Chapter Text
The goodbyes were quick. Rapid strokes of paint on a canvas, rushed, messy, bleeding together into a strange, disturbing, unrecognizable shape. Neela was led into the Justice Building and barely had time to appreciate its high roof and pretty chandeliers before being taken to a waiting room. This one, too, was pretty, with cream walls and chintzy armchairs arranged around a low table. The all-floor carpet was thick and sucked up sounds, an impressionist painting on the wall was flaked with gold and silver. Everything was clean.
She'd just reached out to touch the flowery curtains when the door opened. It wasn't her family.
"Voss," she blurted out, surprised at the sight of her teacher and sometimes colleague. "What- what-re you..." She straightened and, in a thin but functional voice, restarted: "Thank you for coming. I hadn't expected it. It is very kind."
He advanced on her like she was a wayward child and grabbed her by the shoulders. The premature creases sneaking around his eyes had grown twice as deep since yesterday.
"You're a smart kid," he said in a hard voice. "Keep that good head on your shoulders, hear me? Keep it there, and use it. Your voice is commanding, and you're the most practical girl I know. Find someone among the tributes who listens to you, and survive together. Use them. Make them think it's the only way. It's easier to survive when not alone."
Neela felt like it was all a dream, and his words only made it worse. Use somebody? Make people listen to her?
"Miller," she began, "he's only twelve-"
"Forget him," Voss interrupted, hands tightening on her shoulders. "Forget him. You don't know him. He won't survive two days. Find someone useful. You can tell apart plants like others spot clouds on a sunny day. Tell them you can help them eat, they can't refuse that. Then, when the Games near their end, you kill them. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Neela, revulsion creeping across her skin. She hadn't expected her teacher here, and she certainly hadn't expected him to handle children's lives so callously. He was meant to teach them, not write them off for dead. "I understand, I understand, please let go."
He did so with the expression of somebody who knew she'd only said it to make him stop. Empty words. He didn't think she could survive on her own. It didn't hurt, but it did weigh. A soft gray cloud, cold and misty in her head.
"Live," he told her. "Live, Neela. You can do good for this world, but only if you are cruel for the next few weeks."
Voss left. He still had a minute of time, but apparently he didn't think he needed it. His words chased dread across her skin, but still it didn't feel real enough for terror to make her crumple.
Her family was sent in next. Cassen ran up for a hug, but Gert caught him around the collar with the words: "No touching. You could make her sick, she needs her strength now."
Her little brother, crying mutely, wrapped his arms around himself instead. His stare was sorrowful as everybody else embraced Neela and told her to be brave, to be strong, to run as quick as she could. You're practical, they kept saying, and you're cleverer than all the Districts put together. It was meant to comfort her, but Carla and Cailee kept crying and she ended up comforting them in the end. Their tiny bodies shook in her arms.
"Maybe you can win," sobbed Carla, all snot and puffy eyes, but even as Dad and the others agreed that maybe she could, horror and resignation oozed from their every pore. When the Peacekeepers knocked on the door that they best say their last goodbyes, Mom pulled Neela in for one last hug. Anja, crying so much Neela almost felt bad for disliking her, helped steer everybody else out.
"You always were vain," whispered Mom, stroking the necklace cord. "The Capitol likes pretty. So be pretty, Neela, be the prettiest of them all."
"I thought I was practical," she whispered, not daring to hold onto Mom's clothing since she doubted she'd be able to uncurl her fingers once they turned into claws.
"My clever girl," sighed Mom and smiled like Neela should understand something very important. But all she said was: "You show them. However this ends, you show them all first."
The Peacekeeper knocked again and warned: "If you don't leave now I'll have to escort you out."
Mom scurried away like a mouse. The door shut with finality, the closing of a book, and just as the reality of it threatened to overflow into her mind, the door opened again and revealed Gemma. She'd left child and husband outside, but was accompanied by two of Neela's classmates. All three cried and told her to be brave. Brave, brave, brave.
Don't cry when you're killed, was all Neela heard. Don't beg. We couldn't bear to see you beg for your life, please don't let that be how we remember you.
Gemma hugged her one last time and, with that streak of eternal oldest sister fury, hissed into Neela's ear: "Don't let them win. Make them remember you. Carve yourself in there."
It was the most personal thing she'd said in a year. Neela blinked up in surprise, seeing herself in the deep set green-gray eyes - though hers were dry as sandpaper, while her sister's dripped with tears - and the gentle curve of the cheekbones, the trembling pink lips, the long, straight nose. Gemma stared down with the same intensity, memorizing Neela as though she'd never come back.
Then, the same way Neela and Cassen had parted, she tore herself away and fled the room.
Neela was grateful she hadn't cried today when having to board the train. She and little Miller Fenn were brought there in a car. How long hadn't it been since she sat in one? There'd been that time a few years ago when Neela had broken her leg and Mom had asked one of her colleagues, who was a sister of the local leader, to borrow the car to bring Neela home from North's little hospital. And that time she'd walked North's richest merchant's son back home after he threw a tantrum in school, and was driven back as thanks. And then before, before, when she'd been surrounded by them in a better world. This one was far nicer, though, with velvet upholstery and windows that could be tinted to hide its occupants. They weren't tinted today. Crowds headed by cameras pressed against it to catch a look at their faces. Miller bowed his head, hands shaking in his lap and breaths shuddering through his narrow frame, but Neela stared out through the window. Separated by a pane of glass, sounds muted unnaturally much, it was like dreaming from the bottom of the ocean. It didn't feel real, but she knew it was and was aware on some level that not exiting the Justice Building crying her eyes out was good. It projected strength. Confidence. Potential. Good things that sponsors liked, and those were vital for survival.
