Chapter Text
I can't remember a single One before. Not once. I mean, I can't even remember if anyone ever got a Two. Even a Three is reserved for the underdogs, so how did he manage to get a One? That eliminates all his chances of sponsorship, and he'll be left without supplies or outside help. After all, who sponsors an underdog?
"You must have messed with them," Maysilee argues with satisfaction. "With the chaos at the Reaping, and you cursing and spitting at the crowd. You really drew attention."
"Cursing and spitting at the crowd?" I ask, still stunned by the situation we're in. When did Haymitch do that, and why don't I remember those moments? It's not something I would forget.
"During the parade. You were unconscious, and Haymitch carried you to the Peacekeepers to get you treated. People in the audience thought it was romantic and kept asking for his name, ignoring you all banged up in his arms. He got really angry." Maysilee emphasized the word ‘really’ as she explained the situation to me. So that's what happened. I look at Haymitch, who's staring at us in silence. I hold his gaze, and I see him make a face of consternation.
"Right, that's an optimistic interpretation," he replies.
"What happened to you is at the very least different. People are going to gossip about it," says Mags, and adds, "About you too, Lenore Dove. You both drew attention today, even if it was different kinds of attention."
Of course, I got an Eleven and Haymitch got a One, so our approaches in that private session were opposites. Standing out like this can be both good and bad, and I hope it's good attention.
"I don't know how to factor that into your chances. What did you do, anyway?" Wyatt nods in agreement with Mags, then asks what we all wanted to know.
And it's a good question. What did Haymitch do?
"I think... not in those exact words, but maybe I implied that they use other people's suffering for entertainment. And a few other things."
"You indirectly called them murderers," Wyatt points out.
"And sadists. Honestly, Haymitch, you and Lenore Dove are trying very hard to be hated in the Capitol," Maysilee emphasizes, looking at the two of us, then stopping on him. "You confronted them again."
"Did I?" His response came out naturally ironic.
"And you, Lenore Dove?" Wyatt turns his attention to me. "What did you do to earn an Eleven?"
"I just talked about my skills," I mumble.
At bedtime, we decide to take watch shifts, just like Maysilee had told me yesterday. I take the first shift, my mind filled with worries.
The Gamemakers, surely on Snow's orders, gave me an Eleven to turn me into a target. And they gave Haymitch a One as punishment for his words, but there must be something more to it than that.
As for breaking the arena, is there any chance it could work? It's not a guarantee, just a possibility. But right now it's all we have, so it's better to invest in it.
I stay awake for three watch shifts, thinking maybe Beetee will make another visit. Finally, a time comes when my eyelids get so heavy and my head droops from exhaustion that I wake Wyatt to take my place. I lie down next to Haymitch, who opens his arms to adjust himself against me. I snuggle into his arms and sleep deeply.
Our mentors let us sleep in, and I feel immense relief when I see my locket on the kitchen table. Our four symbols have been released, and we grab them with eager hands.
"Can I see yours? Since you both actually got them," I see Maysilee is referring to me and Haymitch.
I hand mine to her, and Maysilee studies it meticulously, examining every part of the carving and reading the inscription, which doesn't go unnoticed by her the way it did for me originally. Soon after, she gives it back, and I see Haymitch hand his over, reluctantly, perhaps. She does the same as before, analyzing it.
"Well, the Covey has good taste, no doubt," Maysilee finally says something. I smile at her words. Of course they do, the Covey really does have good taste.
"I heard you have one of Tam Amber's brooches," Haymitch makes a comment that would seem casual to everyone, but I understand his intention.
She wrinkles her nose, and I frown at her reaction.
"Oh, that. It's well-made, but I don't really like mockingjays. A bird that's half a jabberjay doesn't seem natural to me."
I've never thought of it that way, since mockingjays represent resistance and survival against the Capitol.
"Some people consider it a victory that the birds escaped the Capitol and survived."
"Is that so?" says Maysilee. "Well, if I escape the Capitol and survive, maybe I'll give that brooch a second chance."
"You really should," I reply with a wide-open smile. "And if you don't, you can give it to me, and then I'll have my own jewelry collection."
Maysilee smiles, satisfied with my answer.
"All right, I'll write a letter with these words: Maysilee Donner, the owner of a brooch who will pass this family heirloom on to Lenore Dove Baird," she teases, still laughing. I follow her, laughing along. Then we both stop laughing, and she gives me that smile of hers. "And to think you didn't like me. And it wasn't because of the brooch."
Before I can answer, Haymitch does.
"Isn't it because you're cruel?" he asks in an innocent tone.
Maysilee laughs.
"Partly, maybe. But it's more because I know her secret," I see her shoot me a mocking look. "Confess to your boyfriend, you hated being at my mercy."
"Hated? And who said I don't still hate it?" I retort.
"It's just that I know more things now, except this time you're the one who told me."
"Secret?" Haymitch interrupts us, and I swallow hard. "What do you mean?"
"Why don't you ask her?"
He looks at the two of us, and then his gaze stops on me, searching for answers.
"Dovey, what is it?"
Because I take too long to find a good answer, Maysilee interrupts me.
"You know, Abernathy, it's a secret between the two of us now. It needs to be respected," Maysilee carefully rearranges her necklaces, which, apparently, the Gamemakers saw as a single symbol. "Unless, of course, you have a secret to tell me in exchange."
"These girly things," Wyatt comments as he puts on his own symbol. "They never make sense."
