are slowly disappearing. I, too, stuff one last canapé into my mouth and put the tray onto the table next to me. Finding Godwin is easy, since he’s still sitting on a couch, talking with a woman his age.

Together we walk out of the building to the avenue connecting the Remake Center and Training Center. By now the sky is almost dark, only a thin strip of pink and orange lines the western mountains. There’s rows and rows of seats on either side of the road. With all the colorful clothes of the Capitolites, the crowd looks like a screen full of static noise. Unsurprisingly, the place is packed to bursting. After all, this is the exclusive live look at the tributes all dressed up in costume themed after their districts primary industry. I’ve heard the ticket sale starts two years in advance. Not for us, of course, we get them for free. The row and seat numbers are conveniently displayed on a small screen on our wrist bands.

Large screens hanging over the crowd alternate between aerial shots of the audience, the crest of the Capitol, and ads for the Official Hunger Games Merchandise. I’m curious to find out what exactly that merchandise is, but I have more important things to do than watch them. Hynek has acquired binoculars from who-knows-where and points out important people in the crowd to me. It’s like a game, trying to find people based on descriptions like ‘blue dress and peacock hat’, ‘jacket that’s taking up three seats’, ‘mustache that should be forbidden’.

Of course once I’ve found them I get an impromptu biography about them. “Gaius Redfield, founder of Redfield Transport. He’s had that haircut for twenty years.”

About another one he says, “Ursula Pitts. Her family’s wealth goes back to the dark days. She always wants the newest tech, so she has a soft spot for all things District Three.”

The lights on the seats dim. The Anthem begins to play and the screens only display the seal of the Capitol with the number sixty-seven beneath it. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch that sends current of excitement through the crowd. Tens of thousands of people crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the tributes. All eyes focus on that dark opening under the remake center.
It’s electrifying. It’s contagious.

When the first chariot is released, I hear it before I see it. The crowd roars, gasps and applauds. I can’t see the tributes from here, but the screens show close up of them. I almost laugh. The two of them are covered head to toe in gold filigree and diamonds. District One deals in luxury items, but these costumes are ridiculous. Especially because the tributes are both tall and strong, which clashes horribly with their delicate outfits.

I don’t have to look at this affront to craftsmanship for long. There comes District Two.

They’re dressed in some kind of overlapping metal plates. I think there’s some curved detail work on them that I’d love to see up close, but with the chariot’s constant movement it’s impossible. On their heads the tributes are wearing crowns. White capes flutter behind them. Really living up to the Protector of Panem image.

And then I see our tributes.
Jitka’s in a silver bodysuit with white cables wrapping around her arms and from her chest to her back like oversized ribbons. Hans wear a kind of quilted duvet jacket, where each stripe is embroidered with strands of copper wire. Both of them are wearing circular headpieces, one silver and one gold to complement the outfits. Hans’ crown even has little spikes reminiscent of sun rays. His hair is one again gelled back, while Jitka’s is in a braided crown.
I don’t know how, but it works. They look fucking cool.

The crowd loves them. People are throwing roses and kisses at them. The cheering has reached an almost ear-shattering level. Hans is basking in the attention, grinning and waving freely. And for the first time I also see Jitka smiling.

My eyes and the camera have lingered on Three’s tributes for so long that the rest flash by rapidly. Fishermen, wind turbines, train conductors, lumberjacks, a mess of ruffles, something in wheat yellow, cowboys, flowers, and coal miners. Nothing unexpected.

The chariots come to a stop in a semicircle around a balcony. High above them President Snow comes into view. He welcomes the tributes and thanks them for their sacrifice. Finally, he says the infamous slogan: “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The crowd applauds wildly as the chariots begin to move and disappear into the underbelly of the Tribute Center one by one. Dry Devil nudges me to stand up. We make our way through the seats until we’ve reached the building. Together with other victors and escorts we cram into an elevator that takes us down to the tributes.

In the chaos of chariots, horses, their handlers, victors, escort, stylists and tributes, it’s hard to find Hans and Jitka in the reception hall. In the end it’s us who are found.

“Over here, Henri!”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Vauquelin Brabant, one of the Stylists of District three. When I turn around I spot him next to Hans, Jitka, and our other stylist Rosa Ruthard. Godwin, Hynek and I walk over to them. “Excellent job,” Godwin congratulates them. “The crowd loved it.”

Brabant bows his head in gratitude. The feathers on his pointed hat flop forward. “Thank you. It is always a pleasure to work with District Three.”
Brabant has a strange accent, even stranger than the standard Capitol one, I mean. He told me his family originated from the far north of District Seven, but I’ve long stopped listening to his endless family history.

“Nice to see you all again,” Rosa says. We exchange a smile. She was Bianca’s stylist, so we didn’t work together during the Tour, but we still stayed in touch through calls. Rosa’s only a few years older than me, but she’s a brilliant designer. And she’s not as dressed up as some other stylists. Even her long red hair is all natural.

While Brabant starts talking to Hynek about his design concept, I get a closer look at our tributes. Jitka’s face looks three shades lighter than this morning. Her lashes are long and full and she has little gems glued above her brows. Hans’ face shimmers, highlighting his sharp features. The golden eyeshadow paired with dark eyeliner bring out the blue of his eyes.

They look immaculate. Still, I see how they slouch and look around languidly. An entire day under the scrutiny of the Capitol is tiring. Even down here I can feel the stares of the other Districts on us.
“You must be exhausted,” I say. “ Come on, let’s get you some food.”

Notes:

Fun Fact:
In the Hunger Games Universe children are often given names that fit the theme of their Districts. For example, District 3 specializes in technology and has names like Wiress, Ampert, Coil, etc. Coincidentally, ‘Henry’ is also a unit of measurement for inductance!

Thanks for reading. Comments and Kudos are highly appreciated!

Chapter 4: Enperor’s New Clothes

Notes:

I promised updates on Friday so here I am, a quarter before midnight, giving the fans what they deserve.

This week’s chapter title is brought to you by Panic! At the Disco

When I come down to breakfast the next morning, I find Godwin sitting at the dining table, drinking coffee and reading something on a tablet. Hynek’s red hair is pokes out behind the couch. He’s watching some kind of news report. The only other people in the apartment are two servers in the black masks. They creep me out a little, but you’re meant to ignore them.
I grab a plate and make my way through the buffet. I also pour myself a coffee, because despite sleeping til noon, I’m still very groggy.

“Jitka and Hans are already down at training,” Godwin tells me as I sit down across from him. I nod and start buttering my toast.

“I handed in their tokens for evaluation already,” he continues. “We’ll see if they accept Jitka’s meds. Maybe they’re feeling merciful this year. For now I’ve advised her to take half her usual dose so she won’t have to quit cold-turkey if it comes down to it.”

I nod again and busy myself with filling up my cup with coffee. Some mentor I am. Here Godwin is, already making preparations for the arena and I can’t even get out of bed early enough to greet the tributes in the morning.

“We’ve got another long day ahead of us. We’ll be meeting with the sponsors, so maybe take another look at your closet. Vauquelin left a few suits for you.”

“I will.”

Silently, I yearn for the day I’ll be allowed t-shirts and jeans again.

After breakfast, I return to my room. As promised, I find four suits and a box of accessories in my closet. I take them all out of their bags and lay them out on the bed. The cut of the suits are similar, only the colors differ. The first is a simple midnight blue with black lapels and cuffs, the second is a maroon velvet, the third is black and the last one is dark green with silver pinstripes. I settle on the blue one, which comes with a white shirt. That’ll have to do. It’s not like we’re seeing the president.

I’m pleasantly surprised that it fits almost perfectly. I’ve certain grown since the last time Brabant took my measurements. Years of guessing tributes’ measurements from videos of the reaping must be good training.

Freshly dressed I return to the open living room and dining area. It takes a while for Hynek to join us, but Godwin doesn’t want to leave without him. Finally, we enter the elevator and I find out what the wrist bands are for. By pressing the back of it to the touchscreen displaying the floor numbers, new options are revealed. Among them are ‘lounge’ and ‘taxi’, the latter of which Hynek presses.
Rather than taking us down into some underground garage, the elevator simply spits us out in the lobby. Another one of those black cars awaits us at the door.
Isn’t that nice.
After a short ride we arrive at the Headquarters of the Games. It’s nothing like the luxurious frill of the Training Center. It’s broad and heavy, fully concrete and glass. The triangular structure is divided into segments of equal width, like a mix between a bell- and bar-graph. This is a building that doesn’t want to please, it wants to send a message.

The inside reflects this attitude as well. The rooms are huge but sparsely decorated. The few plants grow in square pots and are trimmed to perfection. A bold red carpet runs down the stairs that lead up to the sponsor lounge. It is here well spend the bulk of the next two or three weeks.

The lounge is a big open room with high ceilings. A strip of windows just under the ceiling on opposite walls let in daylight. Still the room feels… oppressive.

A copy-pasted line of U-shaped sofas stretches down the long room. Each one is a little pool for itself, where the attendants can talk amongst themselves while also facing the massive screens mounted on the wall. At the moment these screens are displaying facts about the tributes; age, weight, height and their current odds. The attendees are all dressed in the usual outrageous fashion. Layers of perfumes, applied generously because of the heat of the day, create a pervasive blend of smells.

It’s oversaturated in a way that’s nauseating. I can feel a slight headache coming on. But stronger than that is the distinct feeling that this is not where I belong.

My discomfort must be visible on my face, because Godwin puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me to sit down in the nearest coach. Of course there’s servers carrying trays with drinks and snacks all around the room. Within moments there’s a glass of iced water with a lemon slice garnish in my hand.

It does its job of calming me down well enough that I can take stock of my surroundings again. I’d say I recognize the victors, but frankly, very few of yesterdays introductions have stuck. My partners are kind enough to introduce me to everyone else in the seating group anyway.

“Ludo Hawk,” says a man with no brows and a firm handshake.

“It’s been too long,” a lady with a poofy pink cloud of hair tells me. I cast a quick glance in Godwin’s direction and he helpfully supplies, “Diana’s a long time supporter of Three. You met her on the tour, remember?.”

Oh, of course. The lady that took her poodle to the presidential palace. The poodle who’s hair color and cut matched hers. It was lime green at the time, no wonder I didn’t recognize her. But I don’t see the dog here.
“You didn’t bring your dog today?”

Diana looks delighted. “You remember Ermine! I would’ve brought him, but he doesn’t like this place very much. It bores him, I think.”

You and me both, Ermine. You and me both.

I turn my attention to the last person sitting next to us, who has remained silent thus far. It’s a woman with long purple hair and bangs that almost cover her eyes, which are two different colors. The dress she’s wearing is fully black but decked out with ribbons.

“This is Astraea Dewdrop.” Dry Devil says. “She’s a newcomer to the scene, just like you. Her father’s a generous sponsor, but I don’t see him anywhere…”

“Istvan took him aside as soon as we arrived,” she says.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. She answers with a pressed smile.

The conversation comes easy. The Capitolites are very capable of filling it by themselves. I only ever have to say ‘totally’, or ‘you’re soooo right’. It’s all about the tribute’s parade. What tributes are worth keeping their eye on. What designer they need to order from. I’m happy to hear that the stars of District Three are particularly popular. With all of their friends as well, Ludo assures us.

It’s easy to forget what we’re here for. This is a world where a cold drink and a snack are just one hand wave away. Where the greatest worry is what to wear tomorrow.
And I am a part of it now. The life of a victor is one of luxury and comfort. It means being elevated above the simple toils of district life into the embrace of the Capitol. To become someone they admire, even love.

And yet.

Every time I don’t say anything for a while the sensation creeps back up on me. This sense of isolation that I haven’t felt so strongly since the time I joined a club where I didn’t know anyone. Withdrawing from the conversation feels like stepping out of a toasty house into the winter air.
I don’t belong here.

Yesterday Hynek asked me if I envied the Capitol.
Yes. I envied them and I hated them. When we first arrived I was impressed. The Capitol was a level of pomp that I couldn’t have imagined. But if this will be my fate for the rest of my life; sitting on a soft couch, sipping champagne, and engineering the deaths of twenty-three so that one may live, then I don’t want it. I’m starting to understand Godwin’s drinking.

As they so often do, my thoughts drift back to Bianca. Would she feel the same way, if she’d been the survivor? She was always good with people, she’d mastered the customer-service-smile from working at her parents’ restaurant. And she always knew the right thing to say. She’d probably make a way better mentor than I.

“… don’t you think so, Henry?”, someone asks. My head snaps up and go back to pretending I care about shoes.

 

We’re back at the Training Center in the late afternoon. The tributes aren’t here yet, so I have an hour or so to recharge in my room until dinner. There isn’t much entertainment to be found in here, aside from the large flatscreen TV. So after exchanging my dress-shirt and jacket for a t-shirt, I lay down on the bed and put on some soap opera in the background. The somewhat more grounded costume and hair make me think it’s supposed to be set in one of the districts. Maybe Eight, since the plot of the episode revolves around clothes.
Flavia has bested Lucille in the design competition, which, if the frantic editing is anything to go by, is a huge deal.

Despite the lack of context, the show does manage to draw me in with its over the top drama. In fact, it startles me when Godwin knocks on my door and calls me down for dinner.

It’s been such a long day for everyone that we dig in heartily. As usual, there’s plenty of options to choose from and everything tastes delicious. No matter how much I dislike the Capitol’s decadence, I could never complain about the food.

The tributes are still in their training clothes, consisting of black leggings and a bright blue shirt. The shirt is printed with the number three over the heart and the surname on the back.

While we eat, Jitka and Hans report on the training and the other tributes. It’s like getting an inside scoop on what the people we’ve only seen a glimpse of are like.

“The guy from Nine has these creepy pale eyes and he keeps staring at me,” Hans says with a shudder.

“Callisto from One looks like she bench presses double my weight,” Jitka says. “The Careers look at the rest of us like they can’t wait to kill us.”

“That’s their usual tactic.” I help myself to another glass of raspberry juice. “They were all strutting around last year too. Don’t let them intimidate you.”

“Easier said than done,” she replies.

“What are the training stations like?” Godwin asks. I remember him asking the same thing last year. Apparently you can make predictions of what the arena will be like based on what skills the trainers teach. My mentors were pretty spot on, so I pay close attention.

“Lots of survival things. Fire making, edible plants, basics snares… uhm, what else… where to make camp. I guess Dry Devil was right, they don’t want the environment to kill us.”

“Anything on first aid?”

Jitka is the one who answers, since Hans has taken a bite of his steak. “How to treat smaller wounds, what to do about burns, that sort of thing.”

“Pay attention to that,” Hynek tells them. “We don’t want you to lose a leg to an infected cut.”

Hans raises an eyebrow. “How am I gonna win with one leg?”

“You’ll figure something out. As long as you survive, you have a chance,” Godwin says encouragingly. “Zizka lost an eye during his. But the Capitol fixed it right up for him after.”

Hynek grins at the tributes and says, “No need to worry about your pretty faces not surviving the fight. The Capitol has a strict policy against ugliness.”

I smile grimly and raise my glass to my lips. The Gamemakers wanted me to get surgery, but my mentors ‘convinced’ them to let me grow into my features first. I heard that Zizka threatened to break someone’s face in.
“Is that why they send you away to the districts?” Hans asks.

The juice I was drinking goes straight to my nose. I hack and snort. Someone, probably Godwin, forcefully pats me on the back.
“Look who’s still got humor,“ I hear Hynek say. “Safe the jokes for Caesar.”

Hans doesn’t say anything else, but he hands me his napkin with a grin.

 

After dinner, I go to my room to wash out the taste of raspberry from my mouth. As I open the door to the corridor, I hear Hans voice.

“You don’t think they’re gonna punish me for that, do you?”

I pause. Mentor or not, I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on my tributes conversations. But what does Hans think he would get punished for?

To my greater surprise, Jitka’s voice replies. “I think he deserves it. Dry Devil doesn’t mince his words, why should we. Besides, Henry seemed to approve.”

I’m not about to take offense on Hynek’s behalf, he wouldn’t either. And it sounds like Hans just needs someone to complaint to.

After a pause, Hans speaks again. “Would it kill him to be a bit nicer? I mean, what the fuck is he even doing here?”

“His job is to make sure we district people behave in a way that the Capitol thinks is ‘appropriate’. If you ask me though,” her voice dips into a faux whisper, “he’s just here for the free booze.”

Hans barks out a laugh. I huff too. I’m glad to see two of them getting along.

 

The following day goes by much the same. Breakfast at the Training Center, drive down to the Headquarters, make polite conversation and pretend to be interested in everyone’s business, go home, eat dinner, take a shower, sleep.
Then comes the final day of the tributes’ training. Since the training only goes until lunchtime, I will not have to go play nice with the sponsors today. I am eternally grateful for that. Instead Godwin, me, and Dry Devil sit together and forge plans. We think over everything the tributes have told us about the different exercises, their competition, and their own actions.
Since the fire-building station included wood, it’s fair to assume they’ll be some kind of trees. Forests are good as an arena because they provide cover and sustenance. Nothing in the tribute’s story’s point to desert of snowy mountains.

As for the other tributes, well… yesterday at dinner Hans said he’d been talking with the Careers, and they were considering him as a possible team member. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, teaming up with the Capitol’s very own hunting dogs? I know they have better chances of winning, but they’re also the one’s who kill the other tributes mercilessly. Why would someone from District Three ever willingly ally themselves with that? Apparently the District Four tributes want to go off on their own and Hans impressed with his archery talent. He’s been in competitions since the age of twelve, he proudly told us. Rich people hobbies, I guess.

Jitka said she prefers to be alone.

Whether or not Hans will be part of the career pack depends on his training score. During the three days the tributes have been constantly observed by the Gamemakers. Around noon each tribute will given ten minutes alone with them to impress them with a skill of their choosing. In the evening their final scores will be revealed on television.

It’s a dreadful feeling. The evaluation, I mean. You’re down there in that gymnasium far beneath the street level, trying to convince a bunch of people in their velvet chairs that your life is worth something. All the while the Head Gamemaker Markus Aulitz looks down at you, with a stare that says he won’t hesitate to end it for a bit of cinema. I can still smell the sweat and linoleum floor.

Hans comes up first. He’s a bit pale, but looks confident enough.
“I dare say it went well. The bow they had was a bit simpler than what I’m used to, but I shot almost perfectly.”

Godwin pats him on the shoulder. “Well done. Won’t have to worry about your allies then.”

Jitka exists the elevator fifteen minutes later. Her ashy complexion looks almost bloodless. I quickly get up and pour her a glass of water.

After a few moments of tense silence, she speaks.
“I burned a hole into the table.”

The silence turns stunned.
Hans looks more bewildered than concerned. “Wow. How did you do that.”

“They had a chemistry set there. So I mixed up an acid that could corrode steel. Only they must have mislabeled something because it burned through the glass and the table.”

“Shit. What did the Gamemakers do? Are you disqualified?”

“I mixed up a neutralizer and that turned the acid into a solid. I just thanked them for their attention and they dismissed me.”

“You did that in ten minutes?” Hynek asks. Jitka nods. “That’s fucking impressive.”

Jitka looks close to tears. Her hands are shaking and her nail beds look red. I put my arm around her and gently say, “Hey, think of it this way: you’re probably the first person to ever do that. That’s gotta be memorable. And all through the rest of the evaluations they saw that hole in the table and thought of you.”

It’s not the best argument, but it makes her smile and that’s all that matters.

Rosa and Vauquelin join us for dinner and we all gather on the couch to watch the reveal of the scores. The atmosphere falls just short of relaxed. Jitka is biting her nails and Hans gets up to get water every five minutes until Devil tells him to sit the fuck down.

Finally the TV shows the Panem emblem and the first tribute appears. The District One boy, an athletic blonde named Mica, gets a ten. The girl who looks like could bench Jitka gets a nine. The two from Two both get nines.

I lean forward in my seat and focus on the TV. It’s so quiet you can hear the electricity hum.
District 3
Hans Capon
10

The room erupts into cheers and congratulations. Hans grins and bows his head. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks. I congratulate him, even though I can’t help thinking that means his alliance with the careers is sealed now.
The screen fades from Hans’ face to Jitka’s. Rosa shushes us and everyone looks at the score.

District 3
Jitka Kunstadt
8

Notes:

Hans and Henry interacting? In my Hansry slowburn? It’s more likely than you think.

Trying to make Jitka a little less author-insert by giving her hobbies I don’t understand. Is it obvious that I know nothing about science?

Chapter 5: Black Velvet

Notes:

I know I said updates on Friday… but this chapter took a bit longer. I hope the Hansry content makes up for the delay :)

This weeks chapter song is Black Velvet by Alannah Myles

The expectant silence pops like a balloon. Five voices shout out their amazement and congratulations at once. Rosa pulls Jitka, who’s till frozen in shock, into a hug.

The party’s on after that, but the crumb of professionalism in me keeps my attention on the scores. District Four gets a seven and an eight. The rest of them range from four to seven. The only outliers are a nine for District Five and a poor kid from Seven who gets a score of two.

“How the fuck do you even get that?” Hans asks incredulously. “They reward you for melting the equipment!”

Godwin and I laugh. Jitka grins, dropping her head in embarrassment.

“Who the fuck cares!” Hynek pops a bottle that he’s pulled out of nowhere. An attendant quickly brings glasses. The adults all get champagne while Jitka, Hans and I get some sparkling mocktail. Vauquelin raises a toast. “The the stars of District Three!”

Glass clinks together. “To Hans and Jitka!”

We celebrate for hours until Godwin sends us all to bed. It’s a good thing too, since we have another long day ahead of us. The three days of training are nothing compared to what comes next. I’m speaking from experience. At the very least we’re all allowed to sleep in.

At breakfast, a very late breakfast, Dry Devil tells us the battle plan. Tomorrow evening marks the final trial for the tributes before the Games; the interviews. While the Gamemakers’ evaluation was a private affair, the interviews are held in front of a live audience and televised. The whole country will get a closer look at the tributes before it’s time to make the bets.

For the tributes that means two days of coaching to make them presentable and appealing. The stylists are taking final measurements and teaching the tributes how to carry and pose themselves. In between sessions Godwin, Hynek and I try to instill them with as much advice for the arena as possible. Hans and Jitka brave it well, with only the occasional whine and roll of the eyes. Still, by evening they’re wrung out. Jitka is even more withdrawn than usual, while Hans makes his bad mood known to everyone.

