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When the Capitol woman walks on stage, Purpled's stomach is twisting with excitement, glee, and a small amount of panic. The energy all flows through his veins, easy as breathing, pooling atop his heart. This is his last chance to play—to fulfill his destiny of being a Victor—and he readies everything down to the smallest detail. Feet facing the aisle, hand ready to wave, throat clear and loud.
It comes as a surprise, then, when the Capitol woman does his work for him. She reaches a yellow hand—covered in sunflowers, like the rest of her ensemble—into the basket and calls his name into the microphone.
His heart jumps.
He scrambles to get on stage. It’s breathtaking, looking out on the sea of faces and their jeweled backdrop, and he pinches his teeth together in a smile. He can't really feel the pat the Capitol woman gives him, but he knows it's there, and the pride and hopes of his District sends a little weight down his spine. Purpled’s dedicated his whole life to this.
Soon enough, they take him away. Beneath his feet, the ground transforms from marble quartz, a signature luxury in District 1, to pure, practical steel. The Peacekeepers have different uniforms; the train is more sleek and powerful than the one at home.
It’s in these small increments that Purpled knows his life is about to change. With a drumming in his heart, Purpled finds his allotted train car and takes a seat.
The other tribute is twelve—far too young to die—and with a pang of guilt Purpled remembers disparity among them. Career numbers tended to fluctuate. If it was a different year, maybe she would have lived.
Her expression looks pained, almost, alongside frozen shoulders and a flat mouth. Everything about her is completely still, her head tilted facing the ground.
“Hey,” Purpled says, trying to ease the tension.
The girl jolts up, like a deer in headlights, and relaxes when she makes eye contact. Something unreadable comes across her face.
“I’m Purpled.” He holds out his hand.
Her eyes drift to the doorway behind them, then back at the outstretched hand. She shakes her head, shy, and draws further in.
“Oh, okay,” he finishes lamely. Absentmindedly, he rubs his palms on his jeans and scrunches his nose in disgust at the sweat trails they leave behind.
The rest of their ride continues in silence, Purpled keeping himself entertained by the window. A marsh of pine trees comes into view, wilderness jutting through the two skyscraper cities. The afternoon sun, reflected brightly on the building’s surfaces, starts to fade as they get closer to the border, and Purpled doesn't have to squint his eyes anymore to look outside.
His stomach still churns at the thought of the unknown, as the world behind the window flashes by faster and faster.
The girl still has her arms crossed next to him, quiet.
Beep. The doors open. Purpled looks up at the figures, reflexively putting his hands in position for the Peacekeepers.
The two people emerge wearing Capitol clothing.
Not Peacekeepers, then. Both of their faces look familiar, but Purpled can't place what year they're from. Surely, their Capitol brands have shifted from when they were Victors.
The girl at least seems to recognize one of them, and she leaps to embrace the woman with red hair. The two exchange soft reassurances and the beginning of tears. Purpled looks away, not wanting to intrude, but still nagging curiosity tries to remember.
Their story comes back to him in bits and pieces. A few years prior, a Victor won with lots of sponsor support and a quiver of poisoned arrows. Purpled's family watched her interview intently, and flashes of matching auburn hair, a televised reunion, and a fire-themed costume all play in his mind.
Another reunion, he thinks, comparing the twin freckles. Together, the sisters abandon him for another train car, leaving Purpled to stare at who’s meant to be his Mentor.
The man stays silent, hands hanging in his pockets; his eyes are fixed on something in the window. His outfit isn’t elaborate like the Capitol woman who picked out his name, either, and Purpled glances down at his own hoodie sleeves and feels an odd similarity.
He cracks a smile. The man doesn’t move. Despite being only a foot away, something about him feels unreal, as though a sheet of glass cuts the room between them.
“You’re my Mentor?” Purpled restrains himself from waving a hand in front of the man's face. “Hello?”
The man snaps his head back to him. “Oh, sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “I must have zoned out.”
