Chapter Text
Plutarch Calchas Heavensbee—unquestionably stellar student, reluctant heir to the Heavensbee dynasty, and master manipulator of unsuspecting Capitol grime—has never been a fool.
At University, however, they try their best to make him one.
“Heavensbee!” barks Dr. Canville. “What were the key obstacles developed for the Sixteenth Hunger Games, and how did the winning tribute employ them to gain victory?”
Plutarch draws a slow breath through his nose. “Tsunamis and jellyfish-octopus muttations, sir. The Sixteenth arena was essentially a massive bowl, with a small sea in the center and mountains ringing the edge. The tsunamis were created by a massive hydraulic press and swept water up the mountains, carrying the muttations towards the tributes. The female tribute from District 7 won due to her unexpected mithridatism. Turns out the girl had a crippling fear of death by poison, so she had been dosing herself with venom for years in order to build up immunity. Her fear ended up winning her the Games, as she was the only tribute who could survive the venom of the muttations.”
Dr. Canville’s eyes, rimmed with lime-green eyeliner, narrow behind teal glasses. “An acceptable answer,” he says finally. “Ensure you sit up and pay attention in future.”
The doctor moves on to interrogate Delphi Crexley, and Plutarch mutters a few choice words under his breath. It was a perfect answer, was what it was. No history professor could have possibly asked for better, and Canville damn well knew that. Oh, no matter. It’s early March, only a month away from graduation. He’ll be out of here soon enough.
“All your brains and money gets you nowhere here,” hisses Octavius Presley from the row behind him. “Isn’t it a joy to be treated like the common population?”
And he’ll get to leave behind annoyances like Octavius. The boy always was bitter about something or other. “Oh, I don’t know,” Plutarch replies easily. “Better than having no brains or money at all, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why, you—”
“Presley! Heavensbee!” Dr. Canville screeches, in his signature nasally squawk. “ Pay attention! Or saints help me, I will write you both a demerit!”
Octavius grumbles and Plutarch returns his gaze to the front, concealing a smirk.
No, Plutarch Heavensbee is no fool. That might come as a shock to certain individuals, but it’s the truth. Half the Capitol seems to think him an idiot with deep pockets. The other half looks at him with scarcely-disguised jealousy.
It is for these reasons that he doesn’t tolerate most of his classmates. Octavius is perhaps the most vocal about his dislike, but they are all arrogant, immoral creatures. They adore the Games like President Snow himself is hovering over their shoulders, and they sing the praises of the late Dr. Gaul as if they knew her personally. His own family is hardly immune to such pompous tomfoolery, but his uncle, at least, had never treated President Snow as anything more than human.
There is a very short list of people he actually likes: Dr. Quiver, from the University’s biology department. His uncle, his cantankerous, insubordinate relative. Deucalion Creed and Pyrrha Dovecote, two of his oldest friends and soon-to-be-married heirs to a District 7 timber empire. And Effie Trinket, his fashion-obsessed, flamboyant friend.
Dr. Canville, unfortunately, has not earned a ranking on that list. A professor of history, with a particular emphasis on the Hunger Games, he is prone to droning on about something or other while Plutarch attempts to stay awake in the back of the classroom. Dr. Canville is fifty-eight, and his lime-green eyeliner and matching green space buns comprise the total extent of his acquiescence to Capitol fashion. Both are at least five years out of style. Not that Plutarch usually keeps up with Capitol fashions, but Effie usually keeps him abreast of all the latest changes and what they meant about different people’s social standing.
Then Plutarch’s attention is snagged on the words Quarter Quell , and he abruptly tunes back in. “—is an opportunity to serve our Capitol and our president. There will be several opportunities for those who are interested in being involved in the operations of it all. I would argue that this opportunity is especially relevant to those of us interested in a career as a Gamemaker. With four months until the Reaping, Head Gamemaker Icarus Quill has informed me that he is looking for fifteen new cameramen to film the reapings across the districts. He wanted to offer the opportunity first to remarkable students of Panem such as yourselves.”
The bell chimes then, and Plutarch stands rapidly. While he may not respect Coriolanus Snow or his horde of babbling sycophants, he knows where the power lies. If he wants to overthrow that power—“Dr. Canville!”
The doctor turns back to his desk with a sigh. “Yes, Mr. Heavensbee?”
The mass of students have seized their satchels and are filing out the door. A few glare at Plutarch for standing in the way. He ignores them. “How can I apply to be a cameraman for the Quell?”