At dinner, while Hans is arguing with Hynek, I turn to Jitka. “How’s the withdrawal going?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I think the thoughts of death are appropriate in this situation.”

As if on cue she flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just a twitch of the eyes and the hands, but I’ve been paying attention to these little signs.
“Sometimes I randomly feel like someone’s given me an electroshock,” she explains, seeing my worried expression. That does not lessen my concern.
“I’m fine,” she insists.

I decide to drop the topic and give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You’re doing really well regardless. We’ll know by tomorrow if the tokens go through or not.”

The next day rolls around, but there’s still no news. However, it’s time for the interview strategies. This boils down to Godwin and I sitting on one couch asking questions, with Hynek lurking behind us, and Jitka and Hans answering from opposite us.

Deciding the strategy for Hans is easy. He’s confident to the point of arrogance, and he has a talent for bridging awkward silences with jokes. Godwin has me reading typical interview questions to him, and Hans answers with quick wit. I hate to say it, but it’s fun. Our back and forth becomes like a game, where we deliberately set each other up to keep the ball rolling.

Jitka on the other hand is… trying her best. She’s not exactly shy, at least not in the cute nervous way. It’s hard to get more than two sentence answers out of her. I would’ve thought that since her and Hans come from the same social circle, they’d be equally prepared for small talk. And she is polite; she has a convincing laugh and she looks interest in the conversation. But at the end of the questions I’ve learned nothing new about her. After half an hour of painfully slow interview, Godwin summarizes her strategy: “Act like all this is beneath you.”

There’s no time to change anything now, since the stylists and their prep teams need to get to work on the tributes. So when they disappear into their rooms, I’m left with nothing more to do. Godwin is busy sending off the notes for the interviews and calling whoever’s in charge of the token inspections, and I don’t really want to spend the afternoon alone with Dry Devil.

Lacking any meaningful duty, I watch an episode of that designer show. From what I understand, Lucille is on a journey of improvement in preparation for another, even more important competition coming up. She will not be beaten again.

I return to the living area at the perfect time. I’ve barely sat down on the couch with Hynek, when Jitka exits her room.

She wears a slender, black dress and an almost translucent gray coat. The dress would reach the floor if it weren’t for her glossy black heels, which make her almost as tall as me. The coat reaches down to her shins and is snugly tailored, but it still weirdly reminds me of a lab coat. Maybe it’s an intentional homage.

While her hair is simply slicked back into a high ponytail, her makeup is more dramatic than before. Her dark eyes become like black holes under the smoky eyeshadow, drawing the viewer into their orbit.
She looks elegant, but still recognizable as herself. That’s good, we don’t want the sponsors to no longer recognize her in the arena.

Rosa proudly steps out behind her, wearing a stylish pantsuit. I give her a thumbs up for the good work.

We all sit down on the couch, waiting for Brabant to finish Hans’ transformation. Rosa has Jitka practice sitting down a few times to get used to the shoes and coat.

A few minutes later, Godwin joins us. “Ah, you’re done already,” he says, mustering Jitka’s getup with a satisfied smile. “You look wonderful, the crowd will love you.”

He sits down next across from her, and his expression turns serious. “Unfortunately I have bad news. The Gamemakers will not approve your medication as a token.”

“What?!” I stare at Godwin, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. He shakes his head with a sigh. “They say it’s too easy to tamper with. And it might be contested by other mentors, because it ‘gives her an advantage’.”

Hynek voices my feelings perfectly: “The bastards.”

Jitka just stares at the floor, a hollow look in her eyes. “I expected as much… still, thank you for trying.”

A heavy silence follows. While we continue to wait, I silently stew in my hatred of the Gamemakers and their stupid rules.

After a good fifteen minutes we start getting impatient. The prep team is fussing with the details of Jitka’s outfit. I’ve started slowly pacing around.
“What’s taking them so long?”

“Probably fussing about his hair,” Hynek replies.

Just a few moment later the door to Hans’ room swings open. The prep team steps out first, satisfaction evident even through the thick layers of makeup. Brabant, in a three piece suit of purple brocade, comes next.

And then there’s Hans.

Gorgeous doesn’t begin to describe him.

Black and gold are surely his signature colors, but this trumps anything I’ve seen him in before. The suit jacket of gold silk is embroidered with silver lines, mimicking the paths of a motherboard. The collar and cuffs are made of a contrasting black velvet, matching his black pants. Underneath it he wears a white shirt with an open collar, two gold necklaces resting between his clavicles. As usual, his hair is slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place. His makeup sharpens and polishes his features. He looks young, not in a boyish but in a timeless way.

In short he’s like something from an ad for luxury watches; stylish, refined, and out of your league.

Hans clears his through, breaking the stunned silence. Hynek is evidently not as transfixed as I, because he goes to the elevator without ceremony. “Let’s go, ladies.”

The elevator may be spacious, but it’s not big enough to transport thirteen people comfortably at once. Godwin, Hynek, Jitka and her team take the first, while the rest of us wait for the next one. This gives me ample time to take in all the details of Hans’ appearance. Like the fact that his cufflinks are little suns and there’s an arrow pendant on one of his necklaces.

“I like your suit,” he says suddenly. Startled out of my observation mode, it takes me a moment to compute what he said. I look down my red velvet suit. I just picked in because I liked the color.
“Oh, thanks. You look great too.”

Before the silence can become awkward, Brabant starts talking.
“I dare say this year I’ve made some of my best creations yet. Young Capon makes inspiration blossom.”

I roll my eyes subtlety before exchanging a look with Hans. He grins.
Man, his teeth are white. And I swear he’s wearing lipgloss.

We arrive in some lower part of the center. Godwin is waiting for me. “Hynek’s gone ahead to our seats. Good luck to you as well Hans.”

Hans nods and leaves towards the backstage area with his stylists. Godwin and I walk through the halls, past the people dressed to the nines, having their pre-show drinks. The interview hall is like a cinema back home, only much larger. Ascending rows of plush seats looks towards a large screen above the stage, ready to give us closeups of the juiciest moments. There’s a few groups of seats in boxes along the walls where the stylists, the Gamemakers, and other VIPs will sit. Not us though, we victors sit in the parquet. At least it’s quite close to the stage.

The stage itself only has two armchairs placed on it, one for the tribute and one for the host. Each tribute is given three minutes of screen time. The rest of the time they sit on a platform behind the main stage. In the background but constantly visible.

The lights dim and leave only the stage illuminated. Music swells, a heroic instrumental version of the national anthem and the tributes enter the stage. Some of them stoically stare ahead, some wave at the audience. Once all twenty four of them have found their seats, the music changes to another theme. The man himself ascends through the floor of the stage.

Caesar Flickerman has been the host of the Hunger Games shows for as long as I can remember. Every year he wears the same bedazzled dark blue suit, but dyes his hair a different color. This year he’s opted for blond so light it’s almost white. With his pale makeup, bleached eyebrows and white lipstick, he looks like a ghost. Combine that with his dazzling white smile and you’ve got nightmare fuel. Dry Devil looks friendly and approachable in comparison.

After a few minutes of warm up jokes about the best moments of the reaping, the parade, and the Gamemakers’ scores, the show is on.

It starts off with Callisto and Mica from District One, both strong and confident. Then from Two; Lucia, a beauty with short brown hair and long silver nails, and Mace, whose eyes glint when he talks about his favorite weapons.

They call up Jitka next. She looks over the crowd while she walks, taking in the applause with a cold smile. She’s got the arrogant act down.

Caesar offers her a hand and leads her over to the chair. She sits down with her legs crossed, one arm on the armrest and the other over her lap. She’s the very picture of elegance and grace.

“I must say, Jitka,” Caesar says once the applause subsides. “Your stylist has certainly outdone herself.”

The crowd agrees with cheers and applause, as the screen briefly shows Rosa bowing her head in gratitude.

“Thank you, Caesar. It reminds me of my district.”

“It does! You look like a proper scientist.”
One of Jitka’s brows twitches, like she’s suppressing a sarcastic reply. She casts her eyes down at the audience and meets mine. I nod enthusiastically and mouth “say it”.
“Well, I don’t think I’d be allowed these nails in the lab.”

She holds her hands out for the audience to see. I hadn’t noticed before, but she has long fake nails glued on. They shimmer chrome in the stage light and the audience ohhs and ahhs on cue.

Caesar laugh. “No, of course. Might take someone’s eye out with those! Now, your district is famous for its genius inventors and researchers. Are you much of a scientist yourself?”

Jitka nods. “I’ve took the second place at the district-wide student chemistry competition last year.”

The audience applauds, but I don’t think they know what an achievement that is. Getting into the top three means a guaranteed university scholarship and a promise of special research projects.

The conversation stays on chemistry for a while. Caesar manages to keep the conversations up, even with Jitka’s somewhat concise answers. Eventually he asks about her strategy for the Games.

“I won’t say too much in front of this audience,” she throws a performative glance back at the other tributes, “but the one person I trust the most with my survival is myself.”

The buzzer announces the end of the interview.
“And we wish you the best of luck with that,” Caesar says. He offers Jitka a hand and presents her to the audience again.

As Jitka takes her seat, Hans is already out of his. Caesar announces him as “the golden boy of District Three. Hans Capon”. Hans takes the stage with a smile as radiant as his moniker.

He gets thunderous applause and cheers that last until after he’s already sat down. Maybe I’m imagining it, but the crowd sounds a lot more feminine all of the sudden.

The interview begins with another round of compliments for Hans’ wardrobe. Brabant even stands up to bow when the camera’s on him.

“Now Hans,” Caesar begins, “You’re the nephew of District Three’s mayor Hanush Capon. Can you tell us what that was like for you growing up?”

“To me he’s always been Uncle Hanush. My parents died when I was young, so he basically raised me.” He cast down his eyes. The sad flutter of his lashes draw a few sympathetic ‘awww’s from the crowd. He lets the moment sink in, then continues, “But I won’t say it had no impact on me. There’s a lot of expectations on the family of the mayor. And I’m not exactly the greatest defender of the family reputation.”

“So you’re a bit of a rebel?” Caesar asks with a smile.

“You could say that. My father and grandfather were also both in politics, so it was always expected that I would also take that path. But honestly, politics are boring.”
He draws out ‘boring’ and the crowd laughs.

The rest of the interview focusses mostly on Hans’ rebellious escapades, including the story of how he drunkenly fell into the buffet at my victory dinner. Surprisingly little is said about his strategy. Do they want to keep his alliance with the Careers a surprise?

His three minutes end with a buzzer and applause and whistling from the audience. I exhale with relief and sit back to enjoy the rest of the evening.

Caesar truly draws out the best side of each tribute.
Theres the fluttering Corale and the smooth Orca of District Four. The high energy Nick from District Five, who nearly hits Caesar with his gesticulating hands. From District Eight, sweet and elegant Satine. The thirteen year old Estella from Ten stumbles on her way to the stage.

For the first time they aren’t districts, they aren’t numbers, they become people. Three minutes is only a sketch, a glimpse into their personalities, but each tribute is unique and alive in the spotlight for this one moment.

Tomorrow by this time one third of them are going to be dead.

When the final tribute, a lanky dark haired boy from District Twelve, gets back to his seat, Caesar bids the audience good night.

It takes a while for the crowd to filter out. We meet the tributes back in our apartment. They're both sitting on the sofa, already out of their jackets. Hans is fanning himself with a flyer for some concert and Jitka is trying to pry off her false nails.

Rosa quickly moves to help her. “Well done, you two,” she says.

I stay by the elevator, trying to capture the moment, this last moment with all of us together. The anticipation of what’s coming next is clawing its way through me.
Godwin clears his throat to draw the attention of the room. “It’s time for us to say goodbye.”

Hans and Jitka look up at him.
“Already?” Hans asks. “We won’t see you tomorrow?”

“You’ll be leaving early. But you won’t be alone, Rosa and Brabant will go with you to the arena.”

Rosa squeezed Jitka’s hand to assure her. Hans’ eyes flicker between the others in the room. The luster he had in the interview seems to dim.
“So this is it.”

I wait on the side while the others say their goodbyes. Jitka and Rosa hug and Brabant gives Hans an enthusiastic handshake. Of course their final parting will only be in the prep room underneath the arena. “Get some sleep,” Rosa advices, before they leave for the elevator. Godwin gives both of the tributes a hug and wishes them the best. Hynek gives them a strong clap on the back and tells them, “Don’t die in a stupid way.”

Finally, it’s my turn. I hug Hans first. It’s a bit of a stiff one armed hug. We haven’t really had time to bond, but he’s still my tribute.
With Jitka, there’s no hesitation. I draw her into an embrace and she returns it. Her labored breaths are audible to me alone. “You’ve got this,” I whisper.
I give her a squeeze and draw back.

I step to Godwin’s side. “Remember you’re not alone in this,” he says. “We’re watching over you.”

Jitka and Hans only nod, then they leave towards their rooms. I follow their example and get ready for bed, although I know none of us are gonna get much sleep. Except Hynek, maybe.

After a few hours of tossing and turning in bed, I know it’s no use. I’m as nervous as I was when I had to go into the arena myself. Eventually, I put on my socks and make my way to the kitchen. Technically I could order something to my room, but I don’t want to bother the room service at this hour.

I’ve barely made it two steps out of my room, when I hear a scream.
“Bianca!”

My blood freezes. I know that scream. A magnetic pull drags me towards the door behind which I will find her. Without my input my hand reaches for the handle. I step into the scene.

My knees hit the ice, as I fall to Bianca’s side. Her face is pale under the light of the moon, her lips almost blue. One of her hands reaches out for my cheek, the other rests on her stomach. A dark stain slowly creeps out from underneath it, tarnishing the white of her pullover. Gently, but with shaking hands, I pry her hand off the wound, only to press down my own. It’s useless. I saw the sword pierce through her. I know how this scene will end. Still I try, I desperately try to apply pressure, but the blood keeps flowing. Its heat scalds my frozen fingers.

Bianca caresses my face. Her weak voice barely carries over the moaning of the wind. “Henry.”

I glance up at her face, still trying to stop the inevitable.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Go home. Go home for both of us.”

“Bianca, please!” I choke out. She tries to smile, even as tears stream down my face.

The canon fires as her eyes go blank.

The camera pulls back into a wide shot. Thick snow glistens all around, reflecting the brightness of the moon.
Four people are scattered on the surface of a frozen river. There’s me, hunched over Bianca’s lifeless body and two other tribute’s, who’s blood is slowly freezing on the ice.

The image finally pulls me out of my state of shock. I look over at Hans, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s looking back at me, his pale, tired face lit only by the TV’s blue light.

The image on the TV changes and draws my eyes back.
A transitions screen fades into a shot of a woman siting on a sofa in a studio. She wipes her eyes with her excessively wide sleeves. “What a truly heart-wrenching scene,” she says.
After a few more dabs at her eyes, her face returns to a smile.
“And that was number two in our top ten best moments of the sixty-sixth Hunger Games. Stay tuned for number one, just after the ads.”

Hans mercifully turns off the TV. Darkness and silence envelop us. Only the muffled droning of bass-heavy music reaches through the window. People celebrating the beginning of the Games.

Eventually, Hans leans over the bed to turn on the lamp on the table beside it. I sit down on next to him.
It takes me a while to speak. My voice is dry and rough, as if I’ve actually been crying. “It’s definitely not on my list of top moments.”

Hans makes a sound that might be chuckle. “No, mine neither.”

After an awkward pause he adds, “I liked the cake.”

The cake? Oh, he means that… the sponsors sent me a cake, because my birthday happens to fall right after the start of the Games. I nod slowly. I guess it was a sweet moment, Bianca and I enjoying a break from trying to survive and just getting a moment of normality.

“Is that why you don’t like the Careers?”

The question drags me out of the memory of a morning huddled into one sleeping bag, feeding bites of cake to Bianca. “What?”

“Because they killed your girlfriend.”

“No. The one’s who killed her are dead.”

“Then why do you get so pissed every time I mention them?”

Pissed? I wouldn’t say I was pissed. Maybe I frowned a little. I didn’t think anyone would even notice that.

“They’re…” I try to think of a way to say ‘the Capitol’s lapdogs’ without saying that. ‘Vengeful system critic’ and all that. I don’t know if there’s surveillance in this room, but I also don’t know there isn’t. “Everything gets handed to them, in their districts and in the arena.”

Hans crosses his arms. “They can’t help the district they’re born into.”

“They’re bullies.” My voice has regained some of its strength. It’s firmer now. Angrier. “They’re trained and spoiled and they band together to pick on those who are weaker than them.”

Hans is silent for a moment. He stares at the dark TV, his lips drawn into a flat line. “Well, I don’t want to get picked on either.”

I let out a deep sigh. Sympathy seeps into my frustration. “I don’t want that for you. Just… be careful. Don’t trust them too much. The moment everyone else is out of the running, who do you think they’ll turn on first?”

“I know, I know. I’ll be careful. But I want to survive until then first.”

“Surviving is one thing. Living with yourself is a different matter.”

“So what,” he scoffs, “I should rather die with my morals intact than get my hands dirty trying to live?”

“I do think you have a shot at winning. But I also know what you have to do in order to survive the arena. Victory doesn’t guarantee happiness. You’ve seen Godwin, you’ve seen the other victors.”

Silence settles over us, filled with things left unsaid. I have half a mind to leave, but the other half says it’s really not encouraging to tell someone who’s about to go into the arena “ your only options are to get murdered or to become a depressed alcoholic, good luck”.

Lucky for me, it’s Hans that breaks the quiet.
“You really think I can win?”

His tone aims for hopefulness, so I try to be positive as well. Locking up the pictures of Bianca’s frozen face for later nightmares, I smile.

“Why not? You’re a good shot. You’re pretty, sponsors will be lining up for you. And besides, someone has to wear Brabant’s inspired designs.”

Hans chuckles weakly. He’s quiet for a while, then he says. “I’m sorry if I woke you up like this.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t sleeping either. And I’ve watched that scene many times”

With a long inhale I rise to my feet. “It’s okay if you can’t sleep,” I say. “Adrenaline will get you through tomorrow.”

Hans nods. As I turn to leave, he holds me by the sleeve. I look back at him and find myself in an embrace. And this time, I hug him back.

Notes:

My dear Beta-reader says she did not see the last scene coming. Did it have the same effect on you?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Chapter 6: Meadowlark

Notes:

A shorter chapter, but delivered almost on time this week! We’re finally getting into the Hunger Games proper.

Warning: this chapter includes violent deaths of children. Nothing unusual for The Hunger Games, but if you’d rather skip it, I’ll see you next week

I’ve paired the most visceral chapter so far with a very calm, mournful song: Meadowlark by the Fleet Foxes

The little sleep I get that night is filled with death. Every few hours I wake, my pulse and my mind racing, only to be dragged back under by exhaustion.

I wander on a frozen lake. Caesar Flickerman walks by my side, his snow-white hair gleaming in the moonlight. Just under the surface of the ice is a body. Who’s body changes with each dream; Bianca, Godwin, Jitka, Hans. Each face is pale blue, their wide eyes as dark as the night. I claw at ice, trying to break them free, to safe them or to join them. “Don’t leave me alone,” I beg. But I can’t reach them. Even when my nails begin to leave bloody scratches, the ice is as unyielding as glass.

Caesar watches over the scene. He talks, he cracks jokes. He comments about the dead and he laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs.

At the point the sun starts shining through my window I give up on the idea that I might get any rest.

I move through my routine on autopilot. Get to the bathroom. Take a shower. Dry off. Comb back hair. Go back to bedroom. Pick suit. Put on suit.

Breakfast is a short affair. My stomach is still tied in knots, apparently unaware that I’m not about to embark on a two week government ordered diet. Not even the smell of bacon can entice me to eat. Hynek and Godwin don’t even try to include me in their conversation, given that I’m as functional as a twenty year old computer. After I consume a coffee and a piece of toast, I resume my robotic routine. Return to bathroom. Use the toilet. Brush teeth. Wash face. Shave. Apply lotion.

Despite my sluggishness, it’s probably the fastest I’ve ever gotten ready. I’ve never been a morning person.

 

The Games Headquarters are surprisingly empty. It’s almost eerie how our footsteps echo in the entrance hall. The sense of wrongness is ever present in this building. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re doing something wrong. Why wouldn’t anyone else be here?

In the Sponsor lounge we do see other people. Some mentors are here, no doubt going over the potential sponsorship deals. A few eager Capitolites are also scattered throughout the room. Although I think one guy is actually sleeping.

Granted, it’s still early enough to qualify as morning and the Games won’t start for another few hours yet. Maybe people are sleeping off their hangovers. If they even have something as common as hangovers here. There’s probably an instant cure on the market. A pill or a drink. Bianca knew how to make the best hangover smoothie for the morning after less than responsible teenage drinking.

 

The three of us claim an empty booth for ourselves and order coffee. I’m going to need all the energy I can get if I’m to make it through today. I don’t envy the tributes, who have to stay awake and alert. I don’t envy them in general.

Where might they be right now? Deep in the mountains, in the vast fields of the south, or at the coast? Are they still in the hovercraft, slowly approaching their doom? Or are they already in the sterile chambers under the arena, waiting for the countdown to begin? No one knows.

Actually, the Gamemakers know, but they’re all in the control center, somewhere deep in this building. No doubt they’re making sure the opening goes smoothly and will not appreciate a young mentor interrupting their hard work to ask about his tributes.

So I accept that Jitka and Hans are out of my reach, slouch into my seat and drink my coffee. The hours pass by and the lounge starts to fill. I thought maybe the sponsors would tone down their outfits for such a grand and important event, but ‘tone down’ doesn’t seem to be part of their vocabulary. It’s like they’ve cranked the saturation to full power. The entire spectrum of color swims through the room like something out of a psychedelic dream. I swear, not even the clothes at the victory parties were this crazy.

The arrival of sponsors also means my work begins. Instead of stewing in misery in our seats waiting for the countdown to start, Godwin, Hynek and I meander through the crowd. I spot some familiar faces, both those I’ve talked to before and those from the parade. Diana is easy to spot with her cloud of hair, and she enthusiastically introduces me to her best friend Ursula. I try my best to channel the excitement of the day into pledges of support for District Three. Ludo for instance points to the rhinestones glued over his nonexistent brows and tells me he’s rooting for Jitka.