The car stopped, the white uniforms of Peacekeepers moved in her periphery, and Neela exited the car the moment the door opened. She didn't dare look back at Miller. Small, crying. He was freckled and hazel-eyed, like little Mattis she'd taught. A camera flashed in her face, the snap of lightning, and Neela let herself be guided to the sleek, gleaming train. It'd whisk her to the Capitol overnight. District 9 wasn't too far from the Capitol, but they still wanted all tributes to arrive the morning after signing up for the death matches, regardless of travelled distance. The district reapings were always staggered to ensure it was technically possible to watch them all live, one after the other, but in reality only Capitol citizens did that. Neela vaguely remembered a reaping being aired on the big screens when arriving to the square, but she'd been preoccupied with finding her place and making sure Grandma didn't keel over.
The train doors opened with a low hiss, and Laronius walked in first, followed by the previous victors. The opening yawned wide and inviting, luring in with hints of sleek furniture and opulence and a whiff of delicious food, but all Neela could think of was how some creatures had inverted teeth. Easy to go in, but leaving meant ripping yourself apart. Self-butchering lambs, self-cutting wheat.
It was all very real suddenly. Neela stopped, nearly staggered, and sucked in the pleasant summer air. It smelled of meadow and spruce and grain dust. Home. This was where she'd chased her siblings around, where she'd scoured the fields to ascertain nothing poisonous grew along the crops, where she'd picked pears beyond the deep river.
I can't run away why did I stop here-
She turned around, gazed across the crowd, and raised her hand. It was what she'd done whenever leaving her house or the school, an acknowledging hand, a quiet goodbye, the full stop before moving on to the next place. Some reporters cheered. They probably didn't get a lot of people waving at them. Most tributes hurried onto the train, determined to remain stoic or at least not cry. Some did cry. Gentle weeping, stifled sobs, outright wails. These reporters had seen all.
Neela turned her back to them and let the train swallow her up.
Live, thumped her heart, live live live live, a dull but stubborn plea while her mind scrambled to imagine outliving a single Career, let alone six.
The tribute train was glorious and she wasn't sure what she hated more, the Capitol's cruel abundance or her own sudden longing for it. The sight was like salt in a festering wound, but at the same time, the polished table and soft carpets and smell of something made her think of her old life. Truffle, that was truffle. It brought back memories of New Years Eve, but who knew who she'd spent that evening with. Truffle. She hadn't had that in so long.
The doors closed behind Miller, and Laronius faced them with a wide smile.
"Oh, you'll adore the speed this goes at! They always do."
They, of course, were the previous tributes. And once the train departed, Neela understood them. Staring out of the window, feeling the gentlest of rocking from the train, so very unlike how she'd travelled this morning, the landscapes blurred together at the fantastic speed it went.
"Wow," whispered Miller, "I've never been on a train before."
From Middle, then.
Neela had her own chambers. Laronius, jumping on her comment "it's beautiful", spent five minutes explaining how all trains had recently been refurbished and that her days promised to be more luxurious than ever. Most big changes had happened during the Quarter Quell, such as a brand new training center and interview stage, but this was his first time on these new and improved tribute trains and he rather loved it. He liked explaining things. Hopefully he didn't overwhelm Miller when showing him his room.
No. What a useless thought. She shouldn't worry about Miller.
The drawers were full of clothes, all of them new, all available in three different sizes. Would they throw away these clothes after this ride? She'd touched them, but surely they wouldn't burn them all for that. The material was so soft, had such high thread count. Neela almost wanted to throw some out of the window - they were still within District 9 and somebody might find and use them - but refrained. That was just inviting trouble.
Dinner was at a long table. She hadn't changed out of her reaping clothes, no matter what Laronius had implied, but Miller had. These clothes fit him much better, soft against his papery skin. His hair, freshly washed, left a damp spot on the back of his shirt. The three victors sat in front of them, while Laronius occupied the third seat on the tribute side of the table. She ate slowly, carefully, savoring each bit but refusing to make herself sick or let go of her self-control. Small bites, each deliberate, filled with thought. How much thought had gone into this food? Five courses. Two starters, first a fish soup (she hadn't had fish since- since- since her last life, it wasn't available in land-locked District 9, how splendid it tasted, how strange it tasted), then a warm pastry dripping with parmesan, mushrooms, and truffle. The main course consisted of wild boar stew, thick and peppered and accompanied by various root vegetables - "should make you feel right at home," added Laronius amidst his pleased explanations about everything Neela asked about - and tiny swirls of puree in various shades of green. She let them dissolve in her mouth, trying to pick apart each and every ingredient and how they affected the coloring. One was mint. Grandma hadn't been in the Justice Building, but Dad had assured it was only due to denial of the situation. Then came dessert: first a bitterly dark chocolate mousse accompanied by cherry gel and what old Brice Rukavin identified as apple foam, and then, finally, a sweet passion fruit cake with cream drizzled with white chocolate sauce and topped by a few flakes of salted caramel that fizzed and sparkled unnaturally in her mouth. Miller and Brice laughed delightedly.
"Are you sure you don't want any port? It's delightful after a meal," Laronius asked, pausing momentarily after accepting the bottle from Ryetta, who'd always been so quiet and calm during reapings but now chatted incessantly. Still calm, still mellow, but the words kept going, blending together into a stream of thought Neela wasn't sure whether to listen to or not.
