Chapter Text
One
A subconscious chill runs through me and I shiver.
“Stop that.” The command is sharp, leaving me wounded. “Flushs don’t tremble.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Flushs don’t talk back, either.”
I snap my mouth shut, once again reminded of my place.
The train moves from outside into a tunnel, but it doesn’t make much of a difference in the coach car. The lights are on to combat the invasive darkness of the early morning, and I barely notice when we emerge again. Momma and Father sit across from me in their plush velvet seats, both loitering with the hobbies that they have always pretended to entertain. Momma with her sketching, Father with his reading. Intellectual to those who don’t know better. Momma only ever draws dresses and even then they’re the same designs and styles from decades ago when the Capitol was in its patterns phase. Father is reading the news on his touchscreen, though from my angle I can see how glazed over his eyes are.
I turn to watch out the window but the light from inside our car is too bright and all that looks back is me—platimun hair, electric eyes, angled face. It does me no good to look at myself so I turn back, looking down at my shoes and their unfamiliarity. They’re new, just for the Reaping, which we’re watching in District 4 this year since we already know who will be drawn in 1. City Council had already decided who they wanted to send—the tribute with the highest scores in speed, strength and agility—so there’s no reason for us to stick around and watch. Instead, for my final year in the Reaping, we’re going to 4 to watch my maternal cousin’s Reaping and pray he gets in. I’ve all but lost my chance—which you would catch me celebrating if it weren’t such a sore spot for my parents—seeing as I’ll be turning eighteen within the next few weeks and will be able to close this very long, very stressful chapter of my life forever. Momma thinks I’ve stayed skinny for appearance sake, the actual reason is that I’ve been so stressed since the moment I turned twelve that I haven’t been able to eat, even when the Games aren’t on. Despite my failing to be Reaped our bloodline now has another chance with my cousin, Caspian, who is now twelve and itching at the chance to get into the arena and prove to everyone in the Capitol that the Wharf name is as good as any Capitol stock.
The train crosses a crest in the earth and finally below us is the twinkling city skyline of 4. The moon shines off the ocean surface, making the city seem deeper and wider than it actually is. We bank, the train turning and sweeping the city out of view, and I’m back to looking at my shoes. In a few weeks I will never have to hold back my tears with baited breath and pray that they didn’t finally get my name in the bowl. It’s barbaric, really, to make us fight for the chance to fight for the chance to fight. From the time you get into preliminary school they are already making sure you understand your role in the games—Careers: bigger, better, the best!—and focus more on gym class rather than anything actually useful. What’s worse is that our parents are the ones who really start the whole cycle, bidding on which of their children get to go to the arena to show off the strength of District 1. Despite my family’s good fortune, we’ve never really seemed to be fortunate enough. I guess it doesn’t matter how many people from the Capitol come and waste away in your hotels and casinos when you’re still considered bottom rung to everyone else in your district.
The train pulls into the station as the sun is starting to rise, casting the sky in a pale orange hew. I take it in as we walk to the end of the platform and to the limousine that idles there for us. It’s my favorite color, the orange before the sun comes up or after it goes done—blushing, pretty, and not too overpowering. The driver pulls the door open and Father gets in first, followed by Momma, and I stand for a moment on the curb and wonder if they would even notice I didn’t get in with them. The driver clears his throat and with a sigh I get into the car. It’s bright in here too, drowning out the color of the sky, and I see Father has already broken into the liquor sitting on the shelf of the included bar.
I stay in the seat nearest the door, not really feeling a part of them like I used to. It happened slowly, the drift, the feeling of being ostracized from my own parents, but now I really feel it. I watch them drink and mutter to each other like I don’t even know them, like I’m one of our Avoxes forced to go along on a trip to the mall. They don’t notice me—well, they do, they notice everything they don’t like about me, but that’s just how it’s always been.
The city square of 4 is alive with people. Most fishers are morning persons, rising with the sun and sleeping when it’s gone, so it doesn’t surprise me to see them out and about so early. There are stalls and booths erected around the perimeter of their square, shops have their doors open, men on stilts make balloon animals for the children. A party, not a death sentence. It’s the same in 1, though we’re less paralian and more into throwing money from balconies.
The limo drives into the middle of the square then the door is opened. I slide out without bothering to see if my parents will follow. We’re parked right in the middle of the Reaping square, a red ring of bricks in the middle of the gray fish scale pattern of pavers under my feet. We’re probably not supposed to be here, not even the Peacekeepers have their vehicles in the square, but my parents don’t care. Their philosophy has always been to throw money at a problem to make it go away. Though, as I learned from my boy back in 1, you can’t stop a leak by ignoring it.
I miss him now, my boy, my love, my secret. Only Snow knows what would happen to me if my parents ever found out about us. There are quite a few boys my parents would love to see me with after I turn nineteen, there were quite a few they wanted me to marry after I won the Games—though I never got the chance and the earth is better for it. No, me and my boy are fine just as we are, and when he gets deployed to another district…I guess I’ll go with him. I’d rather be with him than without him, even if it means we’ll live in squalor on a Peacekeepers paycheck. I touch the necklace he gave me on our first year’s anniversary—a small gold heart on a matching chain, the back engraved with our initials and the front sporting a large glass gem that to anyone unfamiliar with jewelry looks like a diamond—and wish I were standing in 1 where he could watch me, instead of being here with aunts and uncles I only see once a year.