All of Purpled's questions spark on his tongue, but another look at the man has them sagging like lead, refusing to come out. It’s silent between them, save for the quiet humming of the light rail and squeaking of the tracks.
“I’m Eighty,” the man says after a while. “Short for Gamer-Boy-Eighty, not—” he grins, laughing at his own joke. “I’m not eighty years old, or anything.”
“Good to know,” Purpled says, feeling his mouth go dry.
“I think I won five years ago? Maybe four,” Eighty chuckles. He starts counting on his hands, before shoving them in his pockets. “I can’t remember.”
Purpled doubts Eighty could forget this—win or lose, Purpled's sure he will remember this day his whole life. Still, he smiles, playing along. Eighty must have that effect on him.
“What about you? What’s your name?”
He sobers up, his eyes tracing the floor and its straight, metal lines welded together. “Purpled,” he says. Entering in the air, his name had more weight than before, as though his fate at the Capitol finally sunk in. “This is a stupid question, but: how old were you?"
“How old was I when— oh, when I was reaped?” Eighty pauses, tapping a finger against his chin. “Either fifteen or sixteen, or maybe even seventeen."
Purpled leans further into his seat. “I’m seventeen,” he says, petulant. The words leave a sour taste in his mouth.
Eighty whistles. “That sucks,” he says, chuckling slightly. “One more year and you would’ve been free to go.”
“Well— I’m a Career.” He kicks at the ground. Looking back, he’s not sure he fully accepted what that entailed. “I’m kind-of supposed to play.”
“I see,” Eighty says, stroking a non-existent beard. His eyes glance between Purpled’s shoes to his hair, as though passing some kind of silent judgement.
The train starts to rumble, slightly, and tree branches scratch at the window. Purpled grips onto the rail beside him, the dark forest losing its density as it kept fluttering past.
Eighty turns to face him again. “You don’t look like a Career.”
Uncertainty flickers in his gut. Something like guilt seeps onto his clothes—a plain hoodie and jeans, nothing like District 1 or the Capitol—and he wraps the sleeves over his hands. “I— I know,” he says, half-confident. “It’s a choice.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Eighty says, in thought. A real grin, not like the ones earlier, starts to spread across his features. “Holy shit, you might actually win.”
“I might— what?” Purpled feels like he’s missing something.
Getting out of his seat, Eighty turns back him. “I’m going to talk to your stylist,” he calls, before nearly heading out the door.
“Wait!” Purpled gets up too, his hand flitting upwards towards Eighty.
Eighty stills.
“Why?” Purpled asks. Desperation creeps into his voice, looking for answers.
“About your brand, duh,” Eighty says, hand nearly gripping on the door. Even though Purpled can’t see his face, he can hear the slight smirk in his voice. “If we play our cards right, we can get you a ton of sponsors.”
“What— slow down!” Purpled hisses, cringing at the noise. He takes a step closer. “I think winning the Games are more important than looking pretty.”
“Yeah, and to win the Games you need outside help,” Eighty retorts. Then, he sighs, and his shoulders seem to roll down with it—previously shelved weight crashing down. “It’s— The Games are more about entertaining, than anything else,” he admits, looking back.
In silent contemplation, Purpled remembers countless nights of tearing holes into dummies with his sword and training for these moments. Holding a blade in his hand made him feel secure, that despite everything the Games and his future could throw at him: he could outlast through skill alone.
Now, staring down a man more concerned with image than survival, he doesn’t know what to think.
“If it’s any consolation, they don’t change tributes into something they’re not,” Eighty says, sheepish. “They just— enhance what’s already there. Make it easier for the audience to digest.” The smile he throws Purpled is soft and personal, agreeing with Purpled’s quiet indignance and grimacing at the state of things.
“There’s nothing like shelling out your life story in three minutes,” Eighty says, chuckling once again. “It’s not a perfect system, but it’s how it works.”
Purpled kicks at the ground, thinking.