"No, thank you," she said. She'd had wine before, usually homemade of cherries or pears but occasionally a real one of grapes, but she wanted nothing like that now. Each course had a wine with it and the mere idea of getting tipsy had her tensing into a stone statue. She couldn't afford to have a headache tomorrow. She couldn't afford relaxing because what if she couldn't toughen herself up afterwards, what if she began crying and couldn't stop, what if...
"There'll be a cheese platter for when we watch the other reapings, won't there?" Brice asked, smiling. "Oh, great, the way they pair everything with jams is, chef's kiss, perfect."
"Isn't it just lovely," agreed Ryetta, swirling her glass before deciding against another sip. "I always liked the gruyere myself. I got a piece of it on my last day in the games." This part was directed at Neela and Miller, who was doing his best to finish his portion despite looking ill. "To boost confidence, or to fill my stomach. It was a overgrown ruin city that year, I hadn't eaten much. More mutts than real animals, I'd wager- or no, I'd rather not, I'd lose that wager, there were many squirrels, you see. Oh, the apes I saw there, terrifying... The boy from District Two strangled one to death with a piece of rope. He was a big fellow, but the ape wasn't alone and they tore him to pieces. I can't remember his name now. Perry Jay, you remember the tributes from your year well, don't you? Brice can only remember the girl from Four in his. The other finalist. My finalist was from Three, a girl called Lena."
Perry Jay Dale, who'd silently eaten every lick of his portions throughout the meal, only ever glancing up to observe those at the table with sharp, flickering eyes, answered in a surprisingly raspy voice. He was slim and clean, with combed ashen hair, the kind who should have a smooth voice. But he didn't.
"The boy from Four. It was him and his district partner in the end. Guess they wanted to make sure their district won no matter what. But the girl died that morning. Climbing accident. I watched it happen. The boy was tall, taller than me. Ford. Eyes like ink, I almost thought he'd cry black tears. I'll remember him forever. Ford. He was a smiley type, joking, teasing. Didn't even have to act for the interviews. Ford, Ford Fisk. His district partner was Alisee. The other Careers were Velvet, Royce, Livia-"
"Oh, for Mrs. Snow!" Brice remembered suddenly, nodding with all his chins.
"-and Lucius. Then there was Willa, Spark, Carmen, Leo, Maisie, Hannes, Taria, Ed, Jeanette, Jake, Aster, Vicks, Johnson, Glen, Daisy, Quince, Ada, Reese. In the end it was just me and Ford. Just us two."
Neela realized cake was falling off her fork and quickly ate it. Perry Jay, having said his piece, went back to silence. His leg bounced beneath the table. Maybe he was thinking about Ford. Maybe he was thinking about how quickly he could run and grab a weapon if the train was suddenly hijacked by the dead tributes from the 41st Game.
"Marvelous," said Laronius, forgetting all about his wine. "You remember every name? What a memory you have! I envy you, truly. Remembering them all..." He shook his head, and repeated: "Marvelous."
Neela's mouth opened and moved quicker than her mind: "Somebody has to."
But nobody took affront. Laronius shrugged. "I suppose."
Only Perry Jay Dale lingered on her, dishwater eyes digging into her skin as though trying to pry her apart and unravel her bones.
"You think you're clever," he asked then, quiet raspy voice edging on angry. "You think you're clever, with your pretty manners? The effort you put in to speak with as little dialect as possible?"
Neela was glued to her seat. She'd never had much of a dialect one way or another, even if each district had a distinct one due to their separation, but that was because of her previous life. English had been her second language, and she'd put in great effort to speak it as well as possible.
"No," she settled on, slow and careful. "No, I don't think I'm clever because of that. I think I'm clever because I read a lot, if that's what you're asking-" she knew it wasn't, and he knew she knew, "-but not for any of that. Besides, I don't put in any effort when I speak. I just- there's a radio in the teacher's room and I often have it on."
Radios were accentless at best, Capitol at worst. Perry Jay leaned back in his chair. He didn't smile, but his leg wasn't bouncing anymore and his eyes didn't try to peel the skin off her frame.
"I think your manners and voice are terrific," Laronius assured her, which didn't really help, but she smiled and thanked him nonetheless.
They finished the meal, and as they prepared to leave the table and retire to what Ryetta described as a living room area to watch the other reapings in - "it's always best to know the competition, I remember when..." - Miller gagged.
"Think m'gonna be sick," he managed, and was promptly escorted to the nearest bathroom by an Avox.
"Poor boy," sighed Brice.
That summed his situation up very well, Neela thought.
The living room area was cozy and soft, with plush couches and an abundance of pillows and quilts, and when Miller returned, smelling of toothpaste but looking quite a bit better, she rested an arm around his shoulder. At first he tensed, but then, like a cat, he relaxed and curled up at her side. She told herself she kept her heart locked and only did this because, objectively, this boy needed a comforting figure for an evening. None of the others were likely to offer that. Not Laronius, so very Capitolian, and not the mentors, who'd watched kids die and learned to live the victor life for a few years too many. Maybe Perry Jay still felt for them, but he was likelier to stab than to hug.
"Let's watch in district order," Ryetta said, fiddling with the controller. "I always prefer it that way. It's easier to remember them, I think, when it's not all over the place. Oh, here we go..."
District 1 looked healthy. Vibrant. Its population spilled out over its massive square, decorated with flags and lights across the elegant lamp posts and high, shiny buildings. Capitol, but still human and organic. Both tributes were volunteers, as expected. The girl, Pearl, was pale and sparkly, with a braid to her waist and a sneer on her lips. The boy, Frey, could have been her cousin, but they barely seemed to know each other. Tall, tall and strong, with curls of frozen gold that reached his shoulders. His smile was warm, but his eyes weren't. Neela felt nauseous at the sight of him and sipped her mint tea to keep her food down.