As the Games draw closer, the air in the room noticeably changes. Like static is jumping from person to person, sending a current of anticipation around the hall. The large screens on the wall intermittently display how much time is left until the Games.

The screens also show short spots for each tribute. They feature clips of their parade and interview looks, ending on a still of their faces with their training score underneath it. I try to avoid looking at them. Seeing Jitka and Hans makes my heart sink, which in turn makes it harder to be nice to sponsors. These two depend on us doing our jobs and I won’t let them down.

When the countdown reaches ten minutes, I go back to our seats. There’s a little plate of bougie finger-food on the coffee table, but since I still have neither hunger nor appetite I only nibble on a cracker with cream cheese as I wait for Godwin and Hynek.

Five minutes later the opening melody of the anthem blares over the room to remind everyone that the Games are starting soon. It takes another three minutes for the screens to display anything other than the Capitol crest with sixty seven written in bold underneath it. Two minutes until the start.

The arena is revealed through a panorama shot from a hovercraft. Oh, and what an arena it is.
A dream of fall; a valley nestled between two arms of a mountain range. A dense forest of red and gold leaves stretches between them, pines climb up the rocky slopes. The forest thins as the mountains open up, reaching an open plain. A river spills out from the heart of the mountains, winding through the arena until it splits just behind the edge of the woods. Between the arms of the river sits the cornucopia. The camera orbits its it in a 360 degree shot, showing both the enormous golden horn and the twenty four small circles places at an equal distance all around it, forming a ring. Supplies for the tributes are scattered within it: bag packs, sleeping bags, weapons, food.

Fields of corn and wheat billow in the wind as the camera hovercraft flies on. Ruins of a farmstead are scattered in the tall grass. Perhaps a remnant of older days, perhaps a prop. The plain is also spotted with the occasional meadow and orchard. Old trees providing shelter from the sun as well as the eyes of pursuers. Their branches bend under the weight of shining apples.

The camera climbs higher, giving another full view of the paradise below. Towering mountains, red, yellow and evergreen trees, golden fields and a glittering river. Then the number sixty appears on the screen and I’m returned to reality in an instant.

The countdown begins. One minute until the Games.

The cameras show the cornucopia again and the timer is displayed in a corner of the screen. The circular metal platforms around the horn slide open and tributes are lifted up into the arena. It takes a moment for them to adjust to this new environment. The lush fields are a stark contrast to the minimalist cells under the arena called prep rooms.

All the tributes are wearing the same greyish-brown windbreaker jackets, black pants and boots. Only a stripe of color running down the arm sets them apart. Our district’s sky blue isn’t doing us any favors this year.

While some tributes look around in shock, or are trying to find the best route of escape, others are taking a running position. The brown haired girl from Two is even crouching, ready for a running start. It’s forbidden to leave the platform until the countdown ends. Breaking this rule means being instantly killed by an explosion triggered by some pressure plate mechanism. Luckily we don’t have to see that this year, everyone stays in their circle.

Finally, I see Hans. His shoulders are visibly tense, but his eyes are focussed on something out of view. And damn it, his hair is still styled back. Can he ever not look good?

Jitka is a few places further. If she’s taken anything we’ve tried to teach her to heart, then she’ll get out of there as soon as the canon goes off. The first minutes of the Games are always a slaughter.

A server puts celebratory drinks down onto the table before me. I drink half of the sparkling orange concoction in one go. The glass clinks anxiously as I put it down. My hands are shaking and it’s not from caffeine.

The countdown strikes eleven.
The crowd chants as one.

TEN!

NINE!

EIGHT!

SEVEN!

SIX!

FIVE!

FOUR!

THREE!

TWO!

ONE!

“Happy Hunger Games!”

Cheers and the clinking of glasses can’t drown out the sound of the canon.

The tributes are off. The camera tries to keep up with what’s happening, but there’s simply too much going on. Nothing can ever be as panic inducing and disorientating as being in the bloodbath, but fuck, this comes close. Fast, almost frantic cuts between the tributes paint a bloody impression of the scene. The careers go for the weapons first. The best stuff is closest to the cornucopia, but these guys are trained and fast.

Some people are running away, I can’t tell yet if Jitka’s among them.

Corale, the girl from Four who was such a delicate thing at the interviews, skewers a younger boy with a spear. A second later her throat is cut from behind.

There’s Hans! He’s going for a bow, keeping with his talent. But there’s someone else; a girl from Seven or Eight, who snatches the bow right in front of his eyes. Hans pauses for just a second, then turns around, looking for another weapon. He picks up a sword, and takes off after the girl. But she’s got a good head-start and is already at the river, which she runs though without hesitation. We don’t find out what happens to Hans.

Someone’s face gets smashed in with a hammer. I distantly register groans and cheers around me, but the camera already captures the next moment. Someone else is stabbed, trying to defend a bag pack.

There’s another tribute trying to cross the river, a boy of barely fourteen. It’s unavoidable if you want to reach the cover of the trees, but the water looks shallow and there’s stones arranged to make a path. The boy stumbles, then falls. The camera lingers on him until the knife in his back comes into focus.

Silence falls over the cornucopia. The screens return to a birds eye view of the area. Between the scattered supplies and the bodies, the careers are already taking stock of their situation. Everyone else is either dead, or out of reach.

The sound of a canon marks the end of the bloodbath. Seven shots for seven dead.

Each tribute is shown for a moment, whether they’re alive or dead. The first three districts are fully intact. The careers and Hans are at the cornucopia, pausing their search through the supplies to listen to the canon’s tally.
Jitka is somewhere in the forest, one hand braced on a tree, the other at her side. I don’t see any blood... There’s a dark green backpack still on her back, so she should have some supplies.

The screen moves on before I can see more. Corale lies in the grass by the cornucopia. Blood plasters her hair to her bronze skin. Her district partner is vomiting onto the leafy ground, somewhere by the river in the woods.

The girl from District Five is dead as well, but the boy has made it to the lighter orchards north of the river. Both tributes from Six are alive, hiding out in a darker part of the forest. The girl from Seven is also somewhere upstream, but the boy did not survive. It’s the other way around for Eight and Nine; the girls were killed but the boys have made it away from the cornucopia into the fields and the woods respectively. Ten’s girl is also in the forest. The boy lies dead in the river.

Surprisingly, both of Eleven’s tributes have made it. They’re still on the run, heading towards the denser fields downhill. Lastly, the girl from District Twelve is still alive, also in the fields. The boy is dead.

Seven dead. Seventeen remaining.

Hans and Jitka are among the survivors and that’s all that matters right now.

For the first time since the Games started I can take a full breath. Next to me Godwin lets out a long sigh. “That’s done,” he says. I’ve never heard him so relieved before.

Hynek and Godwin raise their glasses and expectantly look at me. I raise mine as well and we toast to our tributes.

Chapter 7: Bitter Choco Decoration

Notes:

Next chapter baby! You may say, Metronome, if you always upload on Saturdays anyway, why don’t you just make that the upload day then? The answer is I need the pressure of a deadline, otherwise I won’t start writing until Friday evening.

Hope you enjoy the chapter.
The title song is by Syudou. Yes, I’m a vocaloid fan

The career pack is seemingly unbothered by the number of deaths. Once all the bodies in the area are accounted for, they continue searching the supplies.

“Okay, let’s get this stuff into the cornucopia,” says Mica, the tribute from District One.
It seems he’s taking the leadership role by default. He does have an air of authority, long hammer propped against his broad shoulder. But he’s not bad looking either, with his shoulder length brunette hair and green eyes. His mentors will have an easy job getting sponsors for him.

The others don’t argue and start hauling the supplies to the cornucopia. They stack them along the curved metal wall, creating a semicircle of free space under the cover of the horn. Meanwhile hovercrafts start picking up the bodies of the fallen. They begin with the ones farthest away, those who almost made it to the river. The invisible force fields around the hovercrafts are turned off for a moment while a giant claw descends to take grab the tributes’ remains.

Hans pauses in his task, a blanket in one hand, and slowly looks back and forth between the sky and the ground. The next shot shows what he’s looking at; the body of another tribute a few steps away.
“Should we carry these guys away? Maybe they can’t take them while we’re so close.”

He’s right. The hovercrafts don’t approach while there’s a living tribute close to the body. Wouldn’t want anyone trying to escape.

The tribute closest to Hans looks up. It’s the guy from District Two, Mace, I think he’s called. He’s got dark skin and a neatly faded buzz cut. His black eyes have something intense about them, but right now he just looks bored.

“If you think so.” He shrugs and walks over to grab the feet of the body.

Hans hesitates. It’s not hard to imagine why. The audience may not get to a close look at it, but I know that corpse won’t be pretty to look at. Still, after a moment Hans bends down to take the girl’s wrists. Together they lift her off the ground. It’s sound like she’s not staying entirely intact though. Even I can hear the wet squelch of flesh hitting the ground. Hans makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine.

Mace raises a brow. “Squeamish, are you?”

His district partner Lucia laughs. “What do you expect from District Three?”

“Come on,” Mace says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Hans gives him a distasteful look, but carries the body without further complaint. Well, he does mutter something to himself once they’ve placed it far away enough, but the microphones don’t pick it up. He wipes off his hand on his pants and returns to picking through the supplies.

I stop paying attention. I finish the puddle at the bottom of my glass and let my eyes drift around the room. While things in the arena have calmed down, the lounge is as loud as ever. The bets around the bloodbath are being cashed out and people are excitedly theorizing about who will make it through the next days. The leaderboard has already updated the odds, now that seven people are out of the running.

A new voice draws my attention back to the screen. “What’s that? Painkillers?”

The last of the Careers has made an appearance. Tall, blonde and pretty, it’s District One’s Callisto. Jitka was right, she does look like she lifts more than me. The way she crosses her arms shows her muscles as she stares down whoever’s in front of her. Oh, it’s Hans. He’s about as tall as her and just as blond, so I don’t think the intimidation tactic will work.

Indeed, Hans doesn’t look threatened, only a little confused at being talked to. “What? No, this is against mental disorders. Must be for one of the tributes.”

A closeup reveals what he’s holding; a small plastic pill bottle. Shit.

Callisto looks unconvinced. “How do you know that?”

“I’m from District Three,” Hans replies with an edge of smugness, “Science is what we do.”

The other tributes is not impressed. She studies the bottle, then says, “We don’t need that stuff in our District.”

Lucia must have overheard them, because she comes closer as well. “Sucks for that tribute to be stuck without them,” she says. “If they’re lucky they’re already dead.”

I hear Godwin sigh next me. I want to ask how Jitka will fare without her meds, but Mica addresses the group first.
“We have a bigger problem. There’s no food.”

“Nothing at all?” Lucia asks. The others look over to the stack of supplies that has formed inside the cornucopia. The lawn is almost empty by now.

“I checked through every crate and bag pack,” Mica replies. Unless one of you found something…”

“What about water?” Callisto interrupts him. He shakes his head.

“There’s the river,” Lucia says.

“Are you sure that water’s safe to drink?” Mace asks.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Hans says. “The Gamemakers aren’t going to poison us.”

“And why wouldn’t they?”

“Because,” he says pointedly, “They want a show and they won’t just smite their best players. Last year almost everyone died from a lack of food or from the cold. No one wants to repeat that disaster.”

Well, someone’s listened to Dry Devil. I’m impressed. The Careers don’t look entirely convinced, but there isn’t much they can do. Survival comes second in their training, since they can always count on the cornucopia spoils and sponsor gifts. But would a Career admit they’re out of their depth as soon as they aren’t handed everything? Never!

“Fine,” Mace says. “But there’s still the matter of food.”

Mica steps forward, taking control once more.
“For now we can rely on sponsors. Once we start hunting we can see what the arena has to offer.”

The others mutter in assent. They start talking about their strategy for the next days, as they walk to the cornucopia.

 

Here in the Headquarters, Godwin stands up and stretches his arms. “This talk about food is making me hungry. What do you say, should we get lunch?”

Now that the anxiety about our tributes has settled, the fact that I haven’t eaten anything of substance today is hitting me with full force. I nod enthusiastically. “Please. I’m starving.”

Hynek agrees, so the three of us go to the dining room, just down the hall from the lounge. The room is what I imagine an expensive restaurant to be like. Polished hardwood floors and furniture, lamps giving off golden light, an open bar and a cutout in one wall giving a view of the kitchen. The tables are separated into groups by large shelves filled with vases and golden knickknacks. There are no windows, the walls are covered in paintings and TVs, which show the Games. No escaping them…

We’ve barely sat down before a waitress swoops in with menus. The stuff actually sounds like food, unlike the deconstructed bullshit they serve in the lounge. Today’s special is a twelve course tour through the districts. Caviar with leaf gold for One, white soup for Two, pasta salad for Three… What? Who came up with that? The special ends on fruit jelly and dark chocolate mouse for Eleven and Twelve. That doesn’t sound too bad. But I’m way too hungry to wait through a dozen courses.

The waitress returns and I haven’t even read half the menu. I just order the first thing that catches my eye. Not long after she brings out drinks. My rhubarb soda is garnished with lots of ice and three raspberries on a cocktail sword.

Our orders arrive a little while later. The service is surprisingly fast, for the fact that a the restaurant is bursting with guest. I’ve got some slices of roast beef with potatoes. It’s delicious, of course it is. The meat is juicy and flavorful, the sauce is rich, the potatoes perfectly crisp. But man, what I’m really craving right now is a good old beef sandwich from the greasy joint back home. Siemens’ Sandwiches is the best shop in all of District Three and I still go there from time to time, even though I now live at the other end of town. That’s the first thing I’ll do once I’m back.

It still feels strange to think about what I’ll do once I get home while in the Capitol. Especially when the tributes don’t have that luxury. My seat is facing the TV and I can see the footage of the tributes trying to get their bearings in the forest.

I wonder what they’ll be eating. The Careers may get their meals delivered to them, but what about the others? We have forests around District Three, but I have no idea what you might find there during fall. Mushrooms, nuts, fruit or berries maybe? The grain in the arena must be edible in some capacity, but what tribute has time to harvest that?

After I’m done eating, I take a quick trip to the bathroom. That is, it was supposed to be a quick trip. I end up having to ask multiple servers for directions because of the minimalistic signage. When I finally find the bathrooms it’s a depressing chamber of black marble, green tile and gold mountings. It takes another while to figure out which button flushes and how to activate the motion sensors for the tap. At least there’s a basket with soft towels to dry one’s hands, not those air blasting monstrosities we have in Three.

 

When I come back to our table, someone has taken my place. It’s a man wearing a black suit with subtle gold embroidery, which would be elegant if not for the ridiculous black beret he’s paired it with. Still, his appearance is just natural enough to be recognizably District. He looks to be Hynek’s age.

He’s holding a glass of white wine. Apparently Godwin isn’t the only one drinking at noon here. Dry Devil notices my arrival and introduces him. His gruff voice show no particular friendliness towards the newcomer.
“Henry, this is Istvan Toth, mentor of District Two.”

Istvan smiles, puts down his wine and offers me his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

He’s got a rather broad smile. Together with his beady eyes and brown hair, he oddly resembles a toad. But since that’s not a thing you tell someone you’ve just met, I shake his hand and return the smile. Then I take the seat next to him and reach past him to retrieve my drink.

“Since our tributes have teamed up, I thought we should also work together,” Istvan says. “I’ve already talked to our colleagues from One and they’ve agreed.”

Godwin nods. “That’s sensible.”

Hynek grunts in reply and I don’t think I’m expected to answer. The grown-ups are talking.

Istvan continues, “Of course you heard that the Gamemakers are foregoing food this year. An… interesting choice from them. Now, the Ones are willing to hand the tributes everything on a platter, as usual, but I’d agree to send them food for at least a few days.”

“Shouldn’t we be saving the sponsor money for more urgent things?” I ask.

“Food is cheap,” Hynek says. “Might be necessary to survive, but it’s not like it’s scarce.”

“So you agree?” Istvan asks.

After a moment of silence, Godwin answers, “A few days should be enough for the pack to find their footing in the arena. If we find out there’s a problem with the food sources, we can talk again.”

Hynek laughs. “You have it harder than us. We only have one tribute to sponsor.”

I stare at him. Did I just hear that right? “What about Jitka?”

He shrugs. “She’s not part of the Careers.”

“But she’s still our responsibility,” I protest. I look over to Godwin, who has the decency to look conflicted.
“Look Henry, the sponsor want to see their money go towards the next victor. And Hans’ chances look a lot better because of his alliance. We don’t want there to be questions about our support.”

I open my mouth to retort something, but then I remember that the other mentor is still at the table with us. He’s watching this internal dispute over the rim of his glass, polite smile still firm on his lips. I sink back into my seat and breathe out, trying to expel the simmering anger.

Istvan drinks the rest of his wine and stands up. “Very good. We can work out the details later. I’ll leave you to your discussion. And to your dessert. I’d recommend the crème brûlée, it is excellent today.”

We watch him saunter off in silence. When I turn around Dry Devil gives me a look that says the discussion is over. At the same time our server swoops in to ask if we’d like the dessert menu.

The crème brûlée is excellent. So good it makes it hard to stay pissed off. I still stay silent though.

Eventually Godwin clears his throat and breaks the silence.
“Right. Onto another thing. As mentors we should watch over our charges around the clock, just in case anything happens. Now, some people may be able to go several nights without sleep—“

“That’s the drugs,” Dry Devil interjects.

“— but I’m too old for that, so we take shifts. Since Hynek can’t make sponsor deals or send gifts, it’s between the two of us.”

“I can take the night shift,” I offer. “I’m not much of an early bird anyway.”

Godwin smiles. “Good kid. Zizka and I did eight-to-eight shifts last year, does that sound good to you?” I nod. “Alright, then let’s find One and Two and talk meal plans with them.”

We sit down with the other mentors and escorts over coffee and little tarts. The victors of District One, like their tributes, are young and attractive. Whether that’s natural or achieved through surgery and makeup is hard to say. Istvan is there, but his partner isn’t. “Probably accosting a waitress somewhere,” he says with a dismissive wave.

The plan comes together quickly. We’ll send the tributes full meals in the mornings and evening with the option of a snack in between. The escort from One says she knows a nutritionist who can recommend meals that will provide the tributes with enough energy for their hunt.

In the evening the Careers get their first delivery. Five silver parachutes carrying thermally insulated metal boxes float down onto the field by the cornucopia. Jitka, as well as the other tributes have to gather their dinners themselves. District Four’s tribute catches a fish in the stream and eats it raw. A fire would draw too much attention, I suppose. Godwin, Hynek and I eat at the restaurant and the two go back to our apartment afterwards.

No one else dies on the first day. Night falls and the tributes begin setting up camp. For some that means the relative safety of a field ditch or a tree, for others it means a sleeping mat under the cornucopia. Hans enjoys the latter, while Jitka, whom we haven’t see in quite a while, has secured a hammock in the upper branches of a tree.

The anthem plays and the screen shows the seal of Panem, a golden bird with spread wings. In the arena, this will be projected into the sky. Once again the faces of the fallen are shown, the same way they were when the scores were announced. The tributes need to know who their competitors are after all. It feels unreal to see them again. Just hours ago we saw their faces in death and here they are again, shown to the audience one last time to then be forgotten.

I stop counting how many coffees I’ve had. Once in a while I spice things up with a fruity drink, just to keep the boredom at bay. The sponsor lounge has emptied for the most part. There’s a ballroom somewhere in this building, I’ve been told. That’s where the party is at. Fireworks are going off outside. Their light filters in through the windows up high, like rays cast off a mirrorball. Their booms are like echos of canon fire.

The night passes without incident. The sun rises over the arena and the tributes stir. In each face you can see the same thought: Will it be my face in the sky tonight? Only the Careers still have a spark of excitement in them.

Godwin and Hynek return just in time for breakfast. For the tributes, that is. We send Hans his sponsor gift, and I’m free to got to the Training Center to eat breakfast and go to sleep.

When I wake up again it’s already late afternoon. I order a sandwich to my room and eat it while watching an episode of Design Academy. Even though the drama is overblown and a bit stupid, I’m grateful for it. I’m glad they’re showing something that isn’t the Games on TV.

I eat dinner alone in our apartment. At 8pm I’m back in the sponsor lounge. Even though it’s sunset in the Capitol, it’s already dark inside the arena. It must be far in the east.

The others fill me in on what’s happened today. Two tributes are dead. Apparently the Careers split up into two groups to cover the far fields downriver. Mica, Callisto and Hans found the tributes from Eleven. Mica killed the boy, but the girl got away. Lucia and Mace got the boy from Eight. That’s two down, fifteen remaining.

Jitka is doing well for herself, they say. She’s somewhere deep in the woods, far away enough from other tributes. There was a hunting knife in her backpack and she managed to kill and cook a fish. Pretty impressive for the second day.

The night begins the same way as yesterday. The dead tributes are shown, then there’s a round of all the living ones. Hynek stays a while longer and tells me about the tributes who came before me. I thinks he’s had a little too many shots. His speech becomes more and more incomprehensible as the night goes on. Istvan joins us after a while and for some reason he insists on teaching me what it means to be a mentor. He says I have to learn to survive the jungle. Whatever that means…

They leave eventually, more or less capable of walking on their own. I stay in my seat and keep my eyes on the screen, which starts to blur after a while. My body hasn’t quite adjusted to the new schedule. The hours drift by me.

I must’ve fallen asleep at some point. When I return to myself, light is beginning to creep through the windows. It takes me a while to realize what day it is. It’s the thirteenth of July: my birthday.

When Godwin and Hynek show up a few hours later, I get a tight hug from the one and a “welcome to adulthood kiddo” from the other. Servers come to our table carrying a cake with a firework fountain and sing a birthday song for me. Some of the sponsors join in. I smile through the entire embarrassing affair, but inside I’m dreading the fact that this is going to be how I spend most of my birthday going forward. Godwin later says to me that we’ll celebrate properly when we’re home, but that doesn’t really cheer me up.