"You said it," Haymitch agrees. He's pouting, clearly upset about the new incomplete information, but not pushing for an answer.
Is Snow right? Does Haymitch feel the way he said when he's left out? But Haymitch isn't Snow. I move even closer, hugging him, and he hugs back, stroking my back, making circles.
"This secret isn't something you talk about in this situation, you understand?" I try to make him understand, and the understanding that dawns in his gray eyes is instant. He doesn't know the secret, but he realized it must be one of my acts of rebellion against the Capitol.
"Hey, what's this coin made of? Nickel?" Haymitch asks Wyatt.
"Zinc, I think," he replies.
"Potato battery," Haymitch reminds Wyatt. "Remember to keep an eye out for copper."
Maysilee picks up the flower medallion from the collection on her neck.
"I'm already taking care of that."
"Of course you are, Mrs. Donner," he retorts. "If the Gamemakers released that, maybe they expect you to use it."
At that moment, Drusilla appears and calls us to the living room, to help us prepare for the interviews. After the fiascos of the Reaping and the chariots, she's on the hot seat. Apart from my score, the others don't help her at all. This is her last big event before the Games, and Drusilla needs it to go well.
"Listen up, everyone, there are always some soft-hearted idiots who send supplies to fools like you, if they can feel some connection. Surprisingly enough, the only one in good standing is Lenore Dove, for getting an Eleven in training and everyone wanting to know how she did it. And besides her, the other well-known name right now is Haymitch's, because people are trying to understand why his score was so low. He also got some attention for his horrible behavior toward the audience during the parade. But the rest of you basically don't exist. This interview is your last chance to make an impression before the Games begin. Anything that helps you stand out is an advantage. Make them remember you. Who are you? Why should I want to spend my money on you? What are you selling?"
With an audience made up of Drusilla, Mags, Wiress, and ourselves, we clear some space and try to simulate the interviews. Drusilla plays the role of Caesar Flickerman, the smooth-talking host of the event.
"You first." She points at Wyatt.
After exchanging a few empty compliments, she asks Wyatt what makes him special.
"I calculate odds," he says without hesitation.
"You calculate odds? What do you mean?"
"I determine the chances in betting events, back in District 12. I say what each person's chances are of winning the Hunger Games."
"Is that so?" Drusilla asks skeptically.
"It is."
"And who would you recommend our audience bet on?"
Wyatt takes a deep breath and starts sharing his projections.
"Well, it's tempting to go with the easy option. The odds always look good for most Career tributes. Like Panache, from District 1, a strong tribute, well-trained, with a high score. I'd give him eleven-to-five odds, which means he has a 31.25 percent chance of winning. Or Maritte, from District 4. She's an obvious competitor, with the physique she has and an eleven from the Gamemakers that probably indicates she's exceptional with a trident. I'd say six-to-one odds, or 14.29 percent."
"Hmph. A lot of math, but nothing new there," says Drusilla. "Everyone knows the Careers are a good bet."
"Obviously," Wyatt replies. "But something new in these Games is that all forty-eight tributes formed alliances before the start. Nothing like this has ever happened. The Careers are powerful, that's true, but the Newcomers have twice as many people. If I were betting, I'd definitely take a look at the Careers, but if the alliances hold, if the tributes really defend each other to the death, anyone has a chance. And if you're not afraid to take a risk, it's a better investment to back a more obscure Newcomer, because the odds aren't in their favor, and the return will be higher in the end."
"Give me a name," says Drusilla.
"Haymitch Abernathy," Wyatt replies.
"His score was a one."
"Exactly. With no apparent disability. He's physically capable, and his behavior suggests a boldness that bothers the Gamemakers."
Surprised, Haymitch interrupts them.
"You don't have to do this, Wyatt."
"I'm not doing anything, Haymitch. That's my honest assessment of your chances. Maysilee isn't a bad bet either. And Lenore Dove seems to have the best chance of all of us."
"And you?" Drusilla asks.
"Oh, I wouldn't bet on myself," Wyatt admits. "I'm just..."
"No!" Wiress interrupts. "Don't sell yourself short, Wyatt. No other tribute can do what you just did. Mention the fact that intelligence matters. Reference me. Say that Wiress won the Games last year without shedding a drop of blood. Brains matter."
Wyatt thinks for a moment and turns to Drusilla.
"Here's the thing: at every moment, during the Hunger Games, I'll know everyone's odds, how they compare to each other's, and the probability of each person receiving gifts. That should keep me from making a lot of stupid mistakes. That's my advantage. Whether you're smart enough to see it is up to you."
"Great," says Wiress. "That's it. Position yourself as the smart choice for bettors. People who pride themselves on being clever will respond to that."
When it's Maysilee's turn, she and Drusilla shoot murderous looks at each other, but they don't come to blows.
"So, Miss Donner, what do you think of the Capitol?"
"I think it's hard to believe that people so rich have such bad taste. You have mountains of money, and that's what you choose to wear?" She looks Drusilla up and down, at her outfit, a red and white striped jumpsuit with a matching cap. "You look like you just walked out of our candy shop back in 12. Like a hellish peppermint cane."
Drusilla brings a hand to her collar.
"You're not going to make friends with that approach, you little snake."
"Who said I want friends? I'm here to make an impression on people, remember? It's not just you, it's everyone I saw from the chariot. Gaudy colors, unflattering styles. And there are some fashion choices you're going to regret. I can't understand the logic of looking like a barn animal, but I hope those goat horns are removable. And the woman with diamonds implanted in her teeth? People age, there's no shame in it, but I think those stones are going to make chewing pretty difficult when her gums recede."