Frey, she mused to herself. Like the hated Game of Thrones character? But this one looked nothing like an ancient weasel. Instead, from the depths of her memories, came tidbits of knowledge about Norse mythology. There'd been a god called Frey there, presiding over lovely things like abundance and nature and summer while demanding blood, blood blood blood, in return for his generosity.
District 2 was little better. Both volunteers again. The girl, Diana, was tall and lean, with a close-cropped afro that accentuated her long features. Neela would've loved to talk with her in a different situation. The boy, Artorius, was burlier than a bear.
"They're all eighteen," she noted dispassionately. Of course they were.
"Not much older than you," assured Brice, who was maybe the nicest of the mentors but also the one least worried about upcoming deaths. Jaded to the point of indifference.
The District 3 kids were the opposite, and Neela felt guilty about the relief that warmed her gut at the sight of the two skinny teens, one thirteen, the other fourteen. Their district produced either whizkids or deaths that were hard to watch. District 4, on the other hand, was intimidating. They were always one step behind 1 and 2, but remained Careers and usually had one or two volunteers. This time it was the girl, also named Pearl, dark and glowing, ascending the stage with a cocky smirk. Neela got the distinct feeling both Pearls would be furious when realizing somebody dared share their name. This Pearl's district partner was not a volunteer: it wasn't needed. Rossen was seventeen, a massive redhead with a large smile and larger muscles.
"What a silly moustache," commented Ryetta quietly. "I never understood why boys feel the need to grow facial hair when it doesn't even look good."
"It's to show off that they can do it," Brice chuckled. "I was the same. There's old pictures of me somewhere, when I was young and thin."
District 5 was, thankfully, not nearly as showy. A grimy girl of sixteen, a sick boy of fourteen. District 6: a wide-eyed girl of fifteen, her district partner a year younger. District 7 had a fifteen year old, glowering under dark waves of hair, and a fourteen year old girl with pigtails. District 8-
"Oh, this is hard to watch," Ryetta sighed, and began murmuring about children.
Miller watched the bawling twelve year old girl with round eyes. Neela tightened her grip on him.
"How can nobody volunteer when somebody cries like that," he asked in a small, pained voice. "She's begging them. Look."
"I know," murmured Neela, "I know."
He's kind.
Then came District 9.
"Oh, this is us," cheered Laronius, quickly setting his teacup down so he wouldn't spill anything on himself when gesturing excitedly. "Oh, it's good lighting, very good lighting indeed! Just enough clouds so the sun doesn't put our faces in shadow, but not so much we all look dour. Such a flattering shot!"
Neela watched herself be drawn with a dulled version of the dread she'd experienced on the square. This was it. This was happening. She was right there, recorded forever, stitched into the fabric of the Hunger Games. The camera found her quickly, zooming in on her face. The Neela on the screen, green ribbon tied neatly around her strawberry blond head, walked to the stage with measured steps and pursed lips. She watched herself be helped onto the stage, though as expected the microphones couldn't catch her quiet, choked polite answer, and was relieved to find that she looked very composed and prim. The mentors had been analyzing all previous tributes and she was relieved that they didn't have reason to say "oh, this one's hardly keeping the tears at bay," or "what a dazed doe", or even "oh, that one's trouble, he better die during the bloodbath."
Ryetta even nodded and began pointing out all the acceptable things she'd done.
Then Miller was called, and old Brice gave him a kind smile and said: "You're a brave boy, Miller Fenn. The bravest of them all."
He didn't cry before the cameras, and everybody agreed little Miller was very brave. Neela wondered how long the mentors thought he would live. Judging by Ryetta's evasive murmurs about what sponsors liked, not very long.
Before long, it was time for District 10. The girl, a gangly fourteen year old, was nothing special, but the boy, Patch, was short and stocky with gray eyes that grew beady with determination by the time he reached his Escort. Ryetta whispered her comments. Laronius began talking about delicious charcuterie he'd ordered from that district, which Brice was very interested in. He was making good work of the cheese platter, which Neela nor Miller touched. After a short conversation between Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman, discussing the newest tributes as they did every two or three districts, it was time for District 11. A girl of seventeen and a boy of sixteen. Then, District 12. The last one, the worst one, the one the future main character was from. Both tributes were black haired and olive skinned, but their physiques were entirely different. Sanna was a tiny thirteen year old, while Jett was eighteen and strong from mine work. She didn't mean to pay special attention to them, to notice flickering eyes or black crescents beneath nails or a ground jaw to keep from crying. But she did. She comforted herself by knowing she'd paid a lot of attention to all tributes. Obsessing over details was something she was good at, this was the same on a grander scale.
"That's it, then," said Brice, and turned away from the TV to chat with Laronius.
"Perry Jay and I will take care of the mentoring this year," explained Ryetta with a tiny smile. "We take turns so one of us always has a year off to relax."
Neela could live with these two as mentors. Maybe the reason Brice was so nonchalantly happy was because he could mentally tap out of it all. He was the oldest of them, so undoubtedly he knew the most Capitolians, but on the other hand he was hardly glamorous and memorable. His joviality was heartening, but Neela would rather have Perry Jay's cold eyes and Ryetta's continuous whispered analyses right now. Elderly Brice sometimes didn't seem to know what was going on.
Or maybe she was just trying to comfort herself.
Before long, Miller dozed off and was carried away by an Avox. She remembered being small and carried off to bed by Dad whenever falling asleep in front of the hearth. She did that often during winter. Something about snowy blizzards still made her long for it, even though she was now far too old for such antics. Honestly, in some ways, she'd been too old for it as a child too. Cassen had done it too, small and golden-haired on the carpet.