As I eat a slice of cake, the memories of last year come flooding back. It’s the exact same chocolate cake that Bianca once fed me bites of. The same flavor I tasted on her lips. I blink the stinging in my eyes away. I won’t cry in front of this gawping audience, they’ve seen enough of my grief. I look at the screen instead and watch the Careers finish the last of their breakfast. That’s when I get an idea.

 

The telltale beeping alerts the camp to the approaching gift. The tributes look up, their expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion. Because Mace is closest to it, he goes to collect it.

The others stay where they are. Mica puts a hand on the hilt of his hammer. “I thought feeding time was over,” he says.

Mace returns to the group and holds the gift out to Hans. “It’s for you.”

Hans takes it without a word, but the surprise is evident on his face. The gift is a rectangular box, made of stainless steel as usual. The base is about the length and width of his hand and the sides are another hand tall. The number three is etched into the top.

 

A few miles away Jitka is holding an identical box. Her first sponsor gift. I hope she’s not too angry with me. She opens it quickly. Inside the metal case are two paper boxes, one flat, the other tall. Jitka clamps the metal container under her arm in order to use her hand to open the paper boxes. The smaller box slides open on one side. A cake fork, a small candle, and a lighter sit securely in their case.
“What the…” Jitka mutters.

She shuts the box and focuses on the bigger one. This one has a pull-tab at the top. The folded sides open and reveal the slice of birthday cake inside.

 

“A cake?” Lucia asks. “Is it your birthday?”

The careers have gathered around Hans. They all eye the cake like it’s secretly explosive.

“It’s not.” Hans slowly shakes his head. “But I think it’s my Mentor’s.”

“Riiiight!” Mace says. “The guy last year got a cake as well.”

Lucia leans in closer and inspects the slice. “What the heck did he send you one for?”

“I… have no idea.”

 

Jitka looks equally confused by the gift. But she won’t question a food donation, so she pockets the candle and the lighter and digs in to the cake. Hans decides to save his for later and puts it back into the metal container. He places the box on his bedroll and tells the others not to touch it.

Satisfied that my gift has been received, I head back to the apartment to catch some sleep.

 

Halfway through the third night I’m starting to think I’ve chosen the easier shift. Another tribute was killed today. The Careers split up to hunt again and Mica, Callisto and Hans stumbled upon District Twelve’s Roslyn in the decrepit ruins of the farmstead. Godwin told me she was quite nimble, but the odds were against her. She managed to evade her attackers until Callisto snuck up from behind her and ended things with a knife to the back. Apparently Hans was rather shaken by the whole thing. Hynek called him a child on his first hunt, confronted with having to kill the prey he’d been chasing. Maybe that’s how Hans felt. He said he’s gone hunting before. Boasted of it even. Still I can easily picture a blond boy, only a few years younger than now, looking into the frightened eyes of a downed deer, knife in his hand.

Or maybe I’m projecting… Seeing someone die would shock any normal person. And Hynek thinks any sort of empathy for the other tributes is a waste of time.

Either way, that’s another district out of the running.

I only hear about these things at dinner, or during the recaps. I’ve either slept through them or was watching the designer show to kill time. The tributes spend most my watch time sleeping or talking — to themselves or to others. One or two of them spend the night walking further through the woods, getting away from the others. But I don’t care about them. Better for Jitka if there’s less tributes around her. Better for Hans if there’s less people to kill.

I should be glad to be spared the slow dread. To be able to postpone the horrors and keep them out of sight. I don’t know if it’s some twisted thirst for violence that makes me wish for more action. Maybe the Capitol is getting to me. I just wish I could do something. Something that isn’t just making small talk and authorizing the daily food offerings.

Damn it all. I’m sitting here, on the night of my birthday, surrounded by people I don’t know and who don’t know me. Somehow, I’m lonelier than I was in the arena.

Notes:

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I struggled a lot with the balance between giving enough information about the Games and keeping things interesting.

Comments and Kudos are appreciated as always!

Chapter 8: The Bones of You

Notes:

I have nothing to say for myself

This chapter title is brought to you by Elbow.

I’ve jinxed it. The moment I think nothing interesting ever happens on my watch, someone dies. The worst part is, I wasn’t even paying attention. I was half dozing, half listening to a very soused Ludo Hawk explaining the difference between sugar and wax hair-removal, when a crack and the following canon shot ripped me out of it.

It must have been an accident. The girl from District Eleven, the one who’s partner Mica killed, broke her neck by falling from a tree. Maybe she hid up there and dozed off, or maybe she slipped while climbing, or a branch broke. Whatever happened, I’m just glad it was over quickly. The poor girl had already been through enough.

It was an accident, Hynek and Godwin agree. I tell them about it as soon as they arrive. There was no reason for the Gamemakers to kill her. There’s been enough deaths to keep things interesting for the audience. A death in the middle of the night when no one’s watching is a waste of human life, Hynek says. I understand that he’s taking the perspective of the Gamemakers here and that he’s being sarcastic. He did call them slaves to entertainment in the next sentence. But personally, I think it’s a merciful way to go out. A quick, painless end, without the eyes of the country voraciously consuming the spectacle.

Godwin says it had to be an accident for that exact reason. The Gamemakers don’t usually kill tributes off unless they’re punishing someone. And that punishment means a gruesome, public death. He says that in the kind of lowered voice that he always uses when talking about things that aren’t supposed to be said out loud. Shame then, that I don’t known what he’s talking about. Sure there’s some nasty deaths once in while, but I always thought that was just to keep things entertaining.

The tributes are on edge. A lot of them were woken up by the canon. I reckon the Non-Careers are worried because they think the Careers have started hunting at night. And the Careers themselves are concerned there’s something else killing tributes out there.

Most of the tributes retreat even further into the forest. We, the omnipotent audience know that there’s no one left in the lower plains. District Four’s Orca has reached the source of the river by now. The two from District Six have hiked up far enough to where deciduous trees are getting sparse and the evergreens take over. The girl from Seven is in her element. Her district is known for its sprawling forest and lumber industry. She’s the one that nicked the bow from right on front of Hans’ nose. So little miss Zedar is strolling through the wood like it’s her backyard, hunting foxes and rabbits as she pleases. The other four are scraping by as best they can.

Our Jitka is having a rough time, to put it mildly. She doesn’t sleep much, at least not at night. I’ve seen her sneak around in the dark once or twice. She barely eats. It’s not because of the arena, there’s plenty of food trees and animals. But she’s lethargic and skittish. Even with her lighter she doesn’t often risk fires.

The worst part is, there’s nothing we can do. Her medication is ludicrously expensive. The longer the Games go on, the more pricy gifts become, but medical stuff is a luxury from the start. It would technically be within our means, but our sponsors aren’t willing to give their money towards the tribute with lower chances. They’ll happily deliver Hans his breakfast, but not help Jitka drastically improve her odds. Now Godwin says it’s more than just the withdrawal, but I still think if we could just get her those meds! At least she’d know we haven’t given up on her.

On top of the unease and anxiety brewing in the arena, the weather has also taken a turn for the worse. Strong winds are pushing dark clouds up against the mountains and stripping the trees of their cover. The only birdsong remaining is the cawing of crows as they circle over the fields.

Here in the Capitol the weather is beautiful as always. It’s jarring to step out of the headquarters into the bright sunlight after spending the morning starring at the gray skies on screen.

I spend the day at the Training Center, but I can’t get much sleep either. The dead girl and that sickening sound of her hitting the ground keep me awake. Not even Design Academy can keep me distracted for long. How am I supposed to care about Lucille’s boyfriend cheating, when I just watched a child die? My mind is constantly drawn back to the arena. Each death means Jitka and Hans are closer to home. But only one of them can win. I’ll have to choose eventually. Hynek seems to have made the choice already. Godwin doesn’t say it outright, but his support says enough.

Back when I was in the arena, the decision was easy. Of course it was going to be Bianca who went home. I didn’t even allow myself to think of any other possibility. I was going to die defending her. Everyone else was just a footnote in that story. But the Gamemakers had other plans. I killed for her, but it wasn’t enough. I never got around to thinking what being a victor might mean. To live on after killing two people; teenagers like me. The last tribute did me the favor of underestimating frostbite. I was out before I had to truly consider what I’d do to save my own life.

How far will Hans and Jitka go to save theirs?

There’s no point in trying to sleep so I go back to the Headquarters in the early evening. That means I get dinner with Godwin and Hynek. Were joined by Istvan and his assistant mentor, a mountain of a man called Runt. I don’t know if that’s a nickname, or if the parents of the military district really just name their kids that. Maybe they think bullying builds character. In Runt’s case that character is despicable. He laughs about the death of the girl from Ten. He calls the tributes from One spoiled peacocks. He’d never let his tributes be so reliant on others.

I ignore his arrogant commentary by focussing solely on my steak. Even when he calls Hans a useless pretty-boy, I just tighten my jaw and my grip on the knife. But then he tells Hynek that it sucks we got a crazy witch for a female tribute and I snap.

“Shut the fuck up.”

The entire table looks at me in varying degrees of disbelief. Runt still has a smile on his lips, but his eyes have hardened.
“What did you just say to me?”

“I said. Shut The Fuck Up,” I growl. “Just because you get perfectly trained champions volunteering for you, you don’t get the right to insult our tributes.”
The smile on Runt’s face has transformed into a vicious grin. A challenge burns behind his eyes, goading me, telling me to prove that I’m worth more than the dirt under his soles. My hands ball into fist on the table, the weight of the knife goads me, tells me to do something very stupid. .

This is it, I think, I’m about to get into a fight in the Headquarters and cement my image as an unstable widower forever. But fuck that. No one gets to talk about my tributes like that.

But then there’s a hand on my shoulder and Godwin’s voice. “I think we better skip dessert today.”

I hold Runts gaze, even as I turn my head in Godwin’s direction. When my eyes follow, he’s already standing. I slowly stand up as well. Only now do I notice that the people around us are staring. Oh, so watching kids be murdered is fine, but a fight in a restaurant, that’s too far.

I turn back to the table. Hynek empties the last of his liquor before rising as well.
Runt, the fucker, is looking smug. Istvan does nothing more than roll his eyes. I scoff and follow Godwin out of the restaurant.

 

Once the three of us are out in the hallway, Godwin turns to me. He looks disappointed most of all. “What are you doing, Henry?”

“Excuse me? Did you not hear how he talked about Jitka? Was I just supposed to let that slide?”

“I think he showed restraint,” Hynek unexpectedly backs me up. “I would’ve punched his teeth out.”

Godwin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hans’ life depends on the cooperation with the Careers. We can’t just pick fights with their mentors.”

“Come on Godwin, you know they’re both bastards.”

“Both?” I ask. I had the feeling Hynek isn’t too fond of Istvan, but I didn’t think he disliked him that much.

“Yes,” Godwin sighs, “Runt isn’t pleasant company and Istvan tends to act in his own interest, but—”

Hynek laughs. “He only gives a shit about his own District. Not that I don’t, but at least I’m honest about it.” Turning to me he says, “You should’ve heard how he talked about you, after you killed his precious tributes.”

“Enough, Hynek. You’re right. I don’t like them either, but let’s not kill each other here as well.”

“Alright, alright,” he says. “I’m going home. I’m tired of this place. I’ll be back tomorrow, or later.”

With that he leaves in the direction of the exit. Shame, I would’ve liked to hear what Istvan had to say about me.

 

Godwin and I go to the lounge and settle in our usual place. Godwin flags down a waiter to order an old-fashioned. I take a coffee. The lack of sleep is starting to become noticeable. And because I won’t let that arrogant dick ruin my evening, I order some cheesecake as well.

The sun has already set in the arena. As usual the Careers take up most of the screen time.

After a while Godwin goes to the counter where you put in sponsor gift requests. Luckily, I’m not required to come along. I can simply watch as the parachutes float down to bring the Careers their dinners.

They dig in quickly, and don’t waste time chatting. Hynek told me earlier that they all went on the hunt together today, since they don’t know what caused the death this morning. But apparently their personalities clashed and Mica’s attempts at being the leader were not well received. Trying to stay quiet and focused must also be harder when it’s five people instead of two or three.

Rather abruptly the camera cuts to an entirely different place. The scene remains the same though. The two tributes from Six are sitting by a campfire in a clearing surrounded by pines. They’re roasting something, a hare I think. Just tributes enjoying their dinner. Why are we suddenly shown this?

The girl is holding a steel tin with bread rolls in her hand, evidently a sponsor gifts. Maybe the sponsors and fans of District Six just want to see their tributes alive and happy.

The warm flicker of firelight and the hushed conversation create a calm, almost wholesome atmosphere. But something feels off. Maybe it’s just my paranoia, fueled by my own time in the arena.

The camera keeps its distance. We’re kept away from the moment, just at the edge of the clearing. It feels almost… voyeuristic to watch this conversation from the shadows. It’s odd, considering we’re usually privy to every minuscule facial expression a tribute makes. I can still hear the tributes’ voices. Aside from the crackling twigs in the fire and the distant storm, there no sound to obscure them. The forest is silent.

Not that it’s a particularly riveting conversation. They’re just talking about what they miss about their home. District Six is directly adjacent to ours, so I’m still curious to hear what life is like there. The half a day I spent there on the Victory Tour was hardly enough time to get a proper look.

The pleasant hum of conversation also fills the lounge. People are returned from dinner, sated by the food and wine, but not yet soused enough to be hysterical. Apart from the unfortunate death this morning, nothing too exciting happened today. That means the guests fall back on casual gossip, trivial small talk and plans for the week.

There’s a glint of light in the shadow on the other side of the clearing. The flickering firelight only illuminates it randomly, so I can’t be sure what it is. It’s small and circular. My only guess would be it’s a camera lens. Usually those are near impossible to see.

I lean forward and squint at the screen, trying to get a better look. Just then the image switches to a different angle, showing the pair from the back as they start cutting off pieces of meat. And then there’s another one. Another little reflection of light.

“You alright there?” Godwin asks.

Very slowly I shake my head. “I have this weird feeling...”

I can feel Godwin looking at me, but he only makes a humming sound in reply.

I’m about to point out the gleaming spots, when the howling begins.

The noise in the lounge comes to a sudden halt. Every screen in the room plays the scene, speakers all around us blare the haunting sound. A chorus of voices crying out in the darkness. The lights start to dim, drawing all eyes to the arena.

The tributes from Six have stumbled to their feet. With one hand they’re holding onto the other, with the other they’re clutching knives. But their short blades won’t do much against a pack of wolves. The girl seems to realize this, since she stows it in her belt and reaches for a burning branch instead.

As abruptly as it began, the howling stops.

Everything is silent. Only the sound of the fire and the wind remain.

Then the glowing dots return. This time I realize what they are. Eyes. Eyes all around the clearing, between the trees, just out of the reach of the firelight.

For a moment they stand still. The wolves and the tributes frozen in time.

Without a warning the wolves charge. The tributes lash out with their weapons. I think they get a hit in, one of the beasts makes a pained yelp. But more keep coming, circling around the tributes. The darkness seems to close in and the dark fur makes it impossible to keep count.

The girl holds out her torch to keep them at bay and the camera closes up on one of the creatures. I’ve only ever seen wolves in videos, but even I can see these are not normal.

Their snout is longer. The sharp rows of teeth are bared, their canines as long as screws. Their wild eyes glint with hunger. They’re muttations, created and enhanced by the Capitol.

The boy cries in pain. A wolf has bitten his leg. He manages to stab it and kick it off, but even in the sparse light the wound looks nasty. The pant legs is shredded and already gleaming with blood.

“Kaine!” The girl shouts. He swears and briefly squeezes her hand.

“On three we run,” he says though gritted teeth. “One. Two. Three!”

They both aim their weapons at the wolves in front of them, slashing and burning a path through. The wolves pounce after them, but the counterattack has caused chaos among them, as the entire pack tries to follow them at once. Injured and writhing the mutts crash into one another

The screen switches rapidly between perspectives to keep up with the tributes’ flight downhill. The flickering branch valiantly lights the scene.
Their attackers are hot on their heels. The sounds of growls and snapping come from all around the lounge.

The boy falls. The girl stumbles a few steps further before turning around. She freezes as the light falls on the boy on the ground. The wolves are already upon him, scratching and ripping at him with wild abandon.

“Run!” He croaks.

For a second the girl stands still. The thoughts flicker across her face. Horror, pain, fear, disbelief. She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

The boy groans weakly. “Please.”

She runs. Further and further downhill. The boy is left to the wolves and the darkness. They do not attempt to follow her. Their hunger is sated. One victim is enough for tonight.

The girl runs until she reaches the river, where finally she collapses on the ground. Once again the woods are eerily quiet. The river gurgles, the wind howls, but no other sound comes. The sounds of death are out of reach now.

A canon shot breaks through the silence. A moment later a single howl echoes over the arena. Then the hush of night returns like the blanket over the arena.

In the lounge, it’s like someone suddenly unmuted the volume. Exited chatter breaks out instantly.
I only notice now that my heart has been racing this entire time. Sweat has plastered my shirt to my back. Despite the rich dinner, my stomach feels like an empty pit. The steak and cheese cake are threatening to come up again.

Godwin leans over to me and murmurs something. The noise around us almost drown it out, I only comprehend the words a few seconds later.

“That was a punishment.”

My eyes widen as I look between Godwin and the screen. “What did he do that warrants that?” I whisper. My voice sounds breathless.

Godwin picks up his drink from the table, takes a sip and looks at our surroundings. Glass still held to his lips, he says, “Maybe it wasn’t something he’d done.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I stare at him, furrow my brows and shake my head slightly.

He takes a moment to reply. “What was your worst fear, when you were in the arena?”

The question puzzles me, but I answer without hesitation. “Bianca dying.”

“So if someone wanted to punish you, what would they have done?”

I look back at the screen. The girl is still on her knees, shaking and rocking back and forth. The camera pushes in on her face. She’s hyperventilating, crying and choking.

I don’t know who the boy was to her, but I’ve got a damn good understanding of how she feels right now.

“So this is about her?” I ask Godwin.

“I don’t know. And we’ll probably never know. It doesn’t even matter why.”

“I think it matters to her. And to his family.”

“And there you have it.”

I sigh. I’m still addled from by what we just witnessed and I’m not in the mood for games. “You’re talking in riddles, Godwin.”

“Henry, you’re a smart guy. Remember what I told you the night on the train?”

This is a test for you as well.
I nod, unsure of where this is going. Godwin looks at me expectantly. I guess I have to figure this out on my own.

A test…
A test by the Capitol of my abilities as a mentor? To prove myself worthy of the title of victor?

Was I not grateful enough? I was known to the viewers as a sweet boy in love and later a grieving victor. My lack of joy at the prospects of a life of fame and fortune could be explained by that.

I was angry at the Capitol. I still am. For taking my girl from me, for making me watch her die. For starving me and making me kill someone. Should I be grateful for that?

But what does Godwin mean? A tribute is killed and I’m being tested. It’s a punishment for his friend or family. Or his mentor?

Am I endangering Hans and Jitka by not playing my role? Will they be punished if I speak out of line?

The fight at dinner flashes through my mind. Godwin says Hans’ life depends on us. Our support, our connections. What about our behavior? If I don’t behave like a victor, like a mentor should, will they kill my tributes to send a message?

After a while Godwin pats me on the back and says, “Don’t rack your brain too much. You’re doing well.”

Then he leaves, and I spend the rest of the night thinking about it.

Notes:

I struggled a lot with this chapter. I had to go and touch grass to find the strength to finish it.

Hopefully I can continue on schedule this week. Next time we’ll get some more Hans and Jitka screentime and the plot shall thicken.

Chapter 9: Welcome Home

Notes:

I’ve returned! This chapter unexpectedly turned into the longest one so far. But it’s got some juicy bits, so I hope it’s worth the extra wait.

The chapter title song is Welcome Home (Sanatarium) by Metallica.

The night passes quietly. Two deaths are enough for one day. The Gamemakers and tributes seem to agree on that. I think everyone in the arena must have heard the wolves. It’s no wonder no one wanted to wander around looking for other tributes in the dark.

The sun rises and the tributes wake up with it. The girl from District Six won’t have gotten much sleep. She’s somewhat aimlessly walking around the forest now. I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Well, in a way I can. But I had the luxury of spending the days after my partner’s death in a hospital room. How can you keep fighting when you’ve witnessed that. Her mentors have send her food to keep her going, which is something at least.

I shouldn’t care so much. I keep having to remind myself that less tributes is a good thing for Hans and Jitka. If I want our District to win, if I want my tribute to survive, then I can’t go crying every time someone dies. Mentors like Istvan and Runt won’t be shedding any tears if my tributes are killed.

I don’t sleep well today either. Strange dreams of wolves and fire, ice and storms bleed into one another. Eyes watching in the darkness. Eating duck confit out of a metal tin. At least I get a few hours of sleep, even if I don’t feel all that rested.

I turn on the TV, in the hopes that Design Academy will keep my mind occupied. It doesn’t, it’s the usual plot of Lucille swearing to herself that she’ll definitely get the better grade than Flavia this time. She sure is obsessed with that lady. But the long montages of planning and pinning accompanied by upbeat ‘never give up on your dreams’ music is enough to make me drift off.

The boom of a canon pulls me out of my sleep like a sudden electric shock.
I bolt upright. My breaths are short, was pulse fast. It takes me a moment to orient myself. No snowy field or leafy clearing surrounds me, only a soft bed in a modern bedroom. Right. Deep breaths. I’m in the Training Center.

My eyes fall on the TV. The screen shows an idyllic spot in a forest. The treetops shake in the breeze, golden leaves flutter down like snow or confetti. Pale light speckles through to the ground, where a fallen tree lies, covered in moss and dried leaves. A bow and a quiver full of arrows are propped up against it.

My heart drops.

A girl lies next to the log. Prone, unmoving. Her hair covers her face; shoulder length and black, like some fused version of Bianca and Jitka. But it’s neither of them. It can’t be. No matter what my panicked brain or my palpitating heart think.

Deep breaths. I dig my nails into my palm, just to be sure I’m awake. It wouldn’t be the first time I heard the canon in my dreams.

No, I’m awake. Still in our apartment.

The episode of my show must have ended while I was asleep and this is the next program. And they’re showing the Games. Of course they would be, a tribute just died.