"So we should be copying fashion from where? District 12?" Drusilla retorts.
"Gods, no. You can't expect people who don't have a penny to their name to dress well. Although there isn't a miner in 12 with a worse physique than the people I saw in that audience. Not all the surgeries in the world can change that."
"What...?"
"And not all the money in the world buys good taste. Clearly. Some people in 12 have far more than what I'm witnessing here."
"Are you done?" says Drusilla.
"Honestly, I haven't even started."
"That's enough."
"It's a risky strategy, but yes, it will make people remember you," Wiress concludes.
Drusilla makes a face of disdain and turns to me.
"Miss Baird, among all the Newcomers, you got the highest score. Can you tell us what you did?"
"I don't know," I reply.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Drusilla stares at me with contempt. She flips a page, annoyed. "Fix that sentence, drop the 'I don't know,' don't stammer either, and look at me."
And then I noticed I was staring at the floor. I slowly begin to look at her, and I nod. It's what Plutarch said days ago — Drusilla is trying to help, even if she's difficult about it.
"To be honest, Caesar, the score surprised me too. The Gamemakers must have seen something in me that I didn't know about."
She seems satisfied with my answer, but her gaze is still the same as always.
"You're trying to convince me that a girl who got eleven points doesn't know why she got eleven points? Fine. Then tell me: were you surprised when you saw the eleven on the screen?"
"Of course I was, Caesar, and I'm almost certain I already answered that earlier," I retort, and Drusilla, surprisingly, doesn't take the bait, just keeps talking.
"Look... you got an eleven. Your peers got scores between three and seven. One of them even got a one. It would shock anyone."
"Right."
"You won't say anything else?"
"I don't plan to." Drusilla snorts in response. "Drusilla, I have a question."
"Go ahead."
"Can I sing on stage?"
She frowns in response, looking at me skeptically. "Sure, if there's time. And don't embarrass yourself or the Twelve."
"I won't, I'm a good singer."
"Your turn, Abernathy. So, the 12 has a calculator, a snake, and a supposed singer. What are you?"
"A nuisance, it seems," he replies. "How else would I have gotten a one in training?"
"Yes, good idea, put that on the table right away," Mags advises. "Take control."
"Well, how did that happen?" Drusilla asks.
"I earned it. The Gamemakers don't like me. It probably started when I got into it with a Peacekeeper during the Reaping."
"You can't say that!" Drusilla protests. "You'll ruin all my brilliant work disguising the riot."
"What riot? Woodbine ran and your people shot him."
"I know a riot when I see one! Never mind. It's forbidden. And it won't win you any points with the audience anyway. They might like a tough boy, but not a rebel. You need to be cheeky, not dangerous. For example, last winter, one of the university students dyed all the fountains pink during a shortage of facial moisturizer. What a rascal! Everyone loved it!"
It seems like she's really trying to help, even if she's very much herself.
"Okay, fine. But I'm going to the Hunger Games. Protesting about facial moisturizer isn't going to do anything. Can I talk about spitting at the audience?"
"Absolutely not! What will people say?"
"Well, if I can't talk about the Reaping or the spit, what do I talk about?"
I feel like Haymitch is asking these insolent questions on purpose. Drusilla thinks for a moment.
"It's better to be mysterious, like Lenore Dove. Make allusions to radical behavior without being specific. The ones who were at the opening ceremony are already gossiping. Let the audience use their imagination."
"Cheeky, but not dangerous," Haymitch repeats.
"That's right. Be a scoundrel. A charming, cheeky scoundrel."
A Rascal. Someone bold and funny, then. A flirt, I'd say.
"Well, I can try."
"Drusilla," I call her, making them both look at me. "Would it be in good taste for me to mention Haymitch in my interview?"
The whole room went silent, and for a moment I regretted asking.
"I forgot for a moment, you two are dating, am I correct?" We both nod in agreement. "Change of plans, I want you to be a scoundrel, yes, but also a committed one."
"All right, that won't be hard," Haymitch says, looking at me and smiling. "So, how would we say we're committed without looking desperate? It would have to seem natural."
"He always asks that kind of question. You know, if there's someone waiting at home," Mags argues, looking at us. "If you're going to try that, you'll have to be careful."
"Yes, I know. I have a few ideas, but overall it would be singing for Haymitch."
He gets embarrassed by what I say, but laughs anyway.
"So I'd be myself, just bolder? A rogue, who shows he knows he annoyed the Gamemakers, but still loves his girlfriend like all-fire."
"What did you say? That phrase," Drusilla asks again.
"Like all-fire?" He repeats. "That's my phrase with her."
Yes, our phrase to show how much we love each other. And I love him like all-fire. A memory comes to mind, and for a second I hesitate, but an involuntary smile forms on my face.
"That's a good one," Drusilla agrees, thoughtful. "Yes, the audience loves a pair of ill-fated lovers."
"Darling, I have a request for you to make during the interview," Haymitch turns to me, and I move closer to him, whispering in his ear. I pull away from him seeing his confused reaction, and then he nods.
"Don't worry, Dovey, I'll do it."
I don't get a chance to say more, because at that moment, Proserpina and Vitus burst into the apartment, very agitated.
"It's Magno. We went to his apartment to see the interview clothes, so we could plan tonight's makeup and hair..." Proserpina begins.
"We have permission to do that. We have to, actually, according to our handbook. We weren't being nosy or anything..." Vitus interrupts.