"So," she said once the door slid silently shut behind the twelve year old boy. "I'll need an angle for the sponsors, won't I? For the show as a whole, really."
Perry Jay glanced away from the screen, which showed repeats of highlights - Frey's handsome face, Diana's steady stare, comments about the two Pearls, speculation about potential from the boys from Seven and Ten - but it fell on Ryetta to answer.
"Yes, it's always best to start early. Give hints during each moment cameras turn, the Capitol likes consistency. Everything might be fake-" Laronius must have heard, but ignored it in favor of telling Brice about the beauty of an old arena's guided tour, "-but they can still tell if you flip-flop between personas. Unless you're going for unpredictability, but that's hard to pull off and sponsors want to know the type they're putting money on. Oh, hm, well, last year's victor nailed it. Brutus was unpredictable, charming one moment and cruel the next, but he tied it together with an undercurrent of determination and cruelty. A common thread. Always have a common thread."
Perry Jay interrupted: "Did you have something in mind?"
It took Neela a moment to realize he'd addressed her, and she faltered before saying, hesitant, honest: "I just- would it not be easier if my act contained a sprinkle of truth? If it's based on a personality trait I actually have, it won't only be easier to keep that common thread, but also to act it out and to- to keep everything straight."
Keep it real, but good god, who on earth wanted these games to be real?
"Sure, yeah, that makes a lot of sense," nodded Ryetta, pouring herself more tea. "We usually try something like that, unless a tribute has a terrible personality. Oh, two years ago- no three- there was this girl with the most awful voice, always complaining. Can't blame her for that, poor girl, she knew she was a dead girl walking, but what was I to do with her? She never gave us a chance, and so never gave herself one. Died in the bloodbath. Maybe she wanted that? It was a quick death, for sure. First of the Game. The Quarter Quell, you see, Haymitch won that one. You might meet him. He kept his act close to his personality as well, that way he didn't have to pretend as much the rest of his life. That's a consideration too, the fact that winning means keeping it going. Better if it's a little genuine then. Of course, most die. There's no need for an act in your final moments. I always wondered if people ever tried to appear a certain way in death, a final performance, so to say."
Neela wondered if it wouldn't have been better if Ryetta spoke as little as she'd always assumed, instead of this.
Perry Jay tilted his head back, observing Neela through narrowed eyes. "The opposite's also true. You act a way you think is real, get to the arena, realize you were never who you thought you were."
"Well, it remains easier to act it out," Ryetta murmured, and sipped her tea. "Oh, still too hot. I can't stand things that are too warm. But anyway, angling for sponsors. Acts. Pretending. Ah, yes- even if you've misjudged yourself, it's easier to keep up a familiar facade than have to maintain a completely new one. For you... Hmm, let me think. You're eloquent, we're going to have to use that. The Capitol doesn't often get tributes who speak similarly to them, adjust your voice a little bit more and it'll be impossible to tell what district you're from. But they shouldn't grow bored either. You can't just be prim and polite, you need something more, a warmer flavor, so to say..."
Ryetta gave into silence to think deeply on this.
"You said it yourself," said Perry Jay. "Warmth. Be warm."
Ryetta's wan features brightened like the sun peeking shyly behind spring rain. "Oh, perfect!" Even her exclamation was quiet. "You put your arm around Miller earlier. You have family, don't you? Tell me about your daily life. Can you be affable? Engaging? Are you more of a joking person? Or more passionate?"
Neela didn't want to tell Ryetta about her daily life. Whether she lived or died, Ryetta would whisper it to everybody the moment somebody mentioned anything even remotely related to her or her Hunger Game.
"I have many siblings," she made herself say. "One of my in-laws even calls me by her own sister's name, that's how many we are. I teach the smallest children at school whenever their teacher's sick, which is quite often." She mulled it over: thought about the constant work, the constant catering. Firm but kind, was her mantra, be it with Grandma or younger siblings or the school children. She even mothered her own friends more often than not. But that made sense - she was older than she should be, even if she couldn't remember her previous life very well. "I'm a caretaker."
Perry Jay's face was inscrutable.
"Hmm," said Ryetta, pointy face doing a complicated thing. "Well, empathy and kindness has never not worked, but it's not enough. It garners affection, not sponsors. Sponsors want to know you can win. The teacher thing, then. Can you add some authority to your warmth? Don't come across as a well-spoken pushover, that'd be terrible."
Neela nodded. She thought they'd go into detail about how to act and speak, analyze mannerisms and poses the way she'd already mentally begun doing, but instead Ryetta told her to go to bed. Perry Jay went back to staring at the other tributes. Brice and Laronius waved cheerily, tipsy and glad, and the next thing Neela knew, she collapsed onto her silky soft bed in a strange pajamas that whispered against her skin like the breaths of a pretty, poisonous monster. She was sure she wouldn't catch a wink of sleep, but she'd scarcely choked back the first sob before drifting off.
The Capitol glittered like a dream. Laronius instantly pointed out all the landmarks, often along with an anecdote about a party or getting his hair done or meeting somebody important, and Miller stared like he couldn't believe it was all real. Neela couldn't blame him. The breakfast sat heavy in her stomach, and the sight of broad avenues lined by trees in various colors, buildings in all shapes and sizes that glimmered in the sun, fountains and statues and open squares moving with people and holographic ads and news reels did little to put her at ease. The train slowed enough for people to point and cheer with recognition, and though Neela smiled and gave the primmest wave she could think of, she couldn't help but to feel they were all dolls. Laronius looked normal compared to them, despite his swirling blue eyebrow tattoos and dyed sweeps of hair. Here were people whose faces resembled animals, whose skins had strange hues, whose hair trailed to the ground or stood straight up, whose eye colors shifted in reds and purples, whose clawlike nails cut through the air as they waved back. Following the Quarter Quell's decadent festivities and splendid colors, altering skin into unnatural hues of blue and purple and pink had become fashionable, and though Laronius dismissed it as a temporary vogue, Neela had the distinct feeling it was here to stay.