It’s not Jitka, I tell myself. The stripes on her sleeves are a reddish brown, not the electric blue of our District. And then there’s the bow.

This is the girl from District Seven, Zedar.

What on earth killed her?

There’s no sign of a struggle. Her weapon rests undisturbed, there’s no blood on the ground, no other tribute visible anywhere. She was doing well in terms of food, surely she didn’t keel over from hunger. Was she poisoned? Did she have a hidden sickness that, left unmedicated, killed her.

Maybe it’s because my mind still hasn’t fully booted up, but I’m very confused by this whole situation.

The claw of the hovercraft descends through the canopy. The turbines make the leaves dance in a whirlwind. Like the great prize of a claw machine, the prongs close around the girl and pull her up.

The cameras linger on this scene. It’s almost beautiful in its serenity. Nature returns to normalcy, uncaring for the death in its midst. The leaves keep falling. Birds begin their song again.

Moments later Hans, Mica and Mace break through the trees, weapons in hand and breathing quickly. It looks like they ran here as soon as they heard the canon. But what for? To catch the killer in the act and take out another tributes. What if it wasn’t another tribute but wolves that killed her? Even with the three of them, they probably wouldn’t have survived unscathed.

The minds of the Careers remains a mystery to me. I focus on their actions instead. The three guys quickly survey the area. While Hans and Mica walk around and look for signs of a fight, Mace kneels by a charred spot on the ground. I hadn’t even noticed it before, but it looks like the remnants of a campfire.

Next he focusses on a row of furrows in the earth. The claw must’ve left these. Mace comes to the same conclusion.

“Whoever it was, they’ve already been picked up.”

Hans picks up the bow and turns it in his hand.
“It was that girl from District Six… no Seven. She took this in the bloodbath.”

Mica looks at him with a frown, evidently not knowing which one that was.
“Black hair about this long?“ Hans gestures to his shoulder. “Face like a mouse?”

Mica shakes his head and continues his search. Mace hasn’t even looked up.

“Never mind,” Hans says to no one in particular. He raises the bow and draws back the string. Narrowing his eyes, he stares at a point in the distance, probably mentally calculating the trajectory of an arrow. Then he slowly relaxes the string and takes one of arrows from the quiver. He doesn’t shoot it, that would be a waste. He just inspects it.

Satisfied with the quality, he puts it back. Then he leans the bow back against the log and clips the quiver to his belt. A few leather straps and carabiners hold the quiver at an angle for easy drawing.

Mace breaks the silence. “This is odd. This was definitely someone’s camp, but there’s no sign of a fight. There’s a bit of blood over there, but it looks old.”

Hans steps over to the spot he’s pointing at and the camera follows. Indeed, there’s a darker patch of dirt and some of the leaves are sprinkled with blood. Hans kneels by it and tentatively picks through the leaves.

“Nothing here either,” Mica says from the other side of the camp.

The camera switches back to Hans, who’s picked up a small tuft of fur. He rubs it between his fingers. With a smirk he says, “Looks like she caught herself a rabbit.”

“Maybe someone snapped her neck. Or she choked on her food,” Mace theorizes. “Either way, it wasn’t the wolves.”

Mica idly swing his hammer by rolling his wrist. “If it was someone else they’re long gone.”

Mace lets his eyes wander over the ground once more. It seems no new clues reveal themselves. He shakes his head and stands up.
“Let’s go back to camp. The girls will want to hear about this.”

Hans looks between the two of them. A hint of a pout is visible on his face. Anger at being left out of the conversation, I reckon. Still, he gets up. With a frown he wipes the dirt off his knees, then grabs the bow and follows the other two into the woods.

 

The girls are likewise retuning to the Cornucopia. They’re coming from the fields, taking a path along the river. Their weapons are sheathed and they’re walking at a casual pace. Looks like there wasn’t any excitement for them.

It makes sense. This morning there weren’t any tributes on the plains. The attack last night will only have driven the remaining ones further into the woods.

Callisto is the first to speak, but it sounds like the middle of a conversation. “You can see it in his face. Rich prat that he is.”

It’s not hard to guess who that could be referring to. Lucia nods, but doesn’t say anything. Callisto continues, “I don’t know why Mica wanted him on the team. He’s not like us. Barely know how to hold a sword, and is way too soft to kill anyone. What did he expect joining up with us?”

Lucia shrugs. “He probably never thought he’d get drawn. You know how it is in the other Districts. It’s not often they send someone rich and important.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s not like he needs any more fame and fortune then. He could just do us the favor of croaking quickly,” Callisto says, undeterred by the other girl’s lack of agreement.

“He has his uses,” Lucia says. “Their district’s supposed to be the smart one. And it’s always good to have more eyes. Besides, once we’ve eliminated all other players, he won’t last long.”

I don’t get to hear if Callisto agrees with her. Suddenly the camera is on Jitka of all people. She’s inside some kind of cave. Rummaging around in a metal crate, lit only sparsely by sunlight coming from behind her. How did she get there? And why is this suddenly important?

Wait…

What the fuck?

That’s the cornucopia.

Those crates she’s looking through are the supplies the careers hauled in. Why in the world is Jitka searching them.

I get my answer when she pulls something out. A look of relief flits over her face and she lets out a sigh.

In her hand is a small plastic pill bottle.

Oh fuck. The Gamemakers must be cheering right now. This is what they always wanted. This is why they denied the token request.

The girls are coming closer. Jitka hears their voices, looks over her shoulder. They’re close, too close to run away. The opening of the horn may face the forest, but it’s still quite the distance to the tree line. And that’s where the guys are. Running away is not an option.

Jitka does the only thing she can in this situation; she hides. The stacked crates form a kind of wall that shadows the innermost part of the horn. It’s an uncomfortable position, crammed into the funnel in the dark, but it’s the best the cornucopia has to offer.

Lucia and Callisto step under the rim of the horn. They walk up to their respective spots and lay down their weapons.

I stand up from the bed. I wait another minute, just to be absolutely sure they haven’t seen Jitka, then I grab my suit jacket and make for the elevator.

The moment the car stops in front of the Headquarters I jump out of the car, slam the door closed and run into the building, up the stairs and into the lounge. In my mad dash I nearly crash into a waiter, but I manage to dodge at the last second. Godwin and Hynek are sitting in our usual spot. Ludo and Diana are sitting with them, wrapped in their own conversation. Godwin is hunched over, elbows on his knees and knuckles pressed against his lips. Hynek glowers at the screen like it personally offended him.

I sit down next to them. “How the fuck did we get here?”

Godwin sighs deeply. “When did you start watching?”

“The canon woke me up.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Our Jitka saw Hans and the others in the woods. They didn’t see her, thank goodness, but she must’ve figured the cornucopia might be empty.” He shakes his head. “The poor fool.”

“The damn idiot,” Hynek scoffs. “She putting both of their heads on the line here.”

I look at the screen. Callisto and Lucia are sitting on their sleeping mats and looking out at the field. Jitka is hidden from sight. They’re talking about weapons, unaware of the tribute just behind them.

“At the start I used knives too,” Lucia says. “Iuno Langston was my idol, I signed up the year she won.”

Iuno was the victor when I was twelve. She could hit anything with her throwing knives, I don’t think she ever missed. No wonder little girls from Two looked up to her.

Callisto looks up, impressed. “She trained you?”

Lucia nods. “But everyone wanted knives. So I decided to switch to the axe instead. I thought it’d make me stand out, you know.”

“It worked out for you,” the other girl says. “They chose you as tribute after all.”

It goes on like this. Lucia talks about the axes she has at home, surprisingly talkative all of the sudden. Callisto reluctantly lets her take a look at her knives. Honestly, I can barely listen to them. My heart is beating so loudly it must be audible through the entire lounge.

A few agonizing minutes later the boys arrive. They recount how they found the camp in the woods. Hans shows off his new bow. It’s all frighteningly normal.

 

An hour or so passes like this. The sun is low on the horizon of the arena. Lucia and Mace leave the cornucopia for a while to ‘check the perimeter’. A chance for them to privately talk about how they want to proceed. If the other Careers find this suspicious they don’t say anything. Well, Hans jokes that they’re making out. But nothing other than that.

All the while the cameras stay firmly on the cornucopia. I think the other tributes could be fighting for their lives or plotting to overthrow the government and we wouldn’t get a glimpse of it.
The Gamemakers are waiting for something to happen. This night won’t pass without bloodshed. The only question is whose it will be. If the Careers spot Jitka it will be over quickly. Armed with only her knife she might get a slash in before they kill her. Her best option is to wait until they’re asleep, or until they leave in the morning. But then of course the Gamemakers or a strategically timed sponsor gift could wake them up while she tries to sneak away.

But I can’t just sit here waiting for Jitka to get killed. I’m her mentor. Time to start acting like it.

 

I find Istvan at the other end of the lounge. Sitting amongst Sponsors, charming them with an easy smile and bottomless flattery. A wine glass rest casually in his hand. Runt is nowhere to be seen. That might make this a little easier.

I waste no time on polite introductions. “Is Runt not with with you?” I ask.

Istvan looks up and lets his eyes wander up and down my body. “Good evening to you too. No, he’s not here. You’ll find him at the Training Center, if you really wanted to see him. Though I can’t imagine what for…”

I take a breath. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I lost my temper.”

Istvan blinks in surprise, but the complacent smile returns to his face quickly.
“That’s good to hear. I’ll tell Runt for you. But I assume that’s not the only reason you sought me out.

“Yes. I wanted to offer a truce, of sorts.”

“A truce?”

“We act normal. We send the tributes their dinner. Nothing else. No interfering.”

Istvan lets out a short laugh. He swirls his glass and watches the current of the wine for a moment. “Why in the world would we do that? Your tribute chose to enter our territory.”

“You’d be wasting a lot of sponsor money trying to communicate with them. Listen, I’m not saying just let Jitka walk free. I’m just suggesting we wait and see what happens. It’s five against one. Any one of them could notice Jitka. I’m gambling more than you here.”

“More like four against two,” Istvan says. Despite the doubt in his voice his face tells me he’s at least considering it. I’ve got a foot in the door.

“Hans chose your tributes as allies. I wanted him to team up with Jitka, but he wouldn’t hear it. You think he’s gonna stand between a weakened girl he barely knows and four trained fighters? He values his life more than anything.”

Istvan takes a long sip of his drink. All the while his gaze doesn’t leave my face. He seems to be watching every micro expression it goes through. Every grinding of the jaw, each twitch of the lips, the rate at which I’m blinking. Can he smell my desperation from over there? I can certainly smell the acidity of his wine.

Finally he puts down his now empty glass on the table. And he smiles that awful smile of his.

“We have a deal.”

I force myself to smile as well. Only when I’m out of sight and earshot I can exhale and let my shoulders drop.

I think I’m starting to understand how the mentor game is played. Forgive me Jitka, for wagering your life.

District One’s mentors are persuaded even more easily. I just have to say that obviously Mica and Callisto will kill Jitka as soon as they see her and they agree to sit back and enjoy the show.

The others are relieved to hear the news. Dry Devil may not trust Istvan, truth be told neither do I, but he agrees to follow my plan.

We send Hans his dinner as usual. I feel a twinge of guilt, seeing Jitka sit in the dark, no doubt hungry, while her district partner gets his meal handed to him. I promise myself that if Jitka gets away, I’ll start sending her food too. No matter what Dry Devil thinks.

The three of us eat at the restaurant. The food tastes a little bland, but I’m not hungry anyway. My focus lies on the TV screens, which I’m suddenly very grateful for.

The sun sets and the gray sky bleeds slowly into black, as if someone was lowering the value shade by shade. The Careers gather around a fire. They snack on the last of their dinner and tell stories from their training days. A ray of light occasionally gives us a glimpse of Jitka, who’s still sitting behind the crates. The pill bottle is secured in her backpack. Now she waits for an opening.

Once the last light disappears, the anthem plays and the dead of the day are revealed. First there’s the boy from District Six. He must’ve died after the anthem yesterday, I hadn’t thought of that. Then there’s Zedar from Seven.

“That’s the one I meant,” Hans says. Mica gives a hum of acknowledgement.

The music stops and the projected image of the tributes dissolves.

“Two down, eleven left,” Lucia says. She starts counting down on her fingers. “There’s the five of us. Your girl—“

“Jitka,” Hans interjects.

“—Orca from Four. Someone from Five?”

“The boy,” Mace supplies. “You know, the jokester.”

Lucia continues. “The boy from Five. The boy from Six is dead, but the girl is still alive. Seven is out now. What about Eight?”

“Both dead,” Mica says. Both are died by his hand.

“From Nine… also the boy?”

Callisto nods. “The girl from Ten is the last. The others are out.”

“That makes Eleven. We saw no one in the fields. So everyone must be somewhere in the woods.”

Mica yawns. “That’s a problem for tomorrow, I’m gonna go to sleep.”

The careers settle on their bed mats. They’re keeping the jackets on, because the nights in the arena can get really cold. Even with the premium insulating blankets they have. For a while they still quietly talk to one another. Meaningless bits of chatter, complaints about the hard ground, that sort of thing. Then one after the other they fall silent.

Jitka bides her time. Once in a while a Career turns over or readjusts their pillow. I know it’s hard to sleep on the ground, but they’ve had four nights of practice. Can they hurry up and fall asleep?!

By now it’s well after midnight. I’m starting to doze off myself.

“If she doesn’t leave by the end of the hour, I’m going to,” Hynek grumbles.

Godwin silently drinks his coffee with a big shot of whiskey.

When it finally it seems like everyone is fully asleep, Jitka takes a peek over the boxes and raises herself into a crouch. The cameras have some kind of night vision mode that washes her in grays.

My heart picks up speed. For the first time since I saw her this afternoon, I’m feeling something like hope again.

Just as she dares to creep around the crates, someone in the camp stirs. Callisto props herself up on her elbow and looks around. The fire has burned down low, but it still casts a faint light on the tributes around it.

Slowly, very slowly and carefully she moves into a sitting position. Then she reaches for her shoes.

I let out a breath. She’s probably just going to relief herself behind the cornucopia. Nothing to worry about. Jitka will have to wait a while longer, but that’s okay.

…

She sure is taking her time with those shoes. It’s considerate of her to not make any noise. But this is the Hunger Games; consideration doesn’t get you far.

Something feels off.

Callisto ties off her boots and stands up. But instead of sneaking away she picks up her daggers. Going to the toilet armed? Unlikely.

Did she see Jitka? But then why would she not call for the others?

She goes over to Mica and kneels at his side. Makes sense that she’d wake her partner first.

But she doesn’t wake him up. She looks at him for a heartbeat. Then she puts her hand on his mouth and cuts his throat.

The lounge is deathly silent in an instant. I can’t believe what I‘m seeing. Mica’s eyes shoot open, panic flashes over his face. His hand weakly claws at Callisto’s. He chokes out a rattling cough, but the sound barely escapes past her fingers.

Why?! Why Mica, why her own partner!

He stops moving, but the canon doesn’t sound. Why doesn’t the canon go off?

“Where’s the canon?”

Godwin shakes his head. “The Gamemakers want to see where this is going.“

The bastards. Of course they would drag out the drama as long as possible. Why aren’t the mentors intervening? Maybe District One doesn’t want to sell out their remaining tribute, even if she just killed her partner. But why doesn’t Istvan do anything?!

“We have to do something. Can’t we send a sponsor to wake them up?“

“It wouldn’t make it in time,” Hynek replies.

Callisto gets up and crosses the camp in long, sure strides. She stops at Hans’ side.

It hits me with the force of a freight train. I’ve been so focussed on Jitka’s survival that I completely ignored the danger Hans has been in. Surrounded by trained killers, an outsider in their little gang.

I let him go down this path. I tried to warn him, but I let it go. I have to sit here with that knowledge and watch my first tribute be killed.

I want to shout a warning, but the words are stuck in my throat. I have no power here.

“Hans!” Jitka’s voice cuts through the silence, just as Callisto lowers her knife to his throat.

The canon booms a second later.

Three tributes are startled awake. The clouds have parted and the full moon bathes the scene in sudden light. Mace and Lucia reach for their weapons before they’re even upright. Even for them the scene before them is clear. Mica lies unresponsive, Callisto crouches over Hans with a blade to his neck.

 

For a brief moment the camera lingers on Jitka’s face. Her expression is a mix of disbelief and panic. Then she takes off running, dashing past the startled Careers in the direction of the woods.

“What the—“ Mace says. Callisto uses the distraction to lunge at him and strikes. Mace blocks it at the last second. The force of the attack makes him stagger backward and he stumbles over a pillow. But Lucia is there to cover him. With a swing of her axe she forces Callisto to retreat a step. She stays on the offensive, drives the other girl back. Callisto dodges and parries the blows, steel meets steel with a resounding clang. But her weapons aren’t made for this type of combat.

While they’re fighting, Hans has collected himself. His eyes follows Jitka, a rapidly shrinking spot in the moonlit plain ahead. With a deep breath he grabs his bow and quiver and takes off after her.

Mace is back on his feet and rejoins the fight. Callisto may dual wield her long knives, but she’s up against a team that has trained together for years. They drive her back with strike after strike of axe and morning star.

Callisto deflects one of Lucia’s strikes and stabs at her now unprotected flank. Lucia hisses in pain and takes a step back. Callisto slashes at Mace, but he ducks under it. In the same movement he swings his morning star at the back of her knee. The hit connects and her knee buckles. Callisto screams in pain and rage, but she still raises her head to keep her eyes on her opponent.

Lucia, recovered from her injury, brings down her axe. Callisto raises a knife to block it, but it’s futile. The head buries itself right at the junction of neck and shoulder.

For one long second the girls stare at each other. Then Lucia puts a foot on the shoulder for leverage and yanks out her weapon. Callisto sinks to the ground. The canon goes off a second later.

The sound of heavy breathing and fire are all that remains. With lowered weapons the two remaining tributes look over the camp. Mica and Callisto lay a few feet apart from each other. Both their throats are stained red.

“What a fucking night…” Mace says eventually.

Lucia only lets out a groan in reply. She’s clutching her right side, where Callisto cut her. Mace gives her a concerned look, then he moves into the cornucopia.

“Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

 

We don’t see how they dress her wound. At last the editors give us an update on Hans.

He’s somewhere deep in the forest, propping himself up against a tree with one hand. The quiver is slung over his back and he still clutches his bow in the other hand. He’s… doing about as well as expected. Currently throwing up the last of his dinner, that is. His entire body shakes from exertion and adrenaline. It’s a sad sight; the golden boy so weakened and alone. Another wave of coughs turn into dry heaving.

He swears and pulls himself up as best he can. Then he staggers to a tree a few feet away. With a labored groan he sinks to the ground and rests his back against the trunk.
“Hey, Henry?”

I stare at the screen. Suddenly I feel as though I’m back in his room in the Training Center. Sitting at his side, barely a hand of space between us. He’s still looking to me as his mentor. I nearly let him die and he still reaches out…

“Or Godwin, whoever’s listening.” He takes another breath and lets his head fall back. “ I could really use a pair of shoes.”

Oh.

In the wide shot I can see that he’s indeed not wearing any. He ran away from the cornucopia in his socks.

I laugh. The sheer relief after the stress of the night makes the whole thing feel absurd. I’m basically giggling the whole way to the sponsor counter. Hynek helps me order the shoes. We send Hans some warm hiking boots and a new pair of socks on top. He seems to like them.

Following the scene with Hans, we get to see Jitka. She’s curled up between the spindly roots of a fallen tree. Bushes cover her from the other side. She should be safe for now. And she really deserves some sleep after the past few hours. We’ll watch over her until she wakes.

For the next few hours everything remains quiet. We get some shots of the other tributes’ reaction to the canon shot. The fact that it’s a replay is helpfully indicated by a block of text in the corner of the screen. The first boom drags most of them out of their dreams, but they’re not too concerned by it. They’re all far away from the cornucopia and the distant boom promises no threat to them. The second one, which follows about a minute later, does cause some unease. I don’t know what they think did them in; tributes or mutts, but I’d be concerned too if two tributes died in the middle of the night. They’ll be shocked tonight when they see it was two Careers. Only the girl from Six seems apathetic. She probably hasn’t emotionally recovered from the wolf attack.

Godwin and Hynek stay with me until sunrise. Godwin takes a nap, which is pretty impressive given the noise level in the lounge. People are basically rioting. Callisto’s betrayal, Jitka’s triumph, the breaking of the Career pack; no one could’ve predicted that. A crowd has formed before the counters where you can place bets. People are pushing to be the first to bet on the new favorites. The odds on the tributes’ leaderboard are going crazy. Both of our tributes have massively risen in the ranks.

Hynek and I rely on the power of energy drinks to stay awake. The Capitol stuff has a lot more kick than the ones back home, but I can still feel my power levels sinking. Just standing up to go to the bathroom has my vision swimming.

But the wait pays off because of what happens at dawn. The sun rises brightly over a clear sky. Yesterday’s clouds are forgotten as the golden light brushes over the mountain sides.

Hans and Jitka have both started moving again. Mace and Lucia still pose a threat, especially because our tributes are still the closest to the cornucopia.
However, as luck would have it, they don’t run into those two. They run into each other.

I should’ve seen it coming, the way the cameras kept switching between the two of them. One moment we’re following Jitka walking over leaf covered ground. Then the crunching sound of footsteps are interrupted by the snapping of a branch.

Hans looks up, eyes focussed ahead. We see a dark figure through the trees, as if watching through his eyes. He pulls an arrow from the quiver and loosely nocks it. Almost silently he creeps towards it. Am I imagining it, or are his boots quieter than before?

As he moves closer the blue stripes on the person’s jacket become visible. Hans has to know who this is. I can see his grip tighten, the way he bites his lip. It looks like he’s fighting inside his head.

Come on, Hans. We’ve already had one tribute kill their partner today.
Don’t disappoint me now.

He clears his throat. Jitka instantly whips around, drawing her knife process.

They stare at each other. Only about five steps lie between them. Hans has the advantage with his bow, but Jitka and her knife could easily close the distance. But neither of them move. They’re so still I wonder if the screen has frozen.

Hans very slowly removes the arrow from the string and raises both arms in surrender.

He asks, “What were you doing in the cornucopia?”

Jitka eyes him warily. She still hold up her knife, but her grip relaxes.