"And the apartment door was wide open, and he was staggering around the house, sick..."
"He's vomiting all over the house and talking nonsense, and..."
"We think the rumors about the frog poison might be true!" says Proserpina, and brings her hands to her mouth as if she'd said something considered unspeakable.
"Rumors?" Drusilla grumbles. "That man has been licking frogs since the war. I can't believe he'd take that risk during the Games. Oh, what am I saying? Of course he would. At the very least, to ruin my career!"
"Why does he lick frogs?" Wyatt asks.
"Because he's obsessed with reptiles! And he'd do anything to bring me down."
"They say some types of frogs cause hallucinations or something like that," Vitus explains. "That is, when they don't kill you. Some people do it for fun, but ugh, disgusting."
"I'm going to file a formal complaint with the Gamemakers!"
Drusilla grabs her purse and leaves, ending my interview preparation.
"Do you two by any chance have any black clothes they can wear?" Wiress asks our prep team.
"Us?" Vitus asks, incredulous. "We don't wear black."
"It's too depressing!" Proserpina bursts into tears, her magenta buns swinging wildly. "Even if Magno had left black clothes ready, they were full of colors."
We all look at each other, not quite understanding why our stylist would have colorful clothes, but not in our District 12 palette. Magno really must hate us to do this to us.
"Full of colors?" Maysilee repeats, indignant. "And where are these clothes?"
Vitus picks up several garment bags, zipped shut.
"We took a look, and there's not a single one that's completely black."
Proserpina throws herself into a chair by the table holding a burnt-orange phone, presses a few buttons, and starts whimpering:
"I'm going to fail! I'm going to fail!"
We all move closer to the zipped garment bags. Mags starts running her hand over the bags, searching for something. And then, among the bags, she pulls out an envelope, opens it, and starts reading; apparently, by the end, she seems satisfied.
"All right, everything is under control," Mags says, drawing everyone's attention.
"I'm not going to fail?" Proserpina asks, still with tears running down her face. Vitus, beside her, looks just as euphoric.
The zipper of one of the bags opens, revealing a black dress shirt and a complete red suit. It was beautiful, modest, but not the predominant color we wanted. The black.
"Haymitch, this one's yours," says Mags, showing Haymitch's name on the bag. He approaches, taking the suit and holding it.
"It's good quality, but, Mags, the color isn't ours. Doesn't that cause some penalty?"
"Don't worry. In fact, Wiress, can you call Drusilla? Tell her it's resolved."
"Be right back," she says, heading off to where Drusilla went.
"Wyatt, this one's yours." Inside that bag was another suit, and this one was black, or the predominant color was black. Black top, but on the pants there was a design that rose from the feet to the thighs, a design of flames.
Analyzing his own suit, Wyatt seems satisfied. His is more on theme than Haymitch's, honestly.
"Can I ask why we're not in trouble?" I ask, still wanting to know the reason these clothes pass.
Mags's gaze passes over everyone until it stops on the bags.
"Whoever delivered the letter received Snow's permission for the changes," she explains, slowly. I nod at her basic explanation, hoping she opens the other bags.
"Permission? So it wasn't Magno," Maysilee points out, and looks at the boys' suits. "Of course it wasn't, he has no taste."
"Oh, this is good," Vitus comments quietly, starting to perk up, and Proserpina, beside him, is smiling too. They both stood up excitedly, this time looking carefully at the clothes.
Another bag is opened, and from inside it Mags pulls out a dress with a gradient of red, orange, and yellow. The bodice is asymmetrical, with a cutout at the waist. Red fringe on the shoulder simulates embers. The chiffon skirt, with uneven edges, forms tongues of fire.
"Maysilee, this one's yours."
Maysilee was radiant seeing her dress. She approaches and takes it, checking it closely.
"Whoever the stylist is, he has good taste."
I agree with her, looking at the three outfits. But something confuses me: Wyatt and Maysilee's clothes evoke flames, but Haymitch's is just a red suit.
The last bag is for my outfit, and I confess I'm quite eager.
And when the last bag opens, I finally get a glimpse of my interview outfit. And it...
"Lenore Dove," Haymitch calls me, snapping me out of my stupor. I must have been very quiet, since everyone is staring at me. "Is something bothering you about the dress?"
"No," I exclaim, repeating it. "Of course not."
I move away from Haymitch and go to Mags, taking the dress. I can't tear my eyes away from it.
"Did something happen to the dress?" Mags asks me gently.
"Besides being different from the others?" Maysilee exclaims, analyzing the outfit. "Sure, mine and Wyatt's evoke burning coal, and Haymitch's, even though it's different, still passes because it's red. But hers looks like a clown threw up on her clothes."
"It's perfect," I tell everyone.
The prep teams arrive, and we all take turns using the rooms and bathrooms. One by one, we're taken to the rooms, individually, to be fixed up. When I'm alone with the team in the room, they start preparing my hair. In a good few minutes, my hair is ready and styled. Then, my face starts being made up. The team worked in silence, they were quite efficient. When I'm ready, I see one of them coming with my dress, and then they help me get dressed.
"So?" Aria asks me, giving me one last touch-up. He then guides me in front of the mirror.
I stand still before the mirror, and seeing my reflection, I can only look at a ghost of the past.
This dress looks like that worn-out one I have at home. Of course, this one has new details, and current ones. But aside from those small details, it's the same.