Momma and Father have moved away from me at this point, the car having driven off, and I move to follow after them, dodging around a pair of stilts as the tall man strides towards the southern side of the square. They’ve found themselves at my Aunt Pearla’s jewelry stand, where she makes and sells necklaces, earrings, and bracelets using the pearls collected by her sons, Goby and Mola—they’re both too old for the Reaping now. Her husband is a sailor not a fisher, and while attendance for the Reaping is mandatory in other districts, the Career districts can get away with a little bending of the rules when it comes to making sure the Capitol is better off for it. Uncle Spume is off taking cargo to districts 5 and 10, making sure people are getting their rations on time so that way the world can keep going round. He’s not the only one, the harbor has less ships than it usually does, but no one seems to mind. Momma and Aunt Pearla’s youngest sister, Larissa, joins them at the jewelry stand with her son, Caspian, who is grinning from ear to ear as they praise him for wanting to honor the Wharf lineage.
I stop near but not with them, looking around at the people of 4. They’re shorter in stature than most of the other Career district, but they’re lean, bodies tones from swimming and fishing and working in the sun. Most of them look like they were carved out of mahogany, skin tanned and rigid with muscle. I’m only able to look down on most of them because of my father, all of my height is from him. Momma is also tall in comparison to her sisters, but she is not where I get any of my appearance—sometimes I won’t if she even gave birth to me, or simply pretended like she did to save the shape of her waist. Occasionally a small child will dart past me then double take, unfamiliar with my height and weight and complexion, but I do not mind them, I was once that curious as well.
“Are you looking forward to not having to worry about this next year? …DeeDee?”
I acknowledge the speaker when I realize the question is for me. Mola and Goby stand before me, shoulder to shoulder, mirror images of each other. “Sorry…” I glance between them, unsure about who asked the question. They're the same in every way except color, one always in green the other always in blue.
“Are you relieved to be out of the Reaping?” Green asks. Goby.
I nod before I have the chance to think about it, then hesitate. “But my parents don’t need to know that.”
Mola arches a brow at me. “I thought they’d be relieved for you—”
“You don’t know my parents,” I state, then add just to make sure I didn’t sound too critical, “or my district.”
“It’s a sense of pride, then,” Goby states.
I nod.
“Yeah,” Mola agrees, scratching his cheek as he glances around. “Caspian’s excited, at least.”
“Maybe we’ll finally have a victor in our family,” Goby agrees.
I try not to let the dread wash over me. Flushs don’t shiver. Instead I shake out my hair, feeling it long against my back.
“Hi, Diadem,” Caspian says, joining us.
I give him a practiced smile. “Good luck today.”
“I don’t need it,” he states simply. “Dad paid for me to be drawn this year.”
Everything in me goes cold and the practiced smile droops slightly. “Did he?”
Caspian nods. “I’m going to win the Hunger Games and move my family into the Victors’ Village.”
I swallow hard. The Victors’ Village in 1 is just a bunch of penthouse skyscrapers, there have been so many winners over the past sixty-some years that we weren’t able to keep them all in the individual houses. The victors who won years ago, back when the Games were new, still live in their mansions, everyone else moves into the five bedroom, three-and-a-half bathroom, fully furnished penthouses on the main strip of 1.
“That sounds great,” I force out around my panic.
“You can move in with us too,” he says, “if being a model doesn’t work out for you like Aunt Meridia wants.” He means it genuinely but it’s more than a little backhanded as well. Mola and Goby notice and both have to look away in an effort to not laugh.
I force my cheeks up in a smile. “Thanks.”
He turns to go back to the adults, who all but ignore him now that they have found other conversations that are more interesting.
“Looks like it’s time to go,” Mola says, tapping Goby on the shoulder and they turn and edge their way towards the outside ring of the crowd.
Every girl and boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen are starting to gather within the red bricks of the square, facing the temporary stage at the north. I hang back with my cousins, though Momma nods at me to join the crowd of eighteen year old girls. I frown at her and shake my head; this isn’t even my district. Peacekeepers line the stage but none of them seem particularly worried about the mass in front of them, even they know how eager everyone is to be drawn.
The anthem of Panem begins, the screen backing the stage lighting up with the nation's flag. Everyone in the square belts the words with pride, hats off heads, hands to thighs, chins raised. I mouth something akin to the anthem but don’t bother singing, it’s such a dull song anyway. When the anthem ends people return their hats to their heads and stand a little less straight.
Paris Bellbutton strides onto the stage dressed as a mermaid; skirt tight and shiny with shell scales, midriff exposed, long hair covering her chest, a crown of coral and shells on top of her head. There are a few whistles and then the crowd starts to cheer. She beams, waving to everyone as she approaches the microphone, saying, “Thank you. Thank you.” She does a twirl at someone’s shout and the crowd roars again. “Welcome, everyone, to the sixty-ninth annual Hunger Games!” She lifts her hands into the air, threatening exposure, but everything stays miraculously covered. The crowd cheers and she waits for a moment before continuing to speak over them, “It is such an honor to be among you all again for this year’s Reaping. I do always say that District 4 is my favorite.” More cheering, and she takes a breath to continue. “I hear we have some very excited tributes this year, most notably from the boys; so why don’t we begin with them?” She strides to the left side of the stage, reaching into a giant glass conch to fish around in the disc dosinia shells on which each tribute’s name is engraved. Grabbing one she walks back to the mic and holds it up to read off the name. “And the boy tribute for District 4 is… Caspian Murex!”
Everyone around aunt Pearla’s stall cheers. Caspian’s father thwacks mine on the back a few times before he steps forwards with aunt Larissa to wave to the cameras. Their grinning faces look back at us from the screen behind Paris.
“Excellent,” she says as Caspian joins her on stage, pumping his fist into the air and garnering another round of cheering. Whether he lives or dies, he’s already honored the Wharfs by being a tribute. “Now, for the girls.” She waddles her way over to the second glass conch and digs around in the disc dosinia again, drawing out another flat, shiny shell. Returning to the mic she takes a breath, pauses—eyebrows furrowing in split second confusion—then with a sigh and replacement inhale says clearly, “Diadem Flush!”