Dr. Canville shuffles his stack of papers before sliding one out from the middle. “Fill this out. Hand it in to me by class tomorrow morning. I’ll see that it gets on Quill’s desk.”
Plutarch nods. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate you sharing this opportunity with our class.”
For a moment Dr. Canville scrutinizes him, cataloguing the untucked shirt and less-than-pristine uniform. “You are welcome, Heavensbee,” he says finally. “Run along, now. Wouldn’t want you to be late for class, now, would we?”
Plutarch doesn’t have class. But he nods respectfully and leaves anyway.
Outside the University’s doors, the weather is miserable. Light seeps through the clouds in patches, like a threadbare blanket thrown over the world. The air is cold and damp; it smells like a thunderstorm.
Plutarch treks over the freshly-shorn grass of the Quad, watching the various circles of Capitol high society hobnob like bees. Student body president Athena Quigley is on a stage at the end of the Quad, pontificating to a small crowd about some new scheme she has planned for the school. The tow-blond head of Octavius Presley is chattering with the curly-haired one of Lydia Shell, presumably discussing their impending group project. A few boys lay on the Quad itself, scribbling away at homework or napping with their arms over their eyes. Krono Linton is reading a novel under a tree, likely waiting for his girlfriend to get out of class. Atlas Farthing is sprinting across the green with a ball of something wet and dripping, shouting while being chased by a veritable army of sweaty people in team attire.
Having no desire to find out what that ball is dripping with, Plutarch ducks behind the army and makes his way to the café on the edge of the Quad.
Café Clementine is a longstanding favorite of his. They make the only acceptable creampuffs in the Capitol, they know his orders by heart, and, most importantly, they are always blessedly quiet. Offering a smile to the cashier, he orders his usual and casts a glance around.
She’s late, a rather rare occurrence. Perhaps she got held up with her seamstressing work. Not to worry, he has time.
Plutarch makes himself comfortable in the little glassed-in pavilion, far away from the other patrons. As he waits for the drinks, his gaze is caught by movement outside. The door to the nearby tailor swings open, and a mousy girl with limp hair and an ugly floral cardigan steps out. She fumbles with something thin and white. Muttering a curse, she raises it to her lips, then a flash—a puff of smoke escapes.
He wonders dispassionately if she knows what she is doing to her lungs.
“Plutarch!”
He spins in his chair and grins. “Effie!”
Effie Trinket, her hair a perfect puff of electric azul, hurries over with a wide smile. “Oh, Plutarch! It’s so good to see you!”
“Likewise, Miss Trinket,” he replies cheerily. “Please, take a seat. I ordered your iced quad espresso with extra ice and six espresso shots.”
She gasps, one hand going to the lace-and-feathers of her corset. “Why, you didn’t!”
“I did.”
“How do you know how I take it?”
“Why, I have an excellent memory, Miss Trinket.”
“Of course you do,” she says fondly, and they take a seat.
Plutarch had not always been a fan of Effie and her flamboyant personality. They’d begun in the same year at University, and she always seemed to be a ceaseless whirlwind of activity, founding the Spring Saturnalia and organizing extravagant soirées as if her life depended on it.
And, in a sense, it had. If Plutarch is ostracized for the indecent arrogance and obnoxious wealth associated with his last name, Effie had been ostracized for the shame associated with hers. Her Great-Aunt Messalina, if he wasn’t mistaken. Years before, the woman had been married to a nephew of former President Ravenstill. That had been before, of course, she had a very public affair with the then-also-married Silius Trinket. Both of them were nearly killed over the insult, but a few well-meaning friends alerted Silius to the danger. The couple had fled to the outskirts of the Capitol, and the humiliated Trinket family was left to recover their shattered reputation.
Like himself, Effie was no fool: she knew exactly who she needed to become to ensure the mouths of society gossips would stay silent. She worked to become the brightest, the loudest, and the most indispensable part of every event. They couldn’t shame her if they needed her, so Effie ensured Capitol society wouldn’t ever be able to do without her.
The day Plutarch had learned this, he made it a point to track her down before chemistry and introduce himself. Allies in the Capitol were rare, and even rarer were allies with something to prove. The two had been friends ever since.
“So tell me,” Effie says. “How is the Spring Saturnalia doing in my absence?”
“Dreadfully,” he assures her. “They are downright lost without your guiding light.”