“C’mon,” Eighty says. “You might not dress or look like a Career, but I bet you play like one.” He leans forward, taking a step. “The audience doesn’t care about District, all they want is to root for an underdog with a chance to win.”
Although his tone is painfully nonchalant, Purpled can hear the determined edge hidden underneath, and the silent plead in Eighty’s eyes that Purpled is willing to work with him.
“You seem like a nice kid, Purpled.” Eighty turns to leave. “I don’t want you to lose.”
He says ‘lose’ instead of ‘die,’ a part of him snipes, as though Purpled’s rapidly shattering world view needed more fuel to the fire. The Games were just that, games, and yet they were unlike anything Purpled had played before. No other game came at the expense of twenty-three other kids’ lives.
It’s funny how during training, wielding a sword sharp enough to kill, Purpled had lost sight of that. Seeing it up close managed to awake something he already intrinsically knew.
The door beeps on Eighty’s departure, and Purpled is, once again, alone. He sits back down, looking outside the window.
The Capitol starts to come into view; the train seems to have crossed some border while he and Eighty were talking. Small buildings grow larger as they get closer, until the city shines, brilliantly, on the horizon. It’s breathtakingly white, and for a moment Purpled casts aside his reservations to take in its beauty.
The buildings are just as reflective as the ones from District 1, and Purpled feels a smile come over his face as he holds a hand in front of his eyes to block the rays. It’s like a spotlight, almost, the beam shining directly on his face.
He relishes in the sunlight, clinging to the familiar moment, and watches as the Capitol’s staggering silhouette towers above him, inching closer.
The Training Center is like the train: high ceilings, a ludicrous amount of Peacekeepers, and steel encasing them on all sides. Purpled’s slowly realizing that the walls are meant to trap them more than protect, although the design’s novelty effect still hasn’t worn off.
If the building was even slightly reassuring, the people were not. The tributes all split up into groups pretty quickly, dividing and conquering various stages; Careers reached for the weapons, and the others splintered off to practice survival skills and ranged attacks.
Purpled’s about to go join them when Eighty coughs from behind, a sword in hand. The handle’s pointing towards Purpled. “C’mon,” he says, gesturing to an open area. “Show me what you’ve got.”
With a smirk, Purpled grabs the sword. The blade’s more balanced than the ones back home, and he does a couple of experimental swings. It responds near-perfectly.
“Ready?” Eighty calls, adjusting his own sword.
Purpled hesitates. “Wait, we’re fighting each other?”
“Yeah,” Eighty says, chuckling. That seems to be a habit of his. “Are you fighting dummies in the Games?”
“I guess not,” Purpled says. "But—" The words die out as they leave his mouth. Eighty offers better training than anyone else; it would be stupid not to take it.
He shifts his feet and bends his knees. “I’m ready.”
Eighty strikes first, aiming directly at Purpled’s side. Purpled blocks it and takes a step forward, parrying with a strike of his own.
And they’re off.
Eighty fights like someone relearning the way of the game—his feet scuttle across the floor, overcompensating, and his eyes keep watching Purpled’s sword instead of his body. He’s still a strong opponent, though, nearly knocking Purpled over, and they evenly trade blows. The blades scrape against each other, scratching the air. Purpled's breath turns more ragged as they keep dancing, fighting each other in a rhythm and striking as if following a routine.
If this is what Eighty’s like now, out of practice, Purpled shudders at how he played during the Games. There are still hints of his past ruthlessness, diving for his opponent and grinning every time he swings.
Purpled’s unsure whether he could live up to that legacy.
Eighty feints to the right, but Purpled doesn’t fall for it, seamlessly dodging the attack. He swipes at Eighty’s legs and smirks as Eighty loses his balance and falls to the ground.
The blade is inches from Eighty’s neck. Purpled's hand shakes, the metal reflecting the light above them, before he sets it down and holds out his hand.
Eighty kicks him in the stomach.