“There was something I needed,” she replies.

Hans opens his mouth, decides against asking and closes it again. He clears his throat, inhales and says, “Whatever got you there, you probably just saved my life. And since my alliance just fell through, what do you say about working together?”

Jitka stares at him like he’s speaking in tongues. She blinks a few times as the offer sinks in. “You want to team up? With me?”

“Why not? It’s what our mentors would recommend. I’ve learned my lesson trusting the other Districts.”

After another pause Jitka nods. She puts her knife into the sheath at her belt and holds out her hand.

We watch them shake hands to seal their alliance. For the moment everything’s okay.

“That went a lot better than expected,” Godwin says. “Last night I was afraid I’d have to start on the obituaries.”

My laugh turns into a yawn. It looks like the sugar bomb energy drink is wearing off already.

Godwin gives me a smile and squeezes my shoulder.
“Get some sleep. I have the feeling you’ll need it.“

I’m too tired to object.

Notes:

Suzanne Collins said the idea for the Hunger Games came from switching between TV channels that showed game shows and war footage. Scrolling through instagram these days, I get what she means. One post is a fun diy tutorial and in the next people are starving. I try to channel that feeling of hopelessness into Henry’s narration.

At least there’s KCD content to keep the darkness at bay. I hope this story has that effect on you.
Leave a comment if you like! I’ll see you next week :)

Chapter 10: Kashmir

Notes:

Guess who’s back… back again…

The start of Uni and the effort of having a social life have drained me of my energy, but I did finally finish this chapter. I keep thinking ‘this will be a nice and short filler chapter’ and then it ends up being 5k words…

The chapter title is Kashmir by Led Zeppelin

“What a night… what a night. Betrayal within District One. Two audience favorites gone in one night. An alliance splintered, a new one forged.”

The dramatic events of the night call for a special episode of Caesar Flickerman’s commentary. He’s still got the ghostly hair and eyebrows, but his makeup is reduced compared to the interviews. He leans towards the camera, the very air around him seems to spark with anticipation.

“My friends, I think I speak for all of us when I say, no one saw this coming. But to shed a little light into the minds of the hottest new team, I’m here with a very special guest: Our tragic hero, the victor of the sixty-sixth Hunger Games, Henry Skalice.”

I smile at Caesar, trying to ignore the camera pointed at my face. “Thank you for having me.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you on the show! I remember, only a year ago, you were in this seat talking about your own experience in the Games. Feels like yesterday.”

Once again our apartment serves as the backdrop for an interview. I was woken up at noon by the sounds of the camera team setting up in the living area and Brabant and his trio of assistants at my door. Brabant nearly fainted at the sight of my dark under eyes. So after a quick shower, I was subjected to multiple face masks and several layers of makeup until my face was as smooth as glass.

Brabant is keeping up my sad romantic image. He’s dressed me in a flowing dark blue silk shirt. My hair is swept back and falls in waves down to my nape. I’m always astonished how they manage to reconcile the image of the down to earth working class guy with that of the grieving lover. At least the shirt is nice.

“Yeah, it doesn’t feel real,” I say for lack of a meaningful answer. I remember that interview a lot less fondly than Caesar. They had to put in an ad break because I was crying too hard to speak. Not a great moment for me.

“Now, it’s only your first year as mentor, but you’re already highly successful. Both of your tributes are in the top ten. That’s not something that happens everyday.”

Not to a district like ours, no. Nodding, I say, “I’m lucky to have tributes like them.”

“What did you as their mentor think about Jitka and Hans teaming up?”

“I was relived. I mean, when Callisto killed Mica, I was… I was scared. For both of them. I spend the whole evening worrying about the others finding Jitka that I didn’t even think about what that might mean for Hans. When Callisto went up to him, I think my heart left my body.”

“I was gripping the edge of my seat,” Caesar interjects. I nod in agreement. “And when they teamed up… I don’t wanna say ‘I knew it’, but I was hoping for it.”

Caesar nods enthusiastically. “So when you sent them both that cake, you weren’t sending them some kind of secret message?”

“No,” I chuckle. “Well, not really. I mostly wanted to let them know we were supporting them. Sure, we got Hans his food, but all the Careers got that. I didn’t want him thinking we were only doing it out of obligation. And Jitka hadn’t gotten any gifts yet! So the main thing was showing them Godwin and I were watching over them.”

“You say ‘main’. What other motivation did you have?”

I hesitate for a moment. Juicy personal stories can go a long way in making tributes look desirable. But the Capitol has already dragged so much of my personal life into the spotlight. Not just mine, but the tributes as well.

Fuck it. Anything for the sponsors. I hope you’re watching.

“There was this moment, the night before the Games,” I begin. “I went to say goodbye to Hans and we ended up talking about last year. He said that moment where me and Bianca get eat cake together was his his favorite. Well, that night I also gave him some advice. I told him not to trust the Careers too much. Maybe the cake reminded him of that. Maybe it made him reconsider.”

“Interesting,” Caesar says. “Incredible how much something as simple as a slice of cake can mean.”

I nod in agreement, hoping that he won’t dig deeper into the story. Thankfully, he continues right on track.

“Now that the two of them are working together, how do you see their odds?”

“Well, Caesar, I’m no oddsmaker. I was never good at probabilities.” I put a hand on my chest and cast my eyes down in faux embarrassment. “I’m the shame of the district.”

Caesar laughs. “Come on, you’re a victor!”

“But what I can say,” I continue after a pause, “is that they’re a damn clever. They know how to play the game. ”

“What would you say to potential Sponsors; why do Hans or Jitka deserve to win?“

“It’s not about deserving it,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “I mean, who really deserves to win the Hunger Games? The one who kills the most others? The one who survives the longest? I only won because everyone else died before me, did they deserve victory less than me?“

“Interesting point. Then what would you say to sponsors if you want to convince them?“

“I’m not sure. I might point out that there’ll be a return on their investment if they support their favorites. But I hardly need to tell that to a seasoned sponsor.“

Caesar laughs. “Wouldn’t want to accuse them of being self-interested.“

I smile and try to think of a less pragmatic answer. “I don’t know what I’d say. Really, I’m the one acting in my own interest.“

“How so?”

“The real reason I want Hans or Jitka to win, is that I like them the most. We’ve become something like friends in the short time we knew each other. I think they’re interesting people. They’re smart, funny, kind…”

“Do you see a bit of yourself and Bianca in them?” Caesar asks.

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. The relaxed atmosphere of the interview freezes over. It’s like she’s here, sitting there on the couch next to Caesar, in the spot she favored in the evenings after training. Smiling at me, even now. Tears sting in the corners of my eyes. I glance over to Godwin, who’s standing behind the camera with Hynek. He gives me a grim smile and a nod.

“I do, yeah.” My voice is suddenly lower and sounds almost brittle. “Honestly I see her in everything. Jitka is so self-sufficient and smart. And Hans is charming and funny. During the training days, I thought Bianca would’ve gotten along so well with them.”

In reality Hans and Jitka couldn’t be further from Bianca and I. We obviously come from completely different backgrounds, and our personalities have little overlap. If anything, I’m more like Jitka, resourceful and a little too brash for our own good. Besides, I’ve changed a lot from the boy the viewers saw in the arena. My hope is that I can appeal to our supporters from last year. Sure, I’ll draw a connection between mixology and chemistry if it gets Jitka sponsors. We haven’t had any problems getting them for Hans.

But I do think she would’ve liked them. She was so sweet and forgiving. She listened to me talk about computers for hours, surely she’d be interested in Jitka’s hobbies. She always said baking was a science too. As for Hans… well she liked me for all my dreams of a life of grandeur. Surely she’d have found something in him too. My sweet Bianca.

I wipe at my eyes and clear my throat. “Sorry, I got swept up in memories. This is about Hans and Jitka! What I was saying is I think they’d be a great addition to our victors.”

“I think we can all see how much you care for them.” Caesar leans towards me with a sympathetic look. “It’s heartwarming to see a mentor be so invested in his tributes. I’m sure you’ve got many folks rooting for District Three.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for your insight, Henry. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.“

With that he leans back and turns towards the camera. He flashes his signature smile. “We’re certainly in for an exiting finale. Stay tuned for more updates and interviews. And as always, thank you for watching.”

He smiles at the camera until a woman behind it says, “And we’re off.”

The moment the cameras stop rolling, the team starts packing up. A hum of chatter fills the room. Caesar slaps his thighs with both hands and gets up. He leans over the coffee table between us and offers his hand.

“It’s always a pleasure to speak with you.” He’s still using the same tone he had during the show. Maybe slightly more relaxed. I wonder, is he still acting or is the face he presents to the audience real?

I don’t stand up, but I do shake his hand. “Likewise.”

The interviews are always hard, but that’s not really his fault. He just asks the stuff the audience wants to know.

After a final squeeze of the hand Caesar walks over to the production manager, or whatever their job description is. I’m left alone on the couch.

I prop up my elbows on my knees, bury my face in my hands and let out a sigh. Godwin always says it helps to talk about things. But to me, it feels like every time I think I’m starting to heal, something rips off the scab and the wound start bleeding again.

The sofa cushion dips next to me. A hand is placed on my shoulder.

The presence reminds me that I’m not alone in this room. I try to take slower breaths and look up. As I’d expected, it’s Godwin that sits next to me. The TV crew isn’t paying my rough state any mind. They’re busy packing up cameras and microphones. Hynek is watching them from where he’s leaning against the wall. He looks on in boredom and doesn’t offer any help.

A series of clicks sound as equipment cases are shut. The elevator opens up and the team gets in. Just like that they’re gone and the room returns to its usual minimalistic emptiness. It’s like waking up from a colorful dream to a gray dawn.

“That went well,” Godwin says. “Could’ve left out the part about the unfairness of the Games. Ah well, they’ll probably edit it out.”

I look at him with my brows furrowed in concern and my eyes— fuck, my eyes are still watering. I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was so overwhelmed by the pressure of making Jitka and Hans appealing, not to mention the ghost of Bianca floating around, that I totally forgot that any rebellious statements on my end could endanger them too.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to sound… ungrateful.”

Godwin gently shakes his head and gives my shoulder another pat. “Don’t worry, most people will think you’re humble, or feeling survivors guilt.”

I let out an amused huff. So my grieving lover image saves the day. For the moment I set my anxiety aside and ask, “How are our tributes doing?”

Dry Devil yawns and doesn’t even bother covering his mouth. “They decided to go hunting when we left the Headquarters. Nothing interesting’s happened since then.”

“I can take the rest of your shift,” I offer. I’m tired as fuck. It feel like I’ve been operating under a trance ever since Brabant dragged me out of bed. But I can’t sleep now. I know who awaits me in my dreams.

“Would you?” Godwin says, “That’s very kind, Henry.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “You’d do the some for me. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. Let’s hope the tributes let me sleep for once.”

I stretch my limbs, get into the elevator, press the button for a taxi and head down.
It’s a small mercy that the Training center has a parking garage. That way the car that takes me to the Headquarters is nice and cool. The number on the dashboard tells me it’s a cozy near-boiling degrees outside.

As the car waits at an intersection a billboard catches my eye. Not because it features a pretty woman in a bikini, although I won’t deny that it helps. She’s a victor, of course, where else should I know her from. It strikes me as a bit ironic that she’s in a swimwear ad of all things. Her arena was a desert, with an oasis surrounding the cornucopia. She drowned several other tributes in a lake. Maybe the irony is the point.

The light turns green and I put the ad from my mind. Two minutes later I step into the lobby.

It’s quite full. The exiting turn of events will have inspired a lot of people to brave the hot weather to come here. There’s a long line at the betting counters, people swirling their drinks and tapping their heels in anticipation.

Our usual seating nook is occupied by a group of strangers. The correct approach would probably be to introduce myself and make myself useful as a mentor. But I’m tired and depressed and I have absolutely no energy for talking to people wearing huge, fanned out collars.

I decide to walk down the room in search of a familiar face. But before I find anyone, someone calls my name.

I turn around and am faced with another model of a victor: Finnick Odair, draped over a couch, one foot resting on his knee and arms slung over the back and arm rest. He's surrounded by a flock of colorful Capitolites. The woman sitting next to him, or rather nestled into his side, is golden from head to toe, including her shimmering skin.

I step up to the edge of the couch. “Yes?”

Finnick leans forward and looks up at me. The neckline of his silk shirt is so low I can see down to his abs. “Would you take a quick walk with me?”

I blink. He wants to spend time with me? We’ve barely spoken two words in our time at the Capitol. On top of that he’s still got a tribute in the running. But it’s not like I have much else to do. If anything happens to my tributes, the screens all around will let me know. “Sure.”

Finnick smiles. He says something to the lady at his side. Whatever it is, it’s drowned out by the roaring laughter breaking out in the seats next to us. The woman giggles and strokes his chin with her long-nailed fingers. I have the sudden urge to leave.

A moment later, Finnick rises to his feet. He starts walking and I follow. With the lounge being so crowded, you’d think we’d have to push our way through. But the crowd parts for us. Or at least for Finnick. He turns heads where ever he goes.

We reach the back part of the hall where the sponsor gift counters are. But Finnick doesn’t place an order, he simply picks up a glass from a passing server and leans against a wall.

I stop next to him, keeping my hands in my pockets to look nonchalant. Finnick takes his sweet time savoring a sip of his drink. He cocks his head slightly and looks me over. Finally he says, “I saw your interview.”

Now that I get a close look at his face, it strikes me how young he truly is. His makeup ages him slightly, but there’s still a boyishness to his features. I can’t believe he really won the Games at fourteen. How does that not completely fuck a person up?

I realize I’ve been staring and still owe him an answer.

“I hadn’t expected it to be out yet.” It must’ve aired with very little delay then. No one works faster than CapitolTV editors.

“It ended just before you showed up,” Finnick explains. “Shame you couldn’t see it. Folks went wild.”

I awkwardly scratch the back of my neck. “Caesar is good at his job. He asks the right questions.”

“He’s been at this for twenty years. But the charm is all yours,” he says with a smirk. “If I didn’t have my own tribute, I’d bet on yours.”

I smile. “That’s good. I was worried any lack of enthusiasm would reflect poorly on my tributes.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. You’re all everyone’s talking about.” He gestures vaguely at the people around us. True enough, plenty of them are looking at us.

“Sorry to steal your spotlight,” I say dryly. Finnick always looks so confident being surrounded by people. Must be a consequence of becoming a public figure while basically being a child. He’s like Hans in that way.

“I’ve plenty of spotlight. I don’t know how many interviews I’ve had to do.”

“It came as quite the shock to me. I woke up and was told: ‘get ready, you have an interview in an hour’”

“Your life belongs to the public now. They expect us to be at their constant beck and call.”

“And for free, too,” I reply sarcastically. “Since they already pay for our livelihood.”

Finnick grins. “You just have to know how to make a profit. Name your price and you’ll have it. You’re the newest victor, people are obsessed with you. They’d pay for the pleasure of your company”

The smile freezes on my face. “I’m not interested in people who would buy my time.”

Finnick continues to smile, but his eyes don’t quite go along with it. “There’s some people you can’t refuse.”

Is he threatening me? His tone suggests otherwise…

“But maybe that won’t be a problem for you. Since you lost your girlfriend.” He shrugs. “Though I heard someone say they thought you’d have moved on by now.”

Irritation surges up in my chest. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m just offering some advice from one young victor to the next.” His smile stays firmly in place. It’s starting to feel patronizing.

“Can’t you be a bit less cryptic about it?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

I shake my head. Why must victors always be so tightlipped about everything. First Godwin’s hidden messages and now this. The Capitolites have not filter whatsoever, but at least they tell you what they want.
I let out a small sigh. Maybe I don’t have it in me to be a real victor. I have no patience for subtext.

Besides, what exactly is his advice here? I should enjoy the luxury and attention while I’m still a novelty? It’s weird to get sagely advice from someone younger than me. He can’t be older than sixteen. That’s Jitka’s age. I felt strange enough giving advice to her.

I turn to Finnick, but his attention has been captured by the screen on the opposite wall. No wonder; it shows his tribute Orca, crouching in the forest, spear in hand. Usually he sticks close to the river, but I don’t see it anywhere. Maybe he’s tired of eating fish for every meal.

I have half a mind to leave and continue my search for familiar company. Finnick seems finished with his advice, focussed on his tribute as he is. Whatever, I’ll find someone who will speak plaintext to me.

There’s an unexpected cut that keeps me watching. The girl from District Six— a glance at the nearby ranking screen tells me her name is Rion— is fidgeting with some kind of knot wrapped around a furry leg. A dead rabbit hangs in a wire trap. I vaguely recall Zedar setting these up around the forest. Looks like someone else is reaping the rewards. Good for her.

Cut back to Orca, who seems to be listening intently. The camera zooms in on his face, his sharp features are pulled tight in concentration. He crouches in the shade of a tree, still as a stone. The only signs of movement comes from the wind tussling his black hair.

Back to Rion. She swears under her breath. A close up shows she scratched herself on the raw end of the wire.

I’m having a déjà vu. They’re doing the exact same thing as this morning, when Hans and Jitka were nearing each other. If my instinct is right that means the two of them are in close proximity.

What are the odds of another alliance forming today? I wasn’t kidding in the interview, I’m bad at calculating. But based on the number of alliances that have been between Districts in the past, they’re probably extremely low. Something in the way Orca grips his weapon tells me he’s not here to make friends.

With a sigh I let myself fall back against the wall. I’m really not in the mood to watch another person die today. Can’t the Gamemakers chase them apart or something?

Finnick and I watch the events unfold in silence. The smile I thought was etched into his face has been replaced by cold focus.

About a minute or so later there’s a shot of Rion from the front. The rabbits still dangles in front of her. As she takes it out of the wire, the focus shifts, the blurry background sharpens and Orca comes into view.

He pauses for one moment, as if waiting for the cameras to capture a close up of his face. His lower lip twitches, he swallows.

Killing someone in the heat of a fight is one thing. But killing someone who has their back to you? Is Orca cold blooded enough for that?

My heart pounds as if I was the one standing in his place. To kill is to survive. I know that all too well. I want to close my eyes and hold my ears, to block out the death, but I can’t. This is how the Game works. I’m only here because of it. Orca must know it too. You can see the thoughts on his face.

Rion finally opens the snare and takes the rabbit out. She reaches for the knife at her belt and turns around. Her eyes widen, she raises the knife.

A spear pierces her chest and throws her back.

The canon rings out as she hits the ground.

Orca stands frozen. His shoulders heave. His mouth is slightly open. Shocked, almost disbelieving.

I want to think it was reflex. I want to believe it wasn’t deliberate. But what difference does that make?

One more tribute is dead. I should be happy. The odds for my tributes are getting better. My heart is too heavy for it though. I shut my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall.

“Were you a fan of District Six?” Finnick asks.

“No. But I felt sorry for her. Losing her partner like that.”

“I get that,” Finnick says warmly. I crack open my eyes and roll my head to the side to look at him. For the first time in our conversation, I think he’s being genuine.

“Henry!” The call pulls my attention so rapidly, I nearly jump. Rosa has materialized at my side out of thin air.

“Rosa?”

District Three’s beloved stylist in the flesh. And also in a pink minidress blazer combo. She looks flawless as usual. Her sudden appearance causes a weird cocktail of emotions to swirl inside me, as if I’ve had one drink too many. I’m still in shock over the death I just witnessed, and also extremely sleep deprived. At the same time I’m glad to see her. My heart does a weird sluggish jump. She opens her arms I go for the hug immediately.

When we part she looks past me and I remember we’re not alone. I step out of her way and clear my throat. “Right, you probably know Finnick Odair. Finnick, this is Rosa Ruthard, Jitka’s stylist.”

Finnick flashes his most charming smile and offers her his hand. Rosa shakes it. Her gold armbands jingle from the motion.

“That parade outfit was gorgeous,” Finnick says. His heartbreaker persona has returned in full swing. I hate to admit it, but I see why people fall over themselves for him. That pretty face, the bright blue eyes. The way flattery rolls off his tongue.

“Thank you!” Rosa says, an equally suave smile on her lips. “I’ve got so many more ideas for Jitka, I need her to win for that alone.”

“Of course I think District Four is gonna win. But that does sound like something worth seeing.” Finnick winks. “Unfortunately I can’t stay to chat any longer. My friends are probably celebrating without me already.”

Rosa and I watch him saunter off. She then takes my arm and we walk over to an empty seat. The pair on the couch opposite ours doesn’t talk to us, but at the sight of me their wire-thin eyebrows shoot up and they start whispering to each other.

A waitress swoops in immediately to ask if we need anything. I order an espresso because if I want to survive the night I’m gonna need more caffeine. Rosa gets an iced coffee. She says it’s too early to drink but also too hot outside for a normal coffee.

The screens are updating the fans on the other tributes. First there’s a brief shot of Lucia and Mace, also in the forest. The canon shot has set them on edge and they decide to go back to the relative safety of the cornucopia. Following that are a few quick reaction shots for the other three tributes. Just as our drinks arrive we see the audience favorites, Hans and Jitka.

They’re in a nondescript spot in the woods. Jitka is crouching near a spot of dirt that’s been cleared of the leaves and needles, stacking twigs and leaves into a miniature pyre. A few steps away Hans is skinning a rabbit. He gingerly slices at the skin with Jitka’s knife. The expression on his face tells me he’s not enjoying himself.

“I don’t think they did it,” Hans says. His voice is tense, but maybe that’s only because of the blood running over his hands. “I bet they’re still rattled by what happened last night.”

Jitka doesn’t look up. She’s focused on leaning the sticks together in such a way that the cone doesn’t collapse in on itself. “Mutts, then?” She asks.

“Don’t think so. With two deaths today they’ll hardly sic them on another tribute. I think it was that guy from Four. What’s his name…” He snaps his fingers, like it will help him remember. A few drops of blood spray about. “The fish guy…”

Over her shoulder Jitka gives him a look that says she’s doubting his sanity.

“Orca!”

Jitka grunts in acknowledgment and returns her focus on the pile. After a second she pauses her work and says, “Aren’t Orcas whales?”

“I thought they eat whales. But whatever you say, Miss Science competition winner.”

“I know stuff about chemistry, not biology.”

Hans laughs. “It’s a good thing you’ve got me to take care of the meat then.”