She beams. “As well they should be. I told Athena that she could hardly run for president of the University and manage a proper Spring Saturnalia. Azul is in this year, and there’s no way she would be able to find enough suitable azul decór if she wasn’t tirelessly devoted to the task. Now, that’s enough about the Saturnalia,” she says briskly, stirring a veritable mountain of sugar into her coffee. “Tell me: what have you heard about the Second Quarter Quell?”
Plutarch smirks. “Dr. Canville announced today that University students would be given the first chance to work the crew that films the reapings. Seeing as how I graduate in less than a month, I am mostly sure I’ll get it.”
“Oh, how wonderful! And how terrific that it’s in your last year, too! You’ll be able to be involved without worrying about how time away will affect your grades and whatnot.”
“That’s the idea. If I do a half-decent job, I’ll be asked back for the 51st. They never seem to have enough help for the camera crew.”
She gives an unladylike snort. “You’re a half-decent film major with the last name Heavensbee. They’ll be foaming at the mouth to snatch you up.”
“I do my best,” he says modestly, sipping his coffee. “Now, we need to figure out a way for you to be involved.”
Effie’s nails tap a staccato on the table. “I don’t have a way to get in, not yet. Every time I’ve applied to escorting or styling assistant positions I’ve simply come off sounding like the most desperate Trinket you’ve ever heard in your entire life.”
Plutarch took another slow sip of coffee, savoring it thoughtfully behind his teeth. He wasn’t quite sure how to help her. He had his own plan for this Games, ideas that he had been brewing with a few others since his twelfth birthday. And Effie Trinket, for all her good qualities, was not quite ready to head up a rebellion. “You know,” he began, “you could try to work your way in on some of the lower districts.”
She tilts her head. “What, like Ten? Eleven?”
“I was thinking of Twelve.”
“Twelve,” she repeats, unimpressed. “Drusilla Sickle in no way wants help. Neither does Magno Stift. He’s been horrific for years but he’s still got a job. At least Ten’s escort and Eleven’s stylists are looking for applicants.”
“Understandable, I still think you should try. It would be the perfect place to slip in under the radar, and no one holds families of much significance out there.”
It would be the perfect place to start a rebellion.
“Fine, I’ll try,” she groans. “It’s not like every escort and stylist is willing to hire a nineteen-year-old assistant, you know.”
He scoffs in mock outrage. “You graduated two years early from University, Trinket. Give yourself some credit.”
“Tell that to Drusilla Sickle and her eye-wateringly garish peacock feathers,” she grumbles, and Plutarch barks out a laugh. This is why Effie Trinket makes the very short list of people he likes in this saints-abandoned hellhole.
Another patron sits down at the table next to them, and Effie turns the conversation neatly to various University alumni they both know. Capitol walls have ears, and neither one of them wants to risk offending the wrong person while trying to work in the Second Quarter Quell. The shadows are lengthening when their coffee finishes.
Effie stands with a groan, one hand on her corset. “I can’t wait until these things go out of fashion. I’m sure there’s some irreparable damage I’m doing to my ribcage.”
Plutarch chuckles and Effie grins. “I’ll see you around, yes?”
He nods with a smile. “Keep me posted on how those applications go.”
“I will!”
They part amicably, with many promises to get coffee together again soon.
Plutarch shoulders his satchel and heads off to finish that Quarter Quell application and his history paper. Really, the final month of senior year, and he still has essays to write? Unconscionable. Downright criminal. But he had come too far to fail now, so homework it is.
Plutarch finds a seat on the Quad under an old oak tree and pulls out the sheet of paper Dr. Canville handed him. There isn’t a lot they want: a list of extracurriculars, grades, and an essay about the true purpose of the Games. It all looks very standard. He’s not sure how extracurriculars and grades affect how well one can hold a camera, but the essay makes sense. A cameraman is telling a story, and that story must reflect the greatness of the Games.
So he fills everything out, writing a brilliantly worded essay about how inspired the Games are, the genius that lies in so allowing hope to the humiliated, animalistic Districts, the faux mercy in leaving one lone victor to survive the horrors, the allowance of Capitolites to think highly of their own magnanimity—
No, scratch that last part out.
He finishes the application as the sun sets over the buildings. It isn’t his finest work, he admits. But it will have to do. Canville wanted it by the next day, and he doesn’t have time to perfect it. Besides, there are other ways to get into the Games, favors he can pull if he needs. He is going to find his way into the Second Quarter Quell, one way or another.