Purpled’s back makes contact with the floor. “What the hell, Eighty?” he grunts.
“You planning on letting your opponent walk free?”
“No,” Purpled croaks, getting back up. “I just thought—”
“Do you think the other tributes are going to let you spar like that, either?” Eighty continues, steely and harsher than any time Purpled's ever heard him. “For a good five minutes— Do you think you’ll get a clean, fair fight?” His eyes stare hard at something in the distance, and personal experience bleeds into his words.
Purpled’s soft rebuttals die in his throat. “No,” he mumbles, repositioning his sword.
Something in Eighty’s face softens, imperceptibly, and he pats Purpled on the shoulder. “Look—” he starts, before stopping himself.
A bruise is forming on Purpled's side, and he rubs at it without thinking.
“You fought well,” Eighty settles on, quieting down.
Purpled can feel his heart rate start to fall, and his mind wanders to the others in the training center. The Careers seem to be just as bloodthirsty, attacking each other and their trainers with the intent to kill, not just maim. The others are quieter, practicing their skills, and yet Purpled can feel the undercurrent of terror with every action they take.
They’re using the few days they have to stockpile knowledge, and all of them know it’s not enough time.
“Thanks,” he replies, distracted. “I’m gonna head to the bathroom.”
“Whatever you need." Eighty sounds tired. All the fight seems to have drained out of him.
Grabbing a towel, Purpled pats his face.
The door swings open, and another tribute comes in. Purpled’s pretty sure he recognizes him from the Chariot Race, and he nods in acknowledgement.
The boy pauses, looking him up and down. “You’re from District 1?”
“Yeah,” Purpled says. “District 2, right?”
He nods, reaching for a towel. “You in it to win?” he asks, wiping down his face.
“Yup,” Purpled says. Awkwardly, he chuckles. “I don’t plan on dying.”
The boy grunts. “Good.” He throws the towel back into the basin, rinsing it again. “I don’t know why the others are so obsessed with playing memory games and making friendship bracelets,” he says, giving Purpled a grin.
I wouldn’t call making rope snares ‘friendship bracelets.’ “Oh yeah, they’re—” Purpled struggles to keep the bite out of his voice. “They’re definitely the weird ones.”
Snorting, the boy’s grin turns more into a smirk. “Everyone knows that, once you get down there, the only things that matter are your weapon, and how you plan on using it,” he mutters.
Purpled can hear the challenge laced in his words. He thinks back to the girl on the train, and how scared she was, frozen in shock. Bitterly, he wonders what the Career’s plans are for food and water, assuming he survives his first night, and, after that, how he plans on getting resources and shelter.
Those thoughts don’t leave his mouth. He can’t make unnecessary enemies; he can’t go against Eighty’s plan. “Good luck in the arena, then,” he says evenly, and nothing more.
“I won’t need it,” the boy replies, patting Purpled on the shoulder and turning to leave.
The door swings on his way out.
Purpled is first to be assessed.
His footsteps echo in the Training Center, each movement he takes splintering across the building. Everything’s been cleared out; partitions previously separating stations have been pushed to the wall, and the line between training and the Games starts blurring in Purpled’s mind. The whole space feels grander than before, now that the other tributes aren’t taking up floorspace.
The openness is suffocating, still.
Walking into the circle they’ve marked on the floor, Purpled can make out the panel of glass at the end of the hall. The Gamemakers' expressions come into view—how bored they look as Purpled swipes a sword off the rack, balancing it in his hand before moving to strike. They seem more preoccupied with their food than anything Purpled has to show.
“Purpled. District 1,” one of them says through the box. It’s a command to start.
He takes a deep breath, letting his mind refocus, and begins the routine he was taught.
Eighty’s words echo in with every step he takes. It’s easy to go for gold. He slices through dummies like scissors through paper, leaving no doubt in his ferocity nor his skill. Eighty’s fire seems to channel through him—he can feel his training soar through all his limbs. The Capitol dummies tear open, metal beads rolling onto the floor.