The dress falls over my body looking almost sacred. The yellow corset, with its delicate print, hugs my waist, forcing me to keep an upright posture. The small purple bows, attached to the thin straps, rest on my shoulders like forgotten jewels. The puffed sleeves, white and voluminous, deliberately slip down, revealing the dark skin and freckles that dot my arms.
I bring my hand to my dark curls and adjust the green ribbon that holds half my hair back. I can't take my eyes off the reflection.
The skirt is a spectacle in itself. The overlapping layers cascade down, forming a perfect gradient: the vibrant pink melting into orange, gold, blue, and finally, deep purple. Each ruffle has a rustic, wavy edge that gives the piece movement. The fabric is heavy, almost oppressive, and smells like new clothes.
I lift my chin, observing how the dress behaves on my body. The colors — hot pink and orange — scream against my silence, while the deep purple at the hem seems to pull me down, like anchors.
I slowly approach the mirror, and my reflection does the same. I meet my own eyes, green and focused, the same color as my hair ribbon.
I raise my hand and touch the mirror. This dress looks like Lucy Gray's.
"Am I pretty?" I ask Aria, who's behind me, smiling euphorically.
"Of course you are! Just one detail missing." Delphine appears from behind me, and around my neck she places a flower choker. "And you're beautiful."
"Yes, perfect. You look like an angel!"
They both agree with each other, and I laugh at the compliments.
"Thank you!"
We're taken to the van, heading toward the back of an auditorium. The interviews are broadcast from an auditorium that seats about two thousand people. Drusilla says it will be completely live, because they don't expect the audience, made up of Capitol citizens, to riot, so we can't do anything stupid and expect her to cover for us. I can't think much, since I'm nervous about all of this. After receiving the official schedule, she's going to talk to Caesar Flickerman, so he knows how to approach our interviews. As she walks away, she murmurs:
"Snake, calculator, singer, rascal."
We're taken to a waiting room backstage, called the green room, although it's painted white. It's already full of mentors, escorts, and stylists around the tributes, all fixed up and in fancy outfits in their districts' colors. Even District 1, which wore party dresses and suits in the parade, raised the bar, and their mint-green ensembles with flowing trains and feathered jackets take up three times the space of the other districts.
Drusilla is busy telling everyone that it wasn't Magno who took care of our clothes. She really must have some anger toward that stylist, I don't know how they work together. Haymitch says he's thirsty and heads toward some bowl. I see Beetee approaching him, and they both talk about something I don't know, but I have a sense of it.
Magno Stift enters, holding a cage of reptiles above his head and shouting:
"This party is going to be wild!"
Wasn't this guy sick hours ago? What's he doing here, and with reptiles? I look at Maysilee and Wyatt. Maysilee is at the very least sick of Magno, and rightly so, and Wyatt seems to ignore his existence. I see where Haymitch is, who's now talking to Wellie. I turn back to Magno.
"Where are my tributes? I need to dress them!"
People shout, and the Peacekeepers gather to decide how to contain him. Drusilla, on the other hand, looks thrilled.
"Take him down! Take him down!" she shouts.
But before the Peacekeepers, tasers in hand, can do the job, I stand up and walk over to him.
"What are you planning to do?"
Magno smiles at me, doesn't answer, but still takes the snake he's holding and wraps it around my shoulders, passing the tail behind my neck.
"Wear it like this," he says instead of answering me. And I stand paralyzed, trying to understand what I've gotten myself into.
I've never had a problem with animals, including snakes. I gently take the snake and rest its neck on my arm, so its head rests on the back of my hand. Then, I raise my hand as if displaying a jewel.
Magno bows and kisses the snake's mouth. And I automatically feel that I should have stayed seated. This is the very image of madness: a girl in a rainbow-ruffled dress and her perfectly put-together stylist, completely drugged, treating a snake as if it were part of the collection.
As soon as Magno pulls away from the snake, I move away from him with the snake. I feel like she wants to be far away as much as I do.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Interview Night of the Fiftieth Hunger Games. And here is Panem's favorite host, Caesar Flickerman!"
Caesar descends from the ceiling perched on a crescent moon, with stars flying behind him. He's a young man in a suit so dark blue it's almost black, covered in tiny lights that make him sparkle. The suit doesn't change, but every year he dyes his hair a different color, and today it's a very dark forest green, with his eyelids and lips painted the same color. Maybe you could even defend the hair and eyes, but green lips make him look like he's decomposing. His appearance is spectral. The gleam of his too-white teeth, when Caesar opens a sympathetic smile for the audience, only reminds you that there's a skull underneath all of that. When he nimbly descends from the moon, he opens his arms and says:
"Hello, Panem! Shall we start this party?"
The audience roars in approval.
Backstage, a young Gamemaker forms lines with Districts 1 and 2 and reads their entrance order. The tributes, lined up behind her, go out the door to wait in the wings.
On the screen, Caesar begins a brief retrospective of the previous forty-nine Games, starting with the more objective versions of the early years right after the war, when tributes were thrown into an old, crumbling sports arena, with a few weapons and nothing else. I watch closely as he talks about the Tenth Hunger Games being a turning point, since it was the year District 12 had a female champion, but he only mentions the beginning of betting, sponsors, and the unstable drones that carried food and water to the tributes.
District 12 has only had one victor, and that one victor was erased from history. How ironic. Even more ironic are the clothes I'm wearing.
From that point on, the Games evolved from pure punishment to blatant entertainment. The original sports arena was abandoned when the Gamemakers started using scenarios in forests, bombed cities, or things like that, and began introducing a variety of mutts and weapons.