To underline his words he tears out a piece of tissue and chucks it into the bushes.

“My last attempt wasn’t pretty,” Jitka huffs. “The only thing I ever dissected before was a frog.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this too. Usually I leave the gutting to our cook.”

A crow swoops down into the foliage and flies back up into the trees with the tissue in its beak. Hans looks after it with the hint of a smile.

“I bet Orca knows,” he says. “We’ll just have to ask him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell us about fish with an arrow pointed at his face.”

Satisfied with her construction, Jitka sets about choosing the best stick for roasting things on. She looks over at Hans, who’s still busy with the knife. I should probably send them another one. Maybe some cutlery too.

“The canon might have been for him. Why do you think he was the killer and not any of the others?”

Hans shrugs. “The Careers didn’t consider any of them much of a threat.”

“They didn’t see Callisto as a threat to them either, I reckon.”

He makes a face that says ‘you got me there’.
“I’ll have you know I never liked her.”

Their conversation goes on like this. Talking about the remaining competitors, making purposefully light jokes about the events of the Games so far. They’re a bit stiff, like actors that haven’t warmed up yet. But they’re basically acting the same way they did during the training days. Who am I to say this isn’t how they are normally.

My thoughts drift as they compare their theories about the previous days. I already know what happened. Naturally my mind wanders back to Finnick.

What did he mean with that comment about me ‘moving on’? Surely he knew that was rude. A sweet talker like him would know that. Why would I not have a choice about who I spend my time with. And why would my connection to Bianca not stop someone from making a move? Was he just trying to prepare me for a lot of obtrusive and unsolicited advances?

“You’re being quiet.” Rosa watches me over the edge of her cup.

I take a sip of my own beverage before answering. “I’m thinking about something Finnick said to me.”

Rosa leans forward, puts her chin on her interlaced fingers and looks at me expectantly. “What did you talk about?”

I shrug. I’m not sure it qualified as a talk. “He wanted to give me advice. Said the interview was good. I’m not really sure what he wanted from me…”

“Really?” She raises a brow, barely suppresses a smile. “Can’t think of anything?”

I shake my head. Is there some obvious Capitol code word I’m missing?

Rosa seems to be losing her patience. “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

“Yeah, like an hour ago.”

She gives me a look that’s somewhere between annoyance and pity.
“Henry. You are hot.”

That catches me so off guard that my jaw falls open. I struggle to form words for a good second. Is she saying— “Anyone would look good after an hour with Brabant and his team,” I protest.

Rosa laughs. “Believe me, for our standards he’s going light on the styling. But your looks aren’t all that you’ve got going for you. You’re caring, sweet, humble…”

“Alright, alright,” I hold up my hands in surrender. “So maybe Finnick was flirting with me. He probably flirts with everyone though. And that’s not what I was thinking about.”

Thankfully Rosa drops the teasing. “What was it then?”

“He essentially said I could pick anyone I wanted as a lover.” Rosa’s brow once again jumps up. I quickly continue, “I said I wasn’t interested and he was like… ‘you don’t always have a choice’. Said I should think of what I could be gaining instead.”

“Why would you need to find a wealthy lover? Don’t you victors get enough money?”

“I definitely think so. But that isn’t all. He sounded almost… resigned. Like it was a hard fact of life we just had to accept.”

Rosa frowns and bites her lips. She silently considers my words for a moment.

“I can think of one thing. There is this one guy, Maecenas Cloud. He prides himself on his ‘collection’.” She puts the word in air quotes. “Meaning he sleeps with all the desirable victors.”

“Is Finnick part of that collection?”

“I’m not sure. His mentors were keeping him out of society last year. He was pretty young after all. But it looks like he’s got free reign now. And everyone wants a part of him.”

I nod grimly. So that’s what happens when the talk of the victor’s heroic sacrifice for the country subsides. What remains are trophies. Prize cuts. Well, I have no interest in being a part of someone’s scrap book.

“I’d bet my inheritance they’re not doing that for fun. He looks like a warning poster against bad filler.” Rosa shakes her head. “I was at one of his dinners once. He’s worst kind of entitled and gross rich old man. No taste, but thinks everyone should worship the ground he stands on. He’s very rich though. Cloud Holdings is the largest bank in Panem. The president himself has an account with them.”

So that’s why the name rings a bell. That’s the bank that pays my winnings. Suddenly I can imagine a few reasons victors wouldn’t turn down his invitation.
“Why were you at the dinner table of a man like that?”

“My father and my brother wanted to discuss business with him. They brought me along to make some connections.” Seeing the flat expression on my face, she adds, “I got my first internship that way. You don’t become a stylist for the Hunger Games at eighteen unless you know the right people.”

I guess it works the same way everywhere. Even in District Three. Hans did say in his interview that his uncle wanted him to go into politics. And his grandfather was also mayor once upon a time.

“So that’s the type to pay for my company…”
Richest man in Panem sounds like someone who can and will pay any price. Maybe that’s why Finnick said I should stick to the mourner image.

My mind is going down dark roads again. I don’t really want to think about all the other duties my life as a victor holds. Right now, all I want to care about are my tributes. I try to think of something to steer the conversation towards. My stomach very quickly provides me with an idea.
“I’m starving. What do you say to a late lunch?”

Notes:

Sometimes you have to put a guy with a microphone in front of your characters in order to make them voice their feelings. But even then Henry is the type to keep things very close to his chest.

On a related note, I think if he lived today, Caesar would have a podcast.

See you in one or two weeks, or whenever I’m not occupied with research and presentations…

Chapter 11: Hero of the Day

Notes:

Guess who’s back! Life has been a series of trials and once again this chapter ended up longer than ever before. The heat is on and a lot of stuff happens

Song of the chapter is Hero of the Day by Metallica (again)

The interview really does seem to have made an impact. By the time dawn rolls around I’ve secured generous donations from four more people. Even Dry Devil is impressed when he sees that. He, Godwin and I have breakfast at the Headquarters together. The poached eggs are criminally good. Soft and runny, with a velvety sauce and a nice side of crispy bacon to counter them. Would would be rude not to share this delight with Jitka and Hans. And since our donation account is comfortably full, my partners agree to send them some.

Jitka, who’s had the last watch, quickly spots the two parcels drifting through the branches. She shakes Hans awake, before climbing down the tree where they spent the night. Hans yawns and rubs his eyes, but he quickly sits up straight and stays on the lookout. Jitka slings the parachutes over her shoulders like the handles of a shopping bag, then quickly climbs back up.

Inside the metal tins are two portions of proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, a portion of roasted vegetables and a slice of toast to soak up the juices. A compartment in the lid stores a fork and knife.

Less than a minute later another tin descends from the sky. Hans catches the parachute as it floats by, leaning out dangerously far, with only one hand keeping hold of the tree. But he manages to not fall to his death. Other tributes have not been so lucky. It’s almost worth the danger though, seeing the way his face lights up when he opens the lid and sees the plastic bottle of vitamin juice. It’s not much, really, only a half a liter bottle. But an empty bottle can always come in handy. They already have one I sent last night, now there’s one for each.

The two of them dig in. The hot food seems to lift their spirits immensely. The stiffness that existed between them yesterday has eased. Sharing a meal can have that effect. Or maybe it was spending the night watching the other’s back.

Jitka washes down a pill with a good swig of juice. Hans tells her she should savor this luxury and she laughs when he starts talking about all the delicate notes of flavors. It’s nice to see them smile despite… all of it. Staying sane in the Games is as much of a challenge as finding food and water. I’m glad they have each other. If, after yesterday’s interview, anyone wanted to accuse me of scheming, I’d give them this; I’m fucking glad that my tributes are a team.

But even though they look more confident, their faces are marked by the last days. It’s an overcast day, barely any light reaches them through the sparse canopy. The edges of the screen are blurred in a vignette-like way, as fogs rolls down from the mountains.

They’re not the only ones, as we quickly see. While Hans and Jitka are enjoying their breakfast, we get a quick glimpse of the other tributes. District Two also got their food delivered. The rest are eating whatever they’ve scrounged together.

It’s the seventh day of the Games, the first week is almost over. The passage of time is showing on the tributes’ bodies. Sleep deprivation is painting purple bags under their sunken eyes. Hair falls in tangled knots and greasy strings. Under the clouded sky their faces are slowly taking on a pallor that Caesar Flickerman would be jealous of.

By the time I get ready to leave, the arena has been smothered with fog. Anything that isn’t within arms reach of the cameras gets swallowed by the white mist. The tributes are functionally trapped in their places.

The Gamemakers’ intent is clear. No one is allowed to die today.

I find out why a few hours later. I’m so worked over from staying awake for the better part of the last forty-eight hours, that I basically fall asleep as soon as I hit the mattress. When I wake up it’s early evening. I turn on the TV in my room to see if there’s an episode of Design Academy on. But the channel shows something else. How could I forget, we’re still missing a vital piece of the Hunger Games.

We‘re down to eight tributes, which can only mean one thing: more interviews. Not with the mentors, no, I was the only one given that opportunity. Camera teams have been dispatched to the districts of the remaining tributes, ready for a scoop on their private lives. Their families, friends, neighbors, teachers, really everyone that’s ever spoken to them is interviewed.
The tributes are shown in descending order of District, meaning the program starts with District Ten’s Estella. Maybe this is meant to build the anticipation for the stars, or maybe it’s just to give the others a chance. If they began with Two, people would be turning off the TV after the fourth tribute.

Honestly, I might’ve done the same. The harsh truth is that I don’t really care about the other tributes, since they haven’t affected mine yet. And since they must die in order for Jitka or Hans to live, I’d prefer not get to know who they are.

I used to be obsessed with these segments. Getting a glimpse of the rest of the world, a world beyond the brick and concrete I lived in. Seeing the wonders of nature and the varieties of lives our country has to offer. Now that I’ve been there, done that, the show has lost its flavor. Right now, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than at home.

I never actually watched the family interviews from last year. There was too much going on after the games and during the tour, I didn’t have the emotional capacity anyway. I can’t even remember most of the names of the other tributes. Only snippets of information remain. The one girl who’s dress was so big she fell on the stage during Caesar’s interviews. The guy that got a training score of nine and was torn apart by rabbits. The only ones that I remember well are the guys from One and Two, not least because they regularly guest star in my nightmares. Magnus and Erik, my final opponents and the only ones I killed. Even so, all I have of them are fragments. A moment in training here, a line in the interviews there. The confidence in Erik’s voice when he volunteered. The look of hatred on the face of Magnus’ sister during my Victory Tour speech.

I shake my head to dispel that particular memory. No use dwelling on that right now.

Even if it might now be helpful for maintaining my partiality, it can’t hurt to know more about our competition. With that in mind I order a chilled coffee over the room service telephone and lean back against the many cushions of the bed.
Looking at the TV, I see that the intro of the interviews is already rolling. As always it’s underscored with the bombastic sound of the national anthem.

 

The sun rises over the lush pastures of District Ten. Huge plains of grassland framed by lines of trees start to shimmer in the golden light. As the day begins, herds of cattle come swarming onto the fields or wake up from their night under the stars. A slow aerial shot glides over the land towards the town. Compared to our city it’s a lot smaller and more spread out. There are no apartment blocks, few buildings surpass three stories. Despite the early hour, lots of people are out and about, opening shops, going to work, running errands.

A reporter and her team are in a quiet street standing before a shop that sells meat, if the sign of a pig in the window is anything to go by. Of course, being from the Capitol, the reporter wears clothes fitting the occasion; a plaid shirt under a denim dress with suspenders and a leather hat. It could be a parade outfit, this approximation of a farmer’s garb. Might’ve been one, actually. I think Rosa once said that the best designs are sold at auctions at the end of the season.

“Friends, welcome to District Ten. My name is Ovidia Tucker and I’m here at the home of this year’s youngest tribute, Estella Rosario.” The reporter flashes her perfect teeth at the camera. She goes on to summarize Estella’s experience in the Games so far. It doesn’t take long, all the young girl has done is hide and eat roots and berries. So without further preamble, Ovidia opens the door to the shop.

What follows is a panning shot across the room alternating with close ups. The shop is just what I’d expect from a small family owned business: a white-tiled main room with a long counter, where an assortment of meats are kept on ice behind glass. There’s a sitting booth crammed into a corner and two standing tables behind the window. A door behind the counter leads to a back room.

In the middle of it all stand two people, who are introduced as Estella’s parents. They look very similar to her, same bronze skin and black hair. They’re smiling, but their nerves are evident. Their daughter’s life depends on how likable they make her look. I know the pressure.

“Antony, Estella’s father, took over the family trade from his father. Their butcher shop has been in the family for generations,” the reporter supplies in the voice over. “Her mother Martina works the counter and handles the marketing side of things,”

For a moment the three talk about the shop. Apparently business has been booming, now that Estella is a national celebrity.

Martina points to table on which a small donation box is set up.
“We put this up so people can donate to our Ella.”

The camera comes closer to the table to show us. Next to the wooden box is a framed foto of the girl. The whole table is covered in flowers and other offerings; braided ribbons, wreaths of dry stalks, paper cards.
“People have been very kind to us,” Antony says. “Their support is what’s getting us through this.”

The reporter continues to ask questions about Estella, how she was as a (even younger) child. She seems to have been a very energetic girl, very different to how’s she been in the arena. But it’s clear how much her parents love her. The whole neighborhood seems to be rooting for her, everyone else they interview in the district reiterates how sweet this girl is.

I can feel the sympathy creeping up on me. Several times I catch myself thinking about how Hans and Jitka might stumble upon her in the woods and take her as their ally. I know Hans doesn’t like the butchering process, maybe a butcher’s daughter could help him.

We’re onto the next district. More fields and flat land to be found in District Nine. David’s parents are both doctors. They tell the story of how they met, going from rivals at university to partners. They struggles with infertility for years, and developed new methods themselves until they had their son. He’s the most precious thing in their lives, David’s father says. If they’re trying to garner sympathy for their son, it’s a wasted effort. If people cared about parents losing their children, we wouldn’t have the Hunger Games. We could be holding the annual talent show, the results would be the same, but we decided suffering is more entertaining.

The segments are each about thirty minutes, so by the time Orca’s family and friends are through, I’m half asleep. But the sight of a familiar skyline makes me sit up straight.

Glittering skyscrapers welcome us home. A camera hovercraft glides over the lake towards the city, slowly climbs to the height of the tallest buildings and circles around them. The video is the same as every year; a montage of wonders of architecture. Steel, concrete, glass. Rinse and repeat. A cool synth melody underscores the moment. Then it’s onto our people; looking serious in lab coats, programming a line of code, moving parts of a machine.

This time around the reporters don’t have to venture into the derelict downtown parts of the city, where dingy diners and bars are the best culinary options. No restaurant owners scraping by, no loud mechanic workshops, no underfunded hospitals. Hans’ home is in the heart of the city, a shiny apartment in a shiny tower. His neighbors aren’t the overworked factory and service workers that I grew up with, they are the people who employ them.

The Capon family is famous of course. Anyone in out district would be able to give some information on them. Hans’ parents died when he was only a young child. I remember it well, even though I was a kid myself. It was all over the news; the son of the former mayor, and his wife tragically killed in a car crash. They left their son to be raised by a cousin of his father.

The man himself welcomes the camera crew and audience into the apartment. It’s not the type of interview Mr. Hanush Capon usually gives, I’m sure, but he’s perfectly prepared all the same. He gives anecdotes of Hans childhood, everything from his perfect grades to his record of getting in trouble for disobedience.

Apparently Hans took the stairs whenever possible. His uncle says he just did it to waste time when he didn’t want to go somewhere. The reporter says Hans must care greatly about staying fit. The flat is on the thirty-fourth floor after all. It’s probably a mix of both, the way I know him.

Mr. Capon takes us through the apartment. Every time he opens a door I think we’ve reached Hans’ room, but the apartment goes on. How many rooms does this flat have? No two people can reasonably use an entire floor, can they?
Finally, we reach Hans’ bedroom. Huge windows flood the room with light and give a stunning view of the city below. The walls are plastered with photos. Photos of nature, of the city, of Hans with his friends. Taken by himself, if the three cameras sitting proudly on his shelf aren’t just for show. The rest of the shelf space is taken up by comics and a collection of video tapes and CDs. An elegantly carved wooden bow is also displayed on the wall.

His bed is very spacious, bigger even than the one I’m lying in right now. The comforter is made of a shiny yellow fabric that glints in the sunlight. A modern computers sits on a desk off to the side. On the whole the room seems surprisingly organized. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen. The books are all perfectly sorted by color and size. The desk is clean, the writing supplies are placed by the blueprint.

So this is where Hans grew up. Not too shabby. It definitely explains a lot about him.

Jitka’s family lives in a much more reasonable three story house. That’s the only reasonable thing about it though. The inside is huge, and decorated so sparsely it might as well be a museum. All the walls are painted white or gray, all the appliances stainless steel or polished brass. The few paintings are made up of large geometric shapes representing…who knows what, honestly. If one were to put an info placket on the wall it wouldn’t look out of place.

Jitka’s room feels a lot more lived in. Her passion for science is evident in every object. Only one of the walls is painted dark blue, but the ceiling is black, sprinkled with white stars. The books on her shelf are all about chemistry. And there are a lot of books.

Is this some kind of rich people thing, having so many books? My family barely has a dozen. Some manuals, old textbooks from when my mom did her nurse training.
There’s another thing I notice; an inconsequential detail that really has nothing to do with the videos themselves. None of the names of Jitka and Hans’ relatives follow the conventions of our districts. It’s common to name children things that relate to technology. It’s like that in every district, or so I thought. Don’t know how many Volts and Eddys were at my school. Maybe that’s the problem: they’re common names. The upper percentile has to differentiate themselves from those soldering wires for a living.

Sometime I forget how different my upbringing was to that of my tributes. Sure, as a victor I can now afford pretty much anything I could think of. But a year ago, I would have never gotten close to someone like that. Funny how life works.

I think our tributes both come of as nice, fun people. Hans is adventurous and has expensive taste, Jitka is smart and dedicated to her passion. She’s the model of a District Three citizen. A District Three victor. There are plenty of Capitolites who love our city for what we have to offer; technology, science, inventions. People like her are always popular with the tech-obsessed. She looks the part too, with her dark hair and eyes. Hans on the other hand looks more like the greats of District One or Four, the bright haired beauties of the west coast. He’d fit right into a lineup with Finnick and Cashmere.

My mood dares to look up. But then Lucia and Mace are in focus and I start to doubt how well others will receive them. The Careers are both from working class families of masons and mechanics. Lucia was raised by a single father and she signed up for training in the hopes of winning the Games and being able to repay him for all his sacrifices. Mace has a little sister that’s chronically ill and needs a lot of care. The victor money promises better treatment, and a way to pay off medial debts. What heroic motives!

Compared to them, our tributes seem coddled, spoiled even. If I wasn’t opposed to rooting for District Two on principle, I’d be cheering on them. What the fuck.

Hans and Jitka’s family’s wealth might be relatable to the upper crust of the Capitol, but it won’t win them much favor elsewhere. Not even in our own district. I knew exactly who their families were the moment their names were drawn and not in a good way. Hans especially has had some bad press this past year or so. Being part of such an influential family, the press coverage is unavoidable. And crashing my celebration dinner didn’t endear him to me either.

Whatever happened in the past doesn’t matter anymore. They’re my tributes now.

I head over to the Headquarters. It’s already dark in the arena. The fog remains impenetrable. It also seems to have have cooled down significantly over the day. The tributes’ breath form little clouds of fog of their own.

Those who have the means make a fire. That includes the two at the Cornucopia and our team. Usually I’d call it foolish to keep a fire in the night, it’s basically a beacon screaming ‘we’re here’ to every tribute and mutt in the surrounding mile. And really, how cold could it be? It’s just a fall fog. Bianca and I weathered snowstorms.

In this case though, I’d say it’s fine. The Gamemakers have made it clear enough that no one will die today. The other tributes are unlikely to be moving from their nooks as well. I won’t begrudge them their comfort.

Luckily for me, the Headquarters’ restaurant stays open until midnight. Godwin goes home, but Hynek joins me at the dinner table, even though he’s eaten already. While I slurp away at my noodles with seafood sauce, Hynek complains about the lack of effort from the Gamemakers.

“Drowning the whole arena in fog. Can they be any lazier? I expected more from Aulitz,” he says.

I’m not sure if I’m expected to reply, but there’s something I’ve been wondering about, so I ask, “Do you think a lot about what the Gamemakers are planning?”

Hynek lets out a chuckle. “It’s all I do. It’s the most entertainment the Games have to offer. I gotta say, they’re heavy handed this year. Overcorrecting their slack efforts from last year.”

I look at the screen and consider his assessment. Currently it shows the girl from Ten, Estella, huddled under a rocky outcropping. I guess the action so far has mostly depended on the tributes themselves. Only one person was killed by mutts, the rest were killed by other tributes. Wait, no, there was an accident as well. So far the Gamemakers really haven’t interfered much.

“Didn’t you say they wanted more bloody action this year since almost everyone froze to death last time?”

“That little kill yesterday doesn’t count. And the day before that the girl just keeled over. The Careers made it interesting by backstabbing each other, but instead of riding that momentum, Aulitz and company smother it.”

“Why aren’t you a Gamemaker, if you’re so unhappy with it? Or are you resigned to reading slips and hanging out with us?”

“Dealing with panicked children and having the president breathe down my neck? No thanks. And besides, I like your district. You understand what all this shit is really about. At least some of you do.”

I scoff and stab at a particularly stubborn noodle. I’m pretty sure that group excludes me, but since I don’t know what he means by ‘all this shit’, I guess he’s not wrong.

Hynek takes a sip of his drink and goes back to watching the screen. Delicious as it may be, the slippery sauce requires my full attention.

“They were talking about you earlier,” Hynek says out of the blue.

I look up at him. “Who?”

“Jitka and Hans, who else.”

He cocks his head in the direction of the nearest screen. It shows our tributes warming themselves at the fire and eating soup out of sponsor tins.

“About what?” I ask.

“Those lighters you sent them. Capon left his with the Careers. He was in a swivel about it.”

“But Jitka still has hers, right? So no problem.”

“She said that too, but he said it was a special thing and he shouldn’t have lost it.”