His feet shift, his attacks move, and they carry the same swiftness throughout it all.
The Gamemakers still look bored. A pang of frustration fires in his gut, and he calms himself back down. Getting their attention isn’t his goal.
It’s a lot harder, though, trying for second place, Eighty continues. Purpled starts to switch focus; he can’t win through sword fighting alone. To show his agility, he scales the rope course, nearly losing his grip at the start. His inexperience shines through here, with him falling over, but he gets back up with ease and keeps going.
They dismiss him shortly after.
“Thank you for your time,” he says, eyes trained on the floor. He hopes he showed them enough of his skills, and nothing more.
His hands don’t stop shaking until he closes the door behind him and can feel a soft gust of wind blow through the vents. He quietly starts heading back to his quarters, hearing his feet patter softly on the ground, and nods at the girl walking past.
Purpled hopes he made Eighty proud.
He spends his last afternoon in the Capitol reviewing strategy, using the most of daylight. In between bites of lunch, they go over what he’ll say, how he’ll move, and he delivers his lines like an actor making his debut.
When the sky starts to bleed into sunset, they know they’re running out of time. Hastily, his stylist brings out his interview clothes—a purple hoodie with white lines sewn along the sleeves, white shoes, and black jeans. The details shamelessly appeal to the Capitol, though Eighty’s made sure that the outfit still retains an aspect that uniquely himself.
Somehow, Purpled finds those hints of him, scattered on his outfit and what he’s planning to say, more unsettling than if his facade were purely Capitol. They demand that he’s personal and fashionable—yet that ‘personality’ be palatable and that fashion remain tied to his origins.
The Capitol wanted Purpled to bleed himself dry—of his character, of his dignity, of his blood—and never give him anything in return.
Purpled doesn’t voice any of his thoughts. Instead, he takes the clothes from his stylist and heads into his changing room.
They’re simple to put on, and when he emerges Eighty turns to him with a smile. “That’s— that’s perfect,” he says softly, dismissing the stylist. “They’re gonna love you, Purpled.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The scratchy fabric makes Purpled’s neck itch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he chuckles. Quietly, he does a turn in the mirror, taking it all in.
Up close, it’s clear that the Capitol’s influence won over. Besides the striped details on the shirt and shoes, the clothes are entirely centered on the color purple, and his mind trails back to the yellow-clad woman with sunflowers at his Reaping.
Eighty snorts, taking a step closer. “I guess you’re right, it’s better than the alternative.” He latches a metal chain onto Purpled’s belt-hooks, whistling as he turns to his right. “They left you a ton of accessories.”
Purpled stares at the rows of necklaces and chains on the wall and looks back to Eighty with a wince. Faintly: “I don’t think I’m going to wear all of those.”
“Oh, they don’t expect you to.” Eighty picks a silver chain necklace off the wall. “This one okay?”
“That’s fine— whatever works.” He dips his head and lets Eighty put it on. The cold metal nearly stings his skin, and he grits his teeth as the feeling fades. “I just want to get this over with.”
Eighty adjusts the chain, his smile sliding off his face. Quietly, he mutters, “it doesn’t end when the Games do.”
Purpled stills. “What?”
“This whole—” Eighty gestures vaguely at the both of them— “Playing into the hands of the Capitol thing." He pauses. "There’s not really a way out.”
“Oh,” Purpled says. He’s not sure why he expected any different.
“The life of a Victor’s apparently pretty lonely,” Eighty continues, still picking at Purpled’s clothes. “I— I see all of these Mentors, every year. They come into the Victors’ Tower, late at night, whispering about their kids.”
Purpled nods silently, following Eighty’s reflection through the mirror.
“We watch the Games together, all lined up on this stupidly long couch,” he says, cracking a smile. “We make popcorn and everything.” Then, his expression melts into something more somber. “I watch their faces, every year, as these kids they’ve only known for a week— only been able to help for a week—” His shoulders start to shake.