The crowd was shouting something. She wasn't sure what, at first, but then, staring at their mouths (some of which were normal, some of which weren't), realized it was her name. Hers. Neela Poppyns.
They stared at her like she was a rock star, and for a moment, her smile and wave was genuine.
Then she remembered they didn't actually care. That they weren't here to give her something, only to watch her give of herself. It was something she was good at, used to even, giving giving giving, but usually there was a reward as well. The knowledge she did good, moments of gratitude. Here, there was only entitlement. Here, there was only death. They cheered for each passing tribute.
"Remember to smile, both of you," Laronius said, something strict flickering through his unnaturally blue eyes, before beaming and turning to face the cameras as the train door slid open.
A churning crowd of color. People, people everywhere, white and brown and pink and green faces, summer clothes adorned by peacock feathers and boa sleeves and more colors than the morning's fruit bowl. Birds were in fashion, clearly. Birds and tattoos.
Neela, smiling sweet and light as summer, rested a hand on Miller's shoulder and walked out together with him. It was fine if she kept acting like she had yesterday evening, it lent credence to her front of being warm and caring. That he relaxed and felt better for it was a bonus. It wouldn't get to her. It wouldn't, because when he died being attached would kill her inside. She couldn't put herself through that.
Cameras flashed like crackling lighting, and with Ryetta's warning to "let the prep team do their job", they were whisked away to the tribute parade's headquarters. Streets had been closed off to ensure they'd arrive safely and quickly, but a few other cars of similar models drove along the same route. Their windows were blackened, like her own, and she had the feeling those were the other tributes. She was proven right when exiting at the same time as the District 2 tributes. She glanced sneakily at the impossibly tall Diana, who looked around with restrained curiosity, and averted her gaze before the Career could notice. No need to attract attention by gawking, or worse, scrutinizing like she actually considered Diana fair competition and not an unbeatable foe.
The prep room was white and smelled of disinfectant and floral soap. The team consisted of a chatty trio. Myron, who tutted about the state of her mosquito-bitten skin, sported horns in his hair. Tya, covered by bright butterfly tattoos, sighed about Neela having too thin lips to have complicated lipsticks. Lyra, sprinkled gems in her black hair resembling stars on a night sky, countered that at least Neela had height and figure to work with.
"The others have been so terribly skinny," she lamented. "You could put on some weight, mind you, and do something about the terrible state of your hands - cracked skin is so not done - but I can't count all your ribs. Counting ribs is, like, totally last year. It's all about shoulders now."
The Capitol was the only place where being skinny was fashionable. Everywhere else fat was a sign of a fortunate life. Of course, the sheer amount of plastic surgery meant that not only could a Capitolian still sport the desired curves while being skinny, but once they decided a look was out of fashion they simply shifted into the next one.
Neela remained still on the table (operating table, she couldn't stop thinking) and let them wax her raw all over. The bath had been lovely, leaving her soft and clean in a way she hadn't been in forever, but then things took a turn for the painful. Scrubbing, waxing, plucking, scraping. Nothing about her was good enough, and she let their words wash over her. She took note of accent and speech patterns, but couldn't remember the content. Gentle creams were massaged into her skin. Her hair was trimmed and loosely twisted back. Her nails were filed into crescents and painted in a sheer nailpolish that shimmered in gold and green.
"Oh, your eyes look almost green now," cooed Lyra, who was more generous with compliments than the other two yet twice as patronizing. "You should wear green more often! That ribbon wasn't nearly enough."
Neela almost seized up. Her ribbon. Necklace, bracelet, shoes, dress, underwear - everything had been impatiently peeled off of her, final remnants of home. She didn't have a token. In the chaos of leaving, she'd forgotten all about it and so had her friends and family. Maybe they'd assumed somebody else had already given her something. Maybe. The realization made her feel furious, lost, and empty all at once.
"My ribbon," she said then, strained and pleading. "It's my token. Don't throw it away, please. Let me keep it."
"Oh really?" Myron turned to an Avox. "Dig it out of the trash." He gave Neela a fanged smile. "We'll have to wash it, it's touched the grime of your flats. Pretty color, you've got good taste."
"Thank you," she said weakly, and tried not to flinch when they discussed if her ears needed plastic surgery.
Makeup was applied, which Neela glimpsed to keep to the green-gold shades upon spotting the palette in Tya's deft hands, and after twirling in front of the prep team, she was declared "as good as you'll get, darling, another five hours and we could've made you almost decent." They'd already been at it for four, and though Neela was used to being seen naked since her home only had two bathrooms and nobody was allowed to lock the door while they showered to let the toilets remain available, being inspected like this by strangers still sent tingles of discomfort down her spine. Before long, she was brought to a separate room, still white and brightly lit, where she waited on another table, naked and cleansed. She'd never thought of herself as ugly - in fact, she often thought she was quite cute - but the avalanche of critique still made her think about her lips, her long nose, her eyes ("too deep set, it doesn't show off our spectacular eyeshadow work enough"), her hands, her stubby pinky toes, her body ("enough to work with, not enough to show off," complained Tya, ignorant of the fact that Neela was considered curvy by starving district standards), the fact that one eyebrow apparently arched a little higher than the other. She'd always liked her eyebrows. Dark for somebody with pale hair, but not too dark, arching naturally to give her face an intent, classic look. They'd complimented her cheekbones, though. And her neck.