The 25th Hunger Games, the first Quarter Quell, was particularly horrible: the districts were forced to choose their own tributes, instead of relying on the Reaping. The host was another Flickerman, a man named Lucky, with commentary from a decrepit woman named Gaul, who supposedly coined the phrase "May the odds be EVER in your favor" on that occasion. The expression caught on as a way to wish someone luck, but when you think about it, it's a sadistic thing to say to a tribute, considering survival is an impossibility for twenty-three of the twenty-four teenagers.
For that first Quell, the Gamemakers had the tributes begin their appearances in the Capitol by riding through the streets in chariots wearing outfits that evoked the districts. Instead of finding a location for the Games, they built a single-use arena. In addition, the Cornucopia made its first appearance, full of weapons and supplies, generating a heated bloodbath when the initial gong sounded.
In the last twenty-four years, a new arena has been revealed on each occasion, based on a different environment or theme: deserts, frozen landscapes, even reaching Wiress's mirror-filled riddle, which they called the Mirror Nest. Caesar jokes with the audience about the second Quarter Quell's arena. He's heard it outshines all previous arenas. Can you imagine? No, you can't. Will it be fabulous? Certainly…
My stomach churns with nervousness, and I'm glad I don't have to go first. I'm also glad it's District 1. When Caesar presents Silka, she walks onto the stage dragging four and a half meters of mint-green train.
"Ugh. She looks like a slug," Maysilee comments loudly, drawing nervous laughter from the backstage room. What everyone is really thinking is that Silka is over six feet tall without heels and can throw an axe into the heart of a dummy from five yards away. And that's not funny at all.
Since there are so many of us this year, we're limited to two-minute interviews, and every four districts, there's a sort of pause Caesar calls a ‘breather.’
Silka wastes no time boasting about her size, strength, axe skills, and her ten. She doesn't even bother mentioning the Career alliance, and when Caesar brings it up, she just says:
"Sure, it helps to have someone to clear the way."
Panache walks onto the stage next, stopping three times to pose and flex his muscles for the audience.
"Panache, from District 1!" Caesar shouts, then asks, "So, Panache, besides your obvious talents, why should our audience support you?"
"Because I'm the biggest, the meatiest, and the best!" Panache strikes another pose.
"Wow, looks like we should put you on the grill!" Caesar jokes.
"That's right. This is pure muscle, little man," the tribute replies, giving Caesar a condescending pat on the head.
He's so easy to hate. You can see Caesar is still absorbing the comment, but he loves this kind of thing.
"Even your brain?" Caesar asks, impressed.
"Not my brain! Obviously, it's made of gray stuff."
Caesar nods seriously as if digesting the answer, while the audience dies laughing. Panache starts to get irritated, and I remember the train window, which was just an innocent spectator. For a minute, I think he's going to finish Caesar off, but he controls himself and just shouts at the audience.
"I am mass!"
"Mass?" says Caesar. "I think having gray matter in your head is what's mass!"
The Capitol citizens burst out laughing, and I get annoyed by the comments. How clueless. He's not just humiliating Panache, clearly we're all included in this. Animals for their entertainment. Disposable for their entertainment. Too dumb to deserve to live.
Caesar calms the audience and tries to get back to the interview.
"It's a joke, Panache, it's a joke. I myself failed biology. Tell us, what's your favorite weapon?"
"My fists," Panache replies, raising one up to Caesar's nose.
Caesar steps back delicately, turns his head to the audience and fake-whispers:
"Also meaty."
I swore Caesar was condescending, but no, he's humiliating Panache. Career or not, before that he's a District kid.
So Panache is done for. They show images of people dying of laughter, tears streaming down their faces and struggling to breathe. Caesar pretends to be trying to continue the questions, but jumps back every time Panache looks at him, making faces of terror at the cameras. I can't find this normal, how can they think it is? Panache is clearly uncomfortable.
I feel like the rest of the other interviews followed that same path. A bell for him ends, and the kid has no choice but to leave the stage furious and humiliated.
The rest of the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 seem to realize they're being classified as animals that risk being idiots too, so they make an effort to emphasize their skill with weapons and the benefit of the Career group. But Panache hurt them, and any attempt to brag about weapons and the benefits of the muscles' Career group comes with a sideways look from Caesar that provokes the audience.
So far, there's been no mention of the Newcomers, but Dio starts District 3's interviews by telling about our alliance, and generously cites the whole group by name and emphasizes our skills. Ampert goes next and presents his whole theory about previous tributes having been brainwashed, about the disproportionate number of Career victories, and that it just takes a large group for the result to be different. He doesn't even mention his own attributes, he doesn't need to, because it's evident that he has such a quick mind that Caesar comments on it with approval. In fact, the whole District 3 seems intelligent, collaborative and in control, a strong contrast with the Careers, and they get a lot of applause.
District 4 was instructed to show off their skills with tridents and nets, not to cite strategies related to the Newcomers. They get tangled up when confronted with that line of questioning by Caesar.
"Those people seem pretty smart, don't they? And there are a lot of them, aren't there? What plans have the Careers made to neutralize the Newcomers?"
By the time the first breather comes, the Capitol is talking nonstop about the Newcomers.
While the audience watches some fashion highlights throughout the Games, District 5 held an emergency meeting backstage. As the only remaining District, this is going to be their alliance's last chance to present something against the Newcomers. The rest of the night is going to be ours.