Staring at him up close, Eighty feels more real than ever before. Purpled wonders when the mask of a composed Victor started to fade, when Eighty started to trust him enough to be a scared, but true, Mentor.
Eighty wipes at his face. Taking a step back, he looks over the outfit again. “We can’t all win, Purpled.” He chuckles sadly to himself. “In fact, most of us lose.”
Purpled lets the words sink in, saying nothing.
Then, as though the past few moments never happened, Eighty goes back to fussing over Purpled’s clothes. “Hold still, I’m nearly done.”
Grimacing, Purpled looks at the ground. “I’m sorry, Eighty.”
Eighty chuckles. “Why are you sorry? You haven’t done anything.” He pauses, seemingly satisfied with his adjustments, before smiling at something out of view. “They— All the District 1 Victors have a rotation to be a Mentor.” He laughs, soft and muted. “Because we have so many.”
“You’re my first time,” he says, pausing at the admission. “I— I want it to go well.”
Purpled stays quiet, letting silence fill the space between them. He hopes it’s more comforting than his empty words.
His mind drifts back to some of the other tributes’ outfits during the Chariot Race. The boy from District 4 wore a suit with hundreds of clasps and buttons, and the girl from District 8 wore a dress flowing with layers of tulle. Both were impractical for the Games, sure, but they were shows of power and wealth more than anything—that the tributes were prepared to compete and had enough resources to win.
And enough patience, apparently, to hand-sew a bunch of buttons to a blazer, evenly spaced. It hits him, then, that this is how the Capitol works. It manufactures grief and sorrow like clothes, cyclic and mechanical.
Following a pattern.
He looks down at his hoodie, calculatedly casual, and wonders whether he’s an exception. “I’ll make you proud, Eighty,” he says, solemn. It sounds like a confession more than anything else. “I promise.”
Eighty smiles, checking his watch. “C’mon, hair and make-up’s ready,” he teases. “You don’t want to keep them waiting, do you?”
“Purpled!” The interview calls, throwing out a hand in welcome.
Eighty had warned him earlier about the crowd, a nameless, ever-consuming mass. Purpled can barely make out a face, yet something tenses throughout all his limbs that intrinsically feels all the eyes on him, watching.
Taking a deep breath, he smiles, closing the gap between him and the interviewer. His stylist had brushed away his imperfections, leaving Purpled to perform his part.
Purpled waves at the crowd, taking a seat. “That’s me.”
“Oh, goodness, you certainly look different than most,” the interviewer says, looking playfully scandalized. He tilts the microphone towards him.
Purpled chuckles, making sure his shoulders are relaxed. There’s a kind of ease that Eighty taught him to move with—that made every movement of his feel natural and innate, even when that was furthest from the truth. “I like to keep things casual. Getting all dressed up just isn’t for me, y’know?”
“I suppose.” The interviewer tsks, eyes trailing his clothes once again. “It looks like your stylist still made do. It’s all purple— Oh!” His expression turns into one of realization, and he grins. “Just like your name.”
“Yeah,” Purpled says. “Just like me.”
“Well, then— I think it’s the most unique style choice we’ve ever seen.” Turning to the audience, who seemed to be quietly snickering, the interviewer waits for an empty reply. “Isn’t that right? Very unusual.”
Purpled laughs with them, feeling sweat bead down his forehead. “I wanted to be real with you guys. Show you who I am.” With a wince, the fabric scratches at his neck again, and Purpled likens it to branding on his skin.
“And you certainly have,” the interviewer says, watching the crowd die down. “Now, I’m curious about your thoughts on the Capitol. It must be very different from back home.”
Tilting his head, Purpled makes a swaying motion with his hand. “Eh, it reminds me of District 1, a little.” Chuckling softly, he thinks of home, and how comforting its sharp, jagged buildings feel when confronted with the hidden ferocity creeping through the Capitol. “The styles and fashion look pretty similar. I’d be a liar calling the Capitol anything but luxurious.”