Breakable neck, whispered a sudden voice in her head. It sounded like what she imagined a Career sounded like.
The door opened and the stylist entered. An androgynous figure, their suit shimmered in a satin gradient of orange to pink. Their short hair had been styled into tight lavender ringlets, and when they extended a hand, Neela noticed a webbing of tattoos across their skin.
"Rae," they said in that high, clipped Capitol accent. "Good to see you in person, it's always validating to know I judged your measurements well from the screen. The prep team did a good job. I already altered your dress, but I'll still have to nip it a little. Pity, really, I'd wanted a very feminine look this year, but I'll make do. At least the dress won't hang off of you."
Her hand was still clasped in theirs, and Rae pulled her upright.
"Twirl," they commanded, and sighed. "Slower, I have to inspect you."
Neela obeyed. Her tongue didn't want to move. As the breadbasket district, their parade clothes were invariably food-related. She just hoped it'd be nothing like the last two years. Both had been root vegetable related: last year's tributes had been put in embarrassing beet costumes, violently red and round, while the year before had been dressed in tightly-fitted clothes made of carrot slices.
To her relief, the business-like Rae was a fan of classics.
"Grain will never go out of fashion," they said while helping Neela into a heavy, golden dress. "Still, I'd hate to be remembered as boring. Well, hah, boring isn't remembered at all! A bit of glamor, a bit of theme. Here we go."
Rae hooked the last of the thirty buttons on her back, and finally allowed Neela to look in the mirror. The prep team returned to help Rae with her hair, but Neela barely noticed. She was beautiful. The dress was based on wheat fields. She could tell that much. But the stems of wheat that had been used to create the tight, thick, flattering bodice shone like pure gold. The skirt was made of sheer green cloth that brushed around her ankles like a spring breeze. Upon close examination, fluctuations in the textile revealed it to be modelled on the skin of leaves. To keep the flaring skirts from being see-through, the golden wheat travelled down in swathes along the skirt, making it appear as though it grew from a green field. The sleeves were made of the same thin green material as the skirt, brushing softly down to her elbows.
"A pity your ears aren't pierced," commented Rae. "There's a pair of earrings that would go so well with this design. Abundance, plenty. You see it, don't you?"
"Yes," said Neela honestly. "I do."
She did look abundant. A goddess of plenty. Rich, summery, so much to give. It fits with my angle for sponsors, she thought to herself. Gently touching the longest golden column of wheat-like cloth, she found the material to be warm and soft. Not at all the metallic she'd expected. It made sense: if it'd been actual gold, she would've buckled beneath its weight. It was already heavy enough, and she was grateful for the sleeves, even if they were thin and didn't do much, since it gave her the illusion that it wasn't the ornate bodice holding it all together.
Thankfully she wouldn't have to run in it.
"I see what you mean when you wanted to go for a feminine look," she said, not even feeling guilty for her self-admiration. "It's gorgeous, Rae. Thank you. I'd been afraid of going out there as a turnip."
"I hate turnips," sniffed Rae. "They have an awful taste. No, not on my watch. I'd thought about bread and such, but the basics never fail. Grain itself does so much. Summer itself, prosperity and bounty. Look at you. Almost like how I drew the dress!"
Rae was very pleased, and Neela didn't tell them her district had very little prosperity and bounty. It gave all it had to the Capitol and redistribution across the other districts. What mattered was that she looked like a deity who singlehandedly fed the Capitol its breads and cakes and pastries. Her hair, partially twisted back, was inserted with jade flowers and a few golden spikes of wheat. A hint of blush was applied to her cheeks to make them appear rounder, make her appear well fed.
"There," said Rae, satisfied. "That's as close to my vision as we'll get. Myron, get her shoes. Lyra, check how the cameras are positioned. Tya, retrieve my umbrella."
Myron helped her get into a pair of low heels, easy to walk in but still adding an extra inch to her, which boosted her from just above average height to almost tall. Still nothing compared to Diana. Lyra reported that the camera crews were ready to go sneaky-paparazzi on all tributes heading for the chariots. Tya handed Rae a lacey umbrella that was clearly just aesthetic since it would be useless against rain.
"Smile," Rae reminded her after the prep team left, giggling excitedly among themselves. "That's what you discussed with your mentors, right? Smile. My designs are the perfect accompaniment. If you'd been a little fuller in body, I could've boasted about themes of fertility as well, but you're not there yet. Still, abundance and generosity go hand in hand with kindness and caring. Perfect, isn't it?"
Neela wasn't sure about that, but nodded anyway and agreed that she could absolutely work with this.
The waiting hall with the chariots was a massive space. Its roof was high, but the sheer width and breadth made it look low. She passed District 12's chariot first, the two tributes dressed in baggy black miner's outfits, then 11, whose tributes had not yet arrived, and finally 10, whose male tribute was present, dressed up in leathers as a nod to his district's livestock industry. District 9's chariot was pulled by two light brown horses with white mane and tails. They were beautiful, and in an other life Neela would have cooed and petted them for an hour. As it was, she barely gave them a second glance and let Rae help her onto the chariot. They fussily arranged her skirts, determined that she embody perfection, and frowned, like they still wished Neela had pierced ears.
Miller arrived soon after. He'd been dressed similarly in heavy golden grain and light whispers of green, but in a tunic and trousers rather than a long dress. His stylist must've been pleased to work with a long haired boy, because his light brown hair had been braided and twisted similarly to her own. But even with makeup on he was pale. Pale, and nervous, and unsure. Neela offered a comforting smile and helped him onto the chariot.