I start to get anxious. There are probably two thousand people, and I've never sung for such a big audience. In fact, I've never spoken in public like this.
"Dovey," I look at Haymitch, who's beside me. "Follow my breathing. Breathe in and out. That's it, again."
I start imitating him, controlling my breathing. I still felt shaky. He notices and gets closer, kisses my forehead, then my cheek and gives me a peck on the lips.
"Better?"
"A little," I confess, I put the snake in one of the hidden pockets in the dress ruffles, and then I throw myself into his arms, and he hugs me tight.
"It's all right, Dovey. What's worrying you?" Haymitch asks, stroking my back, and his other hand on my cheek.
"A lot of people in public, and I still don't know which song to sing," I confess quietly. This is killing me.
My boy knows I don't like crowds like this, that's why I never sang at events in District 12, but now I'll sing for all of Panem.
"Do you have any song in mind?" I deny his question, and he makes a thoughtful sound. "Why don't you sing that 'Nothing You Can Take from Me'?"
"I already sang that one for President Snow, and I want to surprise." Haymitch, who didn't know that information, just raises his eyebrow at me in doubt. He sighs, still thoughtful. "I'm torn between 'Pure as the Driven Snow' and Lucy Gray's ballad."
Haymitch seems to look at me, confused. Then he focuses on what to say.
"That song about the little girl with an unknown fate?" He then starts to hum the song:
Some say she still walks where the wild winds blow,
A little lost girl the hills still know.
Her footprints fade where the cold streams run,
But no one can say where she wen’ when she was gone.
"No, that was the song I made for her ballad," I explain to him, and then I remember he doesn't know who Lucy Gray is. No one knows, except the Covey... and Snow. "The song I'm torn about is by the girl Lucy Gray, a former Covey."
"Got it. And the first song is about romance?" I agree. "Did she write it?"
"That's right, but I still have to decide which one."
"Dovey," he calls me, and kisses me gently. "Don't think too much, just sing whatever you think is best in the moment."
"All right, I'll do that," I agree, taking a deep breath and giving myself even more into his arms. "Darling, thanks."
I pull away a little, and kiss him slowly. He reciprocates in the same instant, I feel his hand in my hair, adjusting the kiss.
"I love you like all-fire," he says as he separates from the kiss, and then starts giving quick pecks between the phrase.
"I love you like all-fire too," I say to him, laughing between our kisses. I feel calmer, and a little euphoric now, smiling like a fool and looking at my boy.
Haymitch is wearing that red suit, and in his eyes eyeliner was applied that makes his gaze even more striking. His mouth is a little red, and I laugh at that, my lipstick smeared on him. He looks at me confused, also laughing.
"What is it, Dovey?"
I don't say anything, I just laugh more and give him another kiss, leaving his mouth dirty with red lipstick.
"Nothing."
I pull away from him just to see which District is on now, but not enough. I hear Caesar's voice.
"And is that purse to carry your flea repellent?"
I frown at his cluelessness, and then I see who's on stage. Wyatt. Since when did our district start? I look at Haymitch, who's as surprised as I am. We lost track of time.
"I advise you to take a deep breath, you're next," I hear Maysilee's voice warning me. I agree, starting to get nervous again.
I feel the snake moving restlessly among the dress ruffles. And I stroke it gently, holding it and putting it on my shoulder. I start humming softly to calm it down, and so it does.
Wyatt recites complicated probabilities, which the Gamemakers confirm with the help of a calculator. When he correctly cites the amount of sponsorship dollars needed to send a tribute a stuffed pheasant two weeks after the start of the Games, considering the rising inflation of thirty-eight percent a day, Caesar is genuinely impressed.
"I wasn't very good at arithmetic either!" he exclaims. "I don't know if luck is on your side in the arena, Wyatt, but if you win, we'll go to a casino together!"
And then he's calling Lenore Dove Baird, and I feel like I'm not in my body. I got up and walked to the center of the stage.
I squeeze Caesar's outstretched hand, and he seems to have no manners, since he immediately wipes his hand on his suit.
"I hope you've used insecticide. You know, so I don't catch fleas from you."
I swallow hard, annoyed by his comment. I open a smile that I hope doesn't look like a grimace.
"Caesar, between the two of us it's easier for me to catch fleas from you," I comment, analyzing him from head to toe. "After all, have you looked at yourself in the mirror?"
Caesar laughs at my comment, but I know he didn't like it.
"Do we have a new Maysilee here on stage? You need to be more acidic than that." And Caesar is a scoundrel, he's really fed up with so many tributes, and being as rude as possible. I don't answer him, I just keep smiling. He must have noticed I wouldn't say anything, since he went back to talking. "So, Lenore Dove, about your training score. Eleven, of all the Newcomers, even higher than some Careers. Tell us what you did."
"Honestly, Caesar, the score surprised me. The Gamemakers must have seen something in me that I didn't know."
"How modest," he replies, and by his tone he didn't like the answer. "Do you want to talk about the Newcomers?"
"Caesar, everything I could say has already been said. So I can only ask you to give a vote of confidence to our group. We're united and we protect each other."
"As the highest score among the Newcomers, will you protect them then?" he asks me.
"Automatically."
"And won't it be a burden for you to carry them? Better yet, carry one of your district partners? The one who got a one."
Everyone in the audience shouts in agreement, wanting a reaction from me.
"Of course not, he'll be safe with me."
He laughs at my answer, clearly skeptical. He soon sees the snake sliding through the colorful ruffles.