For the first time tonight, the interviewer laughs at one of his jokes, and Purpled feels the ease come more naturally. “You’re absolutely right. But what’s the catch? Where did you find yourself—” he leans in for dramatic effect— “out of your element?”
The crowd seems to hold their breath, waiting for Purpled’s reply, ready to change or revoke their support based on the few words that leave his mouth. It’s terrifying, almost, how much of his future is pinned on this one conversation. “It’s the little things. Like the buildings might look the same, but the people are so different.” A laugh escapes his mouth.
“Good different or bad different?” the interviewer asks, playing along.
“Good different, of course.” Wringing his hands, he ignores the internal wince at his praise of the Capitol. “I’ll be honest— all the time in the spotlight gets overwhelming.”
The interviewer laughs goodnaturedly, leaning back. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get used to it.” His predatory grin has softened into something more self-satisfied, and he checks an invisible watch before chuckling once again. “I think I’m going to ask my last question here, Purpled.”
“Fire away,” Purpled says, resting his hands in his lap. He has to make the last few moments of Capitol attention count.
“Do you think you can win?” The interviewer grins. “I mean— training score of nine, you gotta at least have a chance, right?”
Purpled chuckles, counting off some invisible timer in his head. Eighty taught him to pause, to lean into statements without voicing them, to ensure the audience was paying attention to the important words or phrases designed to send them into an uproar. “I can’t make any promises. You know how crazy the Games end up being,” he says, chuckling as though the possibility of his death was something laughable. “But— you know what I have to say, right? Of course I can.”
The purple contacts they made him wear start itching at his eyes, and he squints out into the crowd, trying to find the right words. Somewhere in the Capitol, Eighty is watching, seeing his preparation and training come to fruition. Even if the Games were something unpleasant, even if Purpled would rather give up: he can’t.
“I have to win,” he says, and faintly he can hear the audience quiet down in anticipation.
“Oh?” The interviewer looks intrigued, leaning closer. His demeanor radiated that of a close friend, waiting patiently for Purpled to share some hidden secret. “You got a special someone back home?”
“It’s not that,” he stutters, chuckling awkwardly. “I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but—” he pauses, taking a breath in. “I met this guy in the Capitol.” Jokingly: “You might know about him: Gamer-Boy-Eighty?”
Stroking his chin, the interviewer chuckles. “Ah, yes. One of our own Victors. That’s it, then? You want to make your Mentor proud?”
“That’s part of it,” he says, quiet at the admission. “I— I also want to just— prove to myself that I can do it.” He stares out into the crowd, the dark, hungry mass tracking his every move, and shuffles his sleeves over his hands. Follow the script. “I mean, look at me. I’m the little guy! I’m not some scary Career, ready to beat everyone else up.” His tone shifts into something lighter, and he forces his body to follow with a shaky laugh.
The interviewer, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. “How endearing,” he says. “I’m sure the Capitol will be rooting for our underdog.”
The word replays in Purpled’s mind: underdog. It was the centerpiece for how Eighty designed his brand, ensuring he appealed to the Capitol while retaining his edge, and yet only now does Purpled make the connection that it's hardly true at all.
He thinks backs to the other tribute, a little girl, twelve, and how she deserves the title more than him. Purpled was just a tightrope-walker, balancing the Capitol’s appetite for a competent tribute and the tributes’ fear of a dangerous Career.
His stomach churns.
“You ready to take on the big leagues, then?”
Purpled jolts his head up, chuckling at himself. “Sorry. Of course I’m ready. I— I have to give it my all.”
“Well—” The interviewer pats him on the back, giving him a smile— “I wish you the best of luck. Purpled, from District 1, everyone!”
The crowd erupts into cheers as Purpled waves, before scurrying off-stage. His mind starts to clear as the fog from the interview and pressure to perform fades away. All he’s left with is a sense of relief, and he absentmindedly wipes the sweat off of his face.