"You look really pretty," he said shyly.
She laughed. "Thank you. You're looking very nice yourself."
She rested her hand on his shoulder again, but he didn't feel like speaking much more. She understood that. She didn't have much to say either. One by one, the other tributes arrived. Eleven, dressed brightly with fruit piled on their head. Eight, in more elaborate tulle and tutu than should be allowed. Seven, like trunks of wood. Six was a surprise, however. As producers of transport, they were often decked out in railway or metal, but this time, the theme was clearly travel itself since their garb was divided into thirteen different pieces: one for each district, symbolized obviously in their clothes (such as a leather boot for Ten, or a luxury necklace for One), and the Capitol's skyline as a headdress. The wide-eyed girl looked around with eyes like scanners. Five was, on the other hand, boring and revealing: the tributes had been decked out in nothing but a string of faerie lights that left little to the imagination. Neither tribute looked happy about this.
"It must be so cold," said Miller sympathetically when noticing her stare.
"Must be," agreed Neela. "Luckily that's not us. We're warm and golden."
District Four looked appropriately imposing. Pearlescent shells had been arranged into scale-like armor, and their skin shone as though beaded with salt water. Corals adorned their ankles and wrists. Manacles, thought Neela. District 3, like some before it, still only had one tribute, but his coppery clothes had little excitement to it. A pity, since what they represented allowed for plenty of creativity. Then was District Two's chariot, which currently boasted only Diana, but she was plenty intimidating on her own, decked out as a particularly glamorous soldier, high heeled boots and cinched waist and all. A sword (fake, surely) rested menacingly at her hip. District One, too, only had its girl, and this Pearl was glaringly hotly at Four's Pearl, who glared right back. Like Neela had expected.
The final tributes trickled in, one by one, as the time to leave drew near. Among the last was District One's male tribute, the golden-haired Frey, dressed so opulently he could almost be Capitol in rich vervets with gold embroidery and twinkling gems around his neck. He wandered by the chariots slowly, making no effort to hide how he studied the tributes he passed. He smiled, but there was something disconcerting about his eyes. Whereas Diana's were dark and steady, Frey's were the pale silver-blue of a falcon and sharp as a splintering glacier. Eleven's girl shot him a surly glare, as did the brooding boy from Seven, but the rest avoided his gaze. He was the falcon, they the mice, and he had almost a week to plan in what order to swoop down and kill them. Neela, trying to gauge his exact strength, scrutinized him long enough for him to notice. His smile turned saccharine, and she almost averted her gaze. But that would make her seem shy and weak, and now that he was actively looking at her, not just sizing up competition, her gut told her that was a mistake. Nothing she could do would be right, but there were wrong options.
She arched one of her eyebrows (which, she decided, were just fine) and held his gaze. His eyes were death, nothing about his boyish grin hid that.
"Hello," he said, slowing. "Nine, right? I like the gold."
She arched her other eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, One."
Frey laughed, pleased, and sauntered on to study the poor tributes from Eight. Miller, partially hidden behind her, stared at his broad back with the expression of somebody who'd met their executioner. She wrapped an arm around him.
"He's just a boy, too."
Somebody produced a harsh, scathing sound. Whipping around, she noticed Perry Jay, Ryetta, and Laronius. It was Perry Jay who'd laughed.
"I'll be damned," he began in a sneering rasp, "if Career kids don't have to kill somebody as a final test before being selected to volunteer. That's no boy."
Neela glanced back at Frey, wandering like he had all the time in the world, and then looked at Pearl and Rossen, Diana and Artorius, the other Pearl. Maybe they had. Maybe Peacekeepers gave them prisoners set for execution a few days before the reaping, and the one who hesitated the least among the final batch of potential tributes was given the honor of volunteering. The thought was chilling.
A cool female voice filled the waiting area: "The Parade commences in one minute. All tributes aboard their chariots. The parade commences in one minute. All tributes aboard their chariots."
"Smile for them," Ryetta instructed, wringing her hands. "Smile like today's the best day of your whole lives."
"Chances are it is," Rae commented to Laronius, who nodded, visibly proud of Neela and Miller for looking this respectable.
"You've done a marvelous job. Oh, look at them!"
Rae was very pleased to hear this. Neela turned away from them, Miller still tucked to her side, and breathed deeply, slowly. No trembling, no trembling.
The first chariot, pulled by white horses, left. The waiting crowd erupted into raucous cheers. Neela thought to see Frey laughing as he waved. Once it was Two's turn, Diana's approach was significantly cooler and more reserved. With each emergence given a few minutes to bask in the spotlight on its own, it took a while for Neela's chariot to begin moving. When it did so it was with a jerk, but they both kept their balance. Smile, she had to smile. And wave. More gregarious than on the train. Steady. It was just a parade. She was gorgeous, nearly as gorgeous as the Careers. Nothing flashy, but enough to stand with pride.
"Smile!" Laronius shouted shrilly behind them, but although the reminder was unnecessary since she'd already plastered a smile onto her face, it turned a smidge more sincere.
The chariot left the room to blinding lights and so many cheers it felt as though it came from all around her, even under and above. The air was so filled with them it didn't have space for thoughts or hesitation. Her name was being shouted, Miller Fenn's name was being shouted, her district was being shouted. They were more appealing than Eight, and the crowd latched onto their shiny news toys with reverence. The screens all showed different angles of herself, shining like royalty in the lights, dazzling and rich and so beautiful she could almost eat herself up.
Neela raised her free arm and waved.