"Yes, we didn't even mention it, my mistake. Did District 12 decide to change colors? Looks like you stole all the color in the world for your dress." I get up and do a spin, showing it off as a whole. "Beautiful outfit, I heard it wasn't Magno who made it. Not only that, but what about this snake?"
I smile in response, picking up the snake and showing it off. The audience noises get louder, and the audience laughs at the animal.
"Our clothes were made by another stylist who didn't want to be identified. As for the snake, it was given to me."
"And isn't it dangerous?"
"It's calm because snakes love to hear me sing."
This seems to awaken a memory in Caesar.
"I was told you sing," he brings up the subject, and I agree. "Could you give us a little taste of your music? Who wants to hear her sing?"
Everyone in the audience screams, and I smile in response. In the end, I didn't even choose the song, so I sang the first one that came to mind at the moment.
When I was a babe, I fell down in the holler
When I was a girl, I fell into your arms
We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color
You went to the dogs and I lived by my charms
I danced for my dinner, spread kisses like honey
You stole and you gambled and I said: You should
We sang for our suppers, we drank up our money
Then one day, you left sayin' I was no good
The bell rings, interrupting me in the middle of the song.
"It seems our time is up. Good luck, Lenore Dove, and if you win, you'll sing a lot on stages, after all you have a beautiful voice."
The applause continues for a long time after I'm sitting off stage. I feel the tension leave my body, and I sigh, sitting down next to Maysilee backstage. I've never felt so relieved that the tribute room is separated from the stage.
Caesar doesn't waste time and presents Haymitch.
"And now our last tribute of the night, Haymitch Abernathy, from District 12!"
I keep my head down, so I only hear what they're saying on stage through the television audio. Caesar is being relatively calm with Haymitch. Yes, he's trying to humiliate him like he did with the others, but I can hear his sharp answers. About his score, the Newcomers, and being a troublemaker, that's why he got a One and not the usual Ten.
When I lift my head to see him on the screen, I'm startled. He is indeed handsome, in his red clothes, but now his hair is sensually tousled and his lips are red. He didn't notice, and no one warned him about that detail.
"And you, my dear?" he leans forward, where I see a girl with cat ears, who covers her face in amused embarrassment. "You certainly understand me."
"So let's make a list of everyone you've annoyed," says Caesar. "There's Panache... and the other Careers... and the Gamemakers. And that in just a few days in the Capitol. Anyone back in your District?"
"No, Caesar, my girlfriend doesn't let me annoy anyone."
The audience gets louder, in various questions and exclamations. I know Haymitch is enjoying this reaction. Caesar, on the other hand, seems to have found a gold mine with this detail.
"Of course a charming scoundrel like this would be taken," Caesar points out with his characteristic smile. The audience seems as entertained as he is, so he switches to that subject. "And what was your girl's reaction when you were reaped?"
"Devastated, Caesar, and me even more."
Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. They find a connection with this love.
"So do this. Win, go home. And you'll be able to meet again," says Caesar encouragingly.
Haymitch stays silent at Caesar's words, and he and the crowd fall silent at the scoundrel's sudden silence.
"I don't think that's going to work. Winning isn't going to help with that," says Haymitch.
"How not?" Caesar retorts, perplexed.
Haymitch sweeps his gaze over the audience before turning to the interviewer. His voice gets a little lower in the answer.
"Because... she came here with me."
"Oh, that's bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real hint of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few letting out agonizing little screams. "Now that smudged lipstick makes sense. So our scoundrel wasn't flirting with just anyone, but his girlfriend."
Haymitch gets confused, and brings his hand to his mouth, running his finger and seeing the red come off a little. He laughs seeing it.
"Yes, Caesar. Terribly taken."
"Which of the two who came is the lucky girl?"
"Lenore Dove," he answers. "She's my girl. The girl with the sweet and soft voice."
"Our rascal seems to love her very much."
"And I love her like all-fire, and she knows that."
The crowd makes sounds of understanding, as if they know what it's like to be in love. They're sympathizing with the story.
"Like all-fire, huh," Caesar repeats. "So, ladies, this rascal is terribly in love, unfortunately you missed that opportunity."
"I'm sorry, girls, but I really love my girl. I hope you understand, but I'm hers, and she's mine, it's written in the stars."
"Well, good luck to you, Haymitch Abernathy, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our heart goes with yours." The roar of the crowd is deafening. Haymitch managed to absolutely wipe the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. "Ladies and gentlemen! Haymitch Abernathy, from District 12! May the odds be EVER in your favor!”
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
Mr. Magno Stift,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I have been following, albeit from a distance, the preparation of this edition's tributes. I could not help but notice the lack of enthusiasm devoted to District 12, especially in the choice of clothing for the chariot race. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it seemed to me that the tributes could have received a little more attention.
Although I stepped away from the fashion world some time ago, District 12 has sparked my interest. That is why I decided to do something about it.
I am sending four pieces for the tributes, intended for the interviews. I was given the freedom to design them the way I deemed appropriate, something which, fortunately, I was permitted on this occasion.
The clothes represent District 12, but they also carry important elements for the story of the Hunger Games. The flames allude to burning coal, while the other details make reference to the Capitol and to the very relationship between it and the districts.
I hope you like the clothes and that they suit your tributes better than the pieces chosen for the chariot race.
I have no intention of returning to the fashion world. Consider this merely a contribution on my part — and, who knows, the beginning of a sponsorship.
Good luck to the tributes.
Sincerely,
T.S.