As if they heard our conversation, the cutters give us a close up of Hans face. He looks tired, but he’s eating the food with a smile on his face. He says something to Jitka, but the TVs here don’t have any sound, so I don’t hear the words. Whatever her answer is makes him grin. If he was upset over the lighter earlier, he certainly isn’t anymore. I didn’t think he was sentimental like that anyway. Maybe he has an ulterior motive he didn’t want to talk about in front of the cameras?

“Should I send him another one?” I ask.

“What for? You said it, one is enough.”

“It they get separated they might need another one.”

“So worry about it when that happens.” Hynek shakes his head. “Until then don’t waste the money.”

“Fine, fine, I won’t.”

I spent the rest of the night alone, watching the tributes try not to freeze to death. Surprisingly no one does. Not even a little bit of frostbite.
By the time the sun rises, the mist has crystallized into frost, as if the entire arena was covered in dust overnight. The sky is clear and the sight is perfect.

While eating their breakfast, Hans and Jitka discuss their next moves.

“We need a plan,” Hans states. “I don’t think Lucia and Mace will do us the favor of wiping out the other four and then each other. In fact, I think they’ll be focussed on hunting us, since they have some idea of our equipment and behavior.“

Jitka nods in agreement, still chewing on a bread roll.
“The longer this goes on the more expensive gifts will become. When it comes down to a battle of attrition, I don’t think we can last against Two.“

“I wouldn't write off gifts,” Jitka argues. “District Two may be more popular, but we’ve had no problems getting food so far. And our family’s have money, they won’t let us starve.”

Hans makes a doubtful hum around a mouthful of bread.

“But we can’t keep carrying around all these tins. We’re already leaving a cookie trail of parachutes. If Team Two finds us, we won’t stand much of chance against them in combat.”

Hans nods. “True. In close combat we’re outmatched. Stealth probably won’t work either. After what happened with Callisto, you can bet they’ll be on their guard at all times.“

After a moment of ravenous silence, Jitka suggest, “Let’s go to the Cornucopia.”

Hans balks at her. “Girl, are you mad? I just said we don’t stand a chance against them.”

“That’s why we have to take the initiative. Steal their weapons, set up a trap.”

“Are you sure you’ve got the right meds?” Hans raises his brow. Jitka shoves him and he grins.

“You can sit around and do nothing if you’d like.”

“Fine, fine. We can go and see what the Careers are up to. But the moment anything goes wrong we’re out of there.” Hans shakes his head. “Why am I suddenly the responsible one here?”

I bury my head in my hands. Can’t they give me two days without a heart attack? Is that really too much to ask for.

When Godwin and Hynek show up for breakfast we all go to the restaurant together. I wolf down the food without any care for the taste. I’m sure it’s delicious as always, but for once that doesn’t matter to me. I try to keep up with Godwin’s predictions about the tributes’ odds, but I’m running on my last energy reserves and the coffee isn’t kicking in.

“Shouldn’t you be going to bed?” Godwin asks after a particularly long yawn.

“I want to see what our two reckless idiots get up to.” Another yawn. “Damn, where can I get one of those pills that keep you up for forty hours?”

I look at Hynek, expecting him to laugh and-slash-or point me in the direction of the nearest dealer. But he looks anything but amused.

“You’ve got to let go of the illusion that you’re in control. There’s no point in destroying yourself. One of them’s gonna die eventually,”

“Excuse me? What the fuck?”

“They’re not gonna win by sitting there, looking pretty. They’re being proactive, fighting while they’re still ahead. If one of them dies while doing it, well, that’s just the price of the Game.”

My hands ball into fists. I stare at Dry Devil, then at Godwin who looks very tired. “Let’s not do this at breakfast,” he tells the other man.

At this point I don’t give a fuck about starting a fight in a restaurant anymore. Hynek is supposed to be part of my team and infighting usually isn’t punished. And who’s gonna blame me for it?

“Henry.” Godwin holds me back with a hand around my forearm. “You look this close to keeling over. Get some sleep. Take your mind off the Games for a while. I’ll make sure they don’t get themselves killed.”

I give Hynek a final venomous look. His expression is calm, if slightly annoyed. As if this whole exchange was as engaging as talking to a petulant child. Resisting the voice in my head that tells me to spit in his food, I turn and make for the door.

I’m still fuming by the time I hit the elevator button for our floor.
Godwin was right, I do need sleep, but I certainly won’t find any like this.
I drag myself to into the shower, because despite sitting around doing nothing the whole night, I feel ratty. The perfumed smell of the sponsors still clings to me. The rhythmic pattern of hot water hitting the ground almost lulls me to sleep. But the memory of Hynek’s condescending tone keeps me awake.

What’s his problem? He doesn’t think I’m a good Victor. Fine. Not my problem. But why the fuck should I just sit back and watch the next generation of tributes die?

Fuck him.

I shouldn’t waste time on being angry with him. I can’t fall asleep when the anger keeps boiling up.

I must have fallen asleep after all, because next thing I know is the sun hangs in the west and I feel marginally more rested than before. My next watch won’t be until a few hours, so I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and turn on the TV.

I only catch the tail end of a Design Academy episode. I must’ve missed a lot in the last episode, because Lucille and her nemesis Flavia are sitting together on the floor of an empty restroom having the heart-to-heart of their lives. Flavia admits that she’s so set on defending her title because her older sister was valedictorian of the Academy before her and her parents expect the same of her. She even apologizes to Lucille for the ways she’s been treating her! Unprecedented amounts of character development today!

When the episode ends, I keep the TV on, just to see if there’s anything interesting happening in the arena. It’s a good thing I do, because the first thing we see is the Cornucopia and Jitka and Hans digging through the supply crates. Of course they fucking are.

Have we not been generous enough? Do they really need to provoke their most dangerous rivals by going into their territory searching… what exactly?

Hans is weighing a long knife in his hand and makes a few experimental stabs at the air. Jitka is stuffing a medley of small items into her backpack.

A swarm of birds rises up from the trees, not far from the edge of the woods. Jitka tenses and scans the tree line for signs of other tributes.
“We should go,” she says

That’s my cue as well. With a heavy sigh I get up from the bed and pick up my suit jacket from the crumbled pile by the closet. I guess I’ll have to rely on caffeine to get me through the night again. If my tributes insist on putting themselves in danger then I’ll just have to keep both eyes on them at all times.

I know Godwin said he’d be watching out for them, but I can’t stand sitting here doing nothing. Just watching like everyone else. Useless. Powerless.

 

By the time I’m in the Headquarters the screens show Hans and Jitka have thankfully left the Cornucopia unharmed. They’re at the edge of the forest, retreating back into the relative safety it provides. The sun has begun its descent, casting the whole scene into golden light and drawing long shadows from the trees.

The two tributes are walking along the edge, just under the cover of the trees. I don’t know if that’s for the sake of orientation or because of the panicked flock of birds earlier. Maybe they want to have a clear line of sight in case there is another tribute or something around.

Suddenly Hans stops Jitka with an outstretched arm. She gives him an irritated look. Hans quickly nods to something ahead of them and Jitka follows his silent words.

The camera only shows her searching eyes, keeping the viewer in suspense.

The woods are silent. No footsteps, no voices, no birdsongs. Nothing. And still the editors won’t show us what the tributes are facing.

Is this it? A sudden confrontation, no grand plans to be executed.

 

Ah, no. It’s just a rabbit.

I let out a frustrated huff and curse the Gamemakers under my breath. All this drama over a little rabbit. As if my heart hasn’t been through enough paces today.
It’s standing on its back legs, ears raised and frozen like the two tributes. After a tense second it decides it must’ve been the wind.

Silently and oh so slowly, Hans lowers his arm to the quiver and plucks out an arrow. In one motion he sets it to the string and draws it back. He stays like that for a breath. Only rise of his chest betrays that the screen hasn’t frozen.

On the exhale he opens his fingers. The arrow flies off the bow. Cut to the bunny, who is impaled right through the throat.

Hans lowers his weapon. His lips show a slight smile.

“Aww poor bunny!” I hear someone behind me coo. I roll my eyes. My heart weeps for no rabbit. Firstly because my tributes can eat whatever they please. Secondly because I’ve seen what rabid mutated bunnies can do. They will get no tears from me.

 

We get a break from Hans and Jitka screen time and instead see District Two’s arrival at the Cornucopia. Seems they’ve been out hunting too. But since the leaderboard shows all the same names as yesterday, they weren’t very successful.

They look exhausted. Even the trained Careers aren’t unaffected by a week in the wild. Lucia wearily drags herself over to crates and drops down on one of them. With a heavy sigh she unzips her jacket and lifts her shirt up, exposing a gauze patch on her lower ribs.

Mace looks at her, concerned. “Is it bleeding again?”

She shakes her head. “Needs more salve, that’s all.”

Lucia tucks the lower half of her shirt under her bra and starts peeling at the edges of the patch. Mace turns around to give her privacy, as if half the country wasn’t watching. His eyes slide over the camp instead.

His eyes narrow and he kneels to investigate something. Whatever it is, a footprint or a bent blade of grass, it seems to concern him. He moves further into the horn and opens one of the crates.

“I think someone was here,” he says.

Absorbed in setting up her medical supplies, it takes Lucia a moment to answer. Out of the pocket of her jacket she takes a foil-sealed patch, a small tin and disposable wipes and puts them onto her lap. Istvan really sent them the whole med-kit. Suddenly her head snaps up. “What? Why?”

“Look at this chaos.” Mace gestures at the inside of the box. Lucia has to strain her neck to look inside. “And here. I left the bag on the matt this morning.”

Lucia nods. With a hiss she rips off the rest of the patch, revealing a long cut on her lowest ribs. It‘s closed up in the three days since the fight against Callisto, but it’s still pink and irritated.

“We need to be on our guard,” Mace continues, “if folks are bold enough to walk right in. Our reputation ain’t as deterring as hoped.”

“It was Hans and the witch,” Lucia says grimly. She rips open the packaging of the sanitary wipe and drags it over the wounded area. She’s being impressively methodical about this. I guess Career training includes more than just stabbing people in the most efficient way.

“How do you know?” Mace ask.

She nods at the open crate. “Two knives are missing. And who else would it be? Those two know the Cornucopia best.”

Mace nods. “You’re probably right. Who else has the audacity? Think we can expect some kind of trap from them?”

“Or weird tech they scrapped together.” Lucia opens the tin and spreads a clear salve over the cut. “Trickery is the only way their district ever wins.”

After that the two stay silent while sh struggles open the bandage packaging. Eventually she does manage to peel off the foil from the sticky side and patches up the wound. Mace sits down on his bedroll across from her. After pulling her shirt back down, Lucia sags against the Cornucopia’s metal wall. Mace offers her a half empty water bottle, which she takes. Despite the obvious exhaustion, Mace smiles.

“There’s one positive about this whole thing,” he says. He waits until his partner sets down the bottle and looks at him before continuing. “If they were here, they can’t be far away. And they might even come back.”

 

Their conversation seems to be over, so I finally go to sit down with Hynek and Godwin. They don’t seem surprised to see me, but at least they don’t make any comments about it either. The cameras are back on our tributes, so we have other things to worry about, I guess.

They’ve got a fire going. The rabbit, skinned and gutted, roasts above it on a contraption of sticks and twine that they’ve somewhat poorly engineered. Construction certainly isn’t our district’s specialty…

It’s a calming scene; the two of them sitting in the woods. The light of the sinking sun and the fire casts their faces in a golden glow and eases some of the harsh lines the arena has given them. Jitka is turning the spit, while Hans is carving the bark off a twig. The two of them work in silent companionship.

In this moment, it’s easy to get lost in the beauty of the forest and the tranquillity of the tributes. The noise and the smells and the colors of the sponsor langue fade out and I can just imagine myself sitting there with them.

Time passes. The sky is starting to turn into deep shades of blue, violet and red. The meat on the fire is taking on a nice color.

“Do you hear that?”

The lounge is far too loud to hear anything, but evidently Hans does. With the same silent concentration he used against the rabbit, he readies his bow. Jitka stays crouched next to the fire, but she saddles her backpack. I also sit up straight and focus my attention that had started to drift.

The camera switches back to a view of the forest. I narrow my eyes and stare at the screen. Nothing. The shrubbery shivers in the wind. Leaves sail down as usual.

There, movement! Something is coming closer. Brown and copper fur blends in with the dying foliage. But slowly the limbs and heads are taking shape. Mutts. Mutts all around the camp.

My heart sinks. There really is no peace in the arena. I should’ve remembered.

The wolves inch closer and so does the camera, giving us a look at their long, pointy snouts, the yellow eyes, the sharp claws. They don’t look any less terrifying in the light of the sun.

Both tributes are on their feet by now. Jitka backs away towards the closest tree. The lowest branches hang at least three meters off the ground, but the bark is old and gnarly. Her hands find enough purchase to raise herself up.

Hans glances back at her, and, recognizing her intention, slings his bow over his shoulder and takes out his knife instead. He looks around, frantically trying to keep all the wolves in his sight. His eyes snap from side to side as the mutts creep closer. His breath comes in short bursts, and the arm that holds out his knife is shaking. But still he stands firmly.

The moment Jitka is seated on a branch, she calls out to Hans.

A cacophony of growls rumble out around them. Unnaturally red lips draw back over snarling teeth. Step after step Hans moves towards the tree. For each of his steps the circle of mutts draws closer.

For a moment everything seems to move in slow motion. Hans’ back hits the bark and he whirls around. He makes it surprisingly far; within a second he climbs up almost to ten feet.

But the the wolves are hot on his heels. They shoot forward, snapping and clawing at tree and tribute. The screen is a blur of motion and fur, but I can make out the glint of a claw as it grabs onto a dark leg.

Hans cries out and his face twist in pain. His grip on the bark falters.
Suddenly there’s a hand around his wrist, straining to hold him up. Jitka has one arm hooked around a brach, the other extended out to her partner. Her body is twisted and she leans dangerously far off the branch she’s on.

One moment Hand stares at her, then he grits his teeth and pulls himself up. With a grunt he makes it onto the branch. The two of them sway like two birds in a storm, trying to keep their balance on their perch. The wood creaks under their combined weight.

The wolves continue to jump and snarl, but for now the tributes are out of reach.

Jitka carefully raises herself into a crouch and moves into the heart of the tree where the branches fork out. Hans leans against the trunk, drawing his injured leg up to himself. With a hissed breath he rolls up the tattered remains of his lower pant leg. It draws a hissed inhale out through his teeth.

Jitka takes off her backpack and rummages through it with one hand. Frustrated, she sighs and hangs it on another branch. Then she unzips her jacket and slips her arm out of one sleeve. A note of confusion shines through the pain on Hans’ face. Jitka briefly glances down, sees his expression and says, “We’ve got to stop the bleeding with something. Who knows how long it’ll take until we get supplies.”

She takes her knife from her belt and rips a hole into the shoulder seam of her long-sleeve shirt. Then she clamps the handle of knife between her teeth, rips off the sleeve and gives it to Hans. He silently stares at it for a moment. Disbelief briefly overshadows the pain. As soon as he blinks he finds back to himself again, and he carefully stretches the opening of the tube over his shoe.

Jitka meanwhile slips her bare arm back into the jacket and starts on removing the sleeve on the other side. Soon that too is secured on Hans’ legs. The fabric is quickly becoming soaked in blood, but at least the athletic shirts all the tributes wear offer some compression.

“That’s the second time you saved my life.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Hans laughs humorlessly. “We’re unlikely to get out anytime soon.”
They simultaneously look down at the other imminent threat.

“What now?” Jitka asks.

“I’m happy being up here. As long as Henry and company can target us with their deliveries, we can just sit here for the next week.”

Jitka frowns at the wolves, who are experimentally clawing at the lower branches. “I don’t think they’ll leave us alone that easily.”

“Yeah, well I could also throw you down. That might satisfy our ravenous audience.”

In spite of the danger my tributes are in, I grin. Hans may not like the Devil, but he sure thinks like him.

Ignoring Jitka’s deadpan stare, Hans counts his remaining arrows. His face slowly loses its smile.
“There’s eight of them and I have twelve arrows. So one and a half for each.” He holds up his hand, which is shaking more severely than the wind-blown leaves around them. “The odds of getting eight kill shots aren’t exactly in my favor. I may be an excellent archer, but I’m not that good.”

Jitka shakes her head, gaze returning to the creatures below.
“I don’t think those things will go down with one arrow.”

 

“This evening couldn’t have gone to shit faster,” Godwin says. I jump at suddenly hearing his voice. I’ve been so absorbed in the tributes’ dilemma that I was deaf to everything around me.

“I’ll send some medicine,” I say standing up.

I don’t stick around long enough to hear any objection from Hynek. Then again he probably wasn’t listening anyway. He looks just about ready to go down to the Gamemakers’ office and tear them a new one for recycling the same scenario.

The crowd melts into a colorful blur as I rush through the lounge. My eyes stare ahead, but once every few steps they flicker to the TVs that line the walls. Hans and Jitka are looking down at me from every angle.

For a brief moment the screen changes to someone else. A tribute stand with his back to the camera. My steps slowly come to a halt, as if someone switched off my energy.

He looks up through a hole in the canopy to where a column of dark smoke melts into the reds and blues of the sky. It’s close. No fifty yards I’d say.

There’s another tribute close to mine.

The gears in my head slowly start spinning. Like an engine stuttering to life my steps start out hesitantly, then take up speed as my thoughts begin to form.

The next time I look at the screen, it shows the tributes’ face. I recognize David from the interviews yesterday. He sniffs the air with a confused, slightly wistful expression. The wind must be blowing the scent of roasted meat in his direction.

The mental calculations take so much space in my head that I nearly run into Istvan. He isn’t bothered by the near-collision. On the contrary. He’s wearing a smile that’s so unbelievably self-satisfied that I’m tempted to stop and wipe it off. But I have to keep going. My tributes depend on me. I’ll show him not to celebrate his victory too soon.

I come to a halt before the reception for sponsor gifts. The clerk smiles politely, unbothered by the life-threatening situation my tributes are in.

For just a moment I hesitate. My plan completes its loading time and presents me with its consequences. I know what will happen if it works.

I throw a glance back at the screen. Hans is shuffling around in search of a more comfortable position. By all means I should just send him bandages and some painkillers. Antibiotics too, maybe something against rabies. But the Dry Devil on my shoulder laughs. Have I learned nothing from my Games? It’s not about what Hans and Jitka need. It’s about what the Gamemakers want of them. And they won’t stop until they get their blood.

 

A silver parachute gently sails through the air. The oblong tin shimmers in the dying rays of the sun. Rhythmic beeping alerts the tribute to its approach.

David catches the package with ease, but then he hesitates. He inspects the metal box, turning it around and holding it up to the light. Does he see through it? Not in the literal sense, of course. Unless he has x-ray vision, which is unlikely.

He opens the box, revealing a long aluminum tube laid in dark grey foam and five little darts. His eyes widen. He looks up at the smoke again. Back to the box in his hands. Back to the sky.

Come on! Get on with it.

Taking the tube in hand, he sticks one of the darts into the end. He puts it to his lips and blows hard. The dart shoots out and embeds itself into a tree close by.

David puts the rest of the darts into his pocket. Great idea, blindly reaching into your pocket for sharp objects each time you reload.
Not my problem, I remind myself.

He crosses over to the first dart and reload his weapon. A look of determination settles on his face. Finally, finally he begins to walk.

I lean against the wall next to the sponsor desks, just like Finnick and I did two days ago. Watching as David creeps forward through the trees.

Come on.

The forest is eerily quiet. Hans and Jitka are watching the mutts in silent concern, but those have also ceased their rabid jumping. They simply circle the tree, pale eyes focussed on their prey.

“Come on,” I whisper through clenched teeth.

A few paces away David has come to a sudden stop. He’s spotted the wolves and the abandoned campfire in their midst.
His eyes travel up. Jitka and Hans are hunched over up high. One wrong move and they fall to their death.

While the mutts circle the tree, David mirrors their movement in a wider path. He keeps his eyes peeled on my tributes, blowgun in his hand, looking for the perfect place to take aim.

I’m not gonna stand here and let that happen. If the wolves won’t do me the favor of noticing him, I’ll give them a little push.

Less than half a minute passes between me placing the order and the appearance of the parachute.

I’ve noticed before that animals seem to sense the hovercrafts long before we do. Birds fall silent, mammals freeze. In this case the wolves cease their snapping and growling, but they seem on edge all the same. A low grumble stays like a bass note, as the beeping parachute descends.

Hans and Jitka watch it fall. Frustration is written on their faces, seeing the desperately needed supplies sail far out of reach. Frustration turns to shock when they spot who it reaches instead.

One of the wolves turns, spots David and barks. The others snap around and focus on him.

David, to his credit, doesn’t waste time on shock, he just books it.

He’s fast. For a second it looks almost like he can outrun them. But these no ordinary animals. Specially bio-engineered by the Gamemakers, they are instruments of their intent.

They lunge, he falls. Around me the lounge gasps and shouts.

The screen is a tangled mess of fur and limbs and blood. It’s hard to see where David even is, but the sound of snarls and tearing flesh paints the picture well enough.

The camera cuts away in his final moments. We sit with Jitka and Hans, still warily looking into the distance, as they hear the canon shot. There are no shouts of joy, or triumph. Even their sighs of relief come out forced.

Hans closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the tree. “Sixteen down, seven to go.”

Jitka takes a few breaths, then carefully climbs down the tree. She pauses at the base, looks around for threats. Then she skips over to the fallen parachute and returns with it slung over her shoulder, just like she retrieved their breakfast in the morning. Only when she’s back on the branch with Hans does she open the small tin. Inside rest two rolls of bandages and a small bottle of disinfectant.

 

I wander back to our seats on autopilot. The crowd in the lounge is beyond wild. What an evening it’s been. Our brave tributes have narrowly dodged death once again. At least in the chaos no one notices me slipping by.

I fall back onto the couch across from Godwin. Hynek pats me on the shoulder. “Well played, kiddo.”

I can only nod. I may be out of the arena, but I’m still playing the game.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! I hope the hiatus was worth it. I’ve got a plan for the next chapter and it will be ambitious, but I’m hoping to release it before Christmas still. Wish me luck :)