A swath of makeup gets caked onto his sleeve, and he laughs—at the absurdity of the Capitol, and at the absurdity that he may never see the light of day after tomorrow. Faintly, he can hear the other tributes’ footsteps as they walk on stage—the sound of heels and dress shoes hitting the floor, nothing like what Purpled’s wearing—and he laughs a little more at that.
He collapses onto a couch backstage, hearing the interview play on some obnoxiously large screen, and nods at the tributes walking past. His leg bounces, absentmindedly, and he feels his heartbeat slow as he waits for the program to finish.
It is much later, after the curtains have fallen and he’s rushed through backstage, when he gets back to his quarters. The Capitol is more serene at night, and he can quietly hear the crowds leaving the stadium. Their chatter floats into the air, filling the space but never quite using it, and Purpled’s content to let it stay, prodding at his window.
Eighty turns to him from the couch, breaking into a smile. “Purpled! I was watching your interview with the others, you did well.”
Smiling at the familiar face, Purpled sits down beside him. “Thanks,” he says. “I followed your advice as much as I could.”
“I could tell.” There’s a hint of pride beneath his words. “I’m— I’m glad you followed the plan.” He fiddles with the remote in his hand, looking out the window. “I’m sure they love you.”
“I hope they do,” Purpled says, rueful. Then, he cracks a smile. “My survival’s kinda depending on it.”
Eighty sighs, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah, it is.” He takes a deep breath, breaking out into a real smile. “You were really good out there, seriously. I can’t take all the credit.”
“Oh?” Purpled asks, nudging him. “Why not?”
Eighty gestures at him, up and down. “You— you’ve got this spark, to you,” he says. “It makes everything you say feel genuine and true.” He chuckles. "No wonder the Capitol got interested.”
“Thanks,” Purpled says, laughing away the compliment. “I’ll make sure to use it to my advantage.”
Eighty sighs. “Yeah,” he says. He crosses his arms, quiet. “You— you should probably head to bed.”
Outside the window, those hints of dusk have long since faded into night. Still, it’s earlier than he would usually sleep. “Now?” Purpled feels something in his stomach start to settle. “There— it’s not even that late!”
“Yes, now,” Eighty says, firm. “Just— trust me.” That same, lingering look is in his eyes, and Purpled listens closely. “You want as much peaceful sleep before the Games.”
“Oh.” Purpled gets up, head still bowed towards the floor. Scuffing his feet, he looks back at Eighty. “I—” he says, before cutting himself off.
Getting up to join him, Eighty chuckles softly. “‘I’ what?”
“I thought I’d have more time,” he says, forlorn. He glances at Eighty again, hesitating. The question's refusing to leave his mouth.
Eighty opens his arms, smiling. “Didn’t know you wanted a goodbye hug.”
Purpled scoffs, burying his head in Eighty’s jacket. “It’s not—” he starts, cutting himself off. His vision gets a little blurry. “You’ve been a really good Mentor to me, Eighty.”
“Aw,” Eighty says, ruffling his hair. “I tried.”
Purpled snorts.
Patting Purpled on the back, Eighty breaks away. “C’mon, bed.”
“I heard you the first time,” Purpled says, taking his leave.
He heads into his bedroom, falling onto the sheets with an audible thump. His heartbeat slows, and he feels the weariness from the day nip at his eyes. It’s the first time in the past week he’s gotten to simply be, instead of focusing on what’s to come.
Softly, he prays that he makes it out alive. If not for his own sake, then for Eighty’s, who Purpled doesn’t want to leave and who certainly doesn’t deserve his death.
The city outside has fallen asleep by now, heading into a lull of tranquility that Purpled can’t quite understand. Stark, jutting buildings grow softer, almost, and Purpled’s unsure whether it’s a trick of the light.
The clock on his wall keeps moving, tomorrow marching on. And Purpled, giving one final thanks to Eighty, drifts off to sleep.