Chapter Text
Beyond the depressing pelter of rain, Effies keeps her smile despite the unprecedented downpour of cloudburst. Dim specters of the sky peer down onto two miserable District 12 kids, soaking them wet from head to toe as if chaperoning them to a slaughter house wasn’t enough, they have to be denied from basking in the warmth of sunshine.
“Here we are, our tributes from District 12!” Her smile is crooked and forced, and the echo past the mic is met with a grunt of thunder. “Harper Cress and Fletch Broncher.”
The crowd reciprocates her impetus mask with disconsolate silence, heads stiffly hanging on their neck as if they were lodged on a pike.
Her attention careens to the sound of applause that comes out sloppy and patronizing.
“Happy Hunger Games, sweetheart,” Haymitch saunters to her view, delivering her penultimate line with a dry, worn smile. “Why don’t we save those handshakes inside the Justice Building where everything isn’t soaking wet, yeah?”
The upper bow of her lips twitched at the contact of his hand resting on her shoulder. Whatever she plans to vocalize next halts when the dark ambiance of the square ignites, shedding light on Abernathy’s disheveled features. Crackles of lightning leave her unfazed as her attention is drawn to Haymitch’s nest of a hair, tousled into spiky tufts that are drenched from the rain’s harsh invasion. Enough water has seeped into his ugly patterned sleeves that it becomes damp enough to be glued onto his skin. The upper buttons leading up to his collar were unfastened, and for some baffling reason, Effie couldn’t seem to avert her eyes away from the mess.
“An umbrella would have been nice.”
A young feminine voice disrupts her arbitrary fixation, and just like that, Effie is thrust back into the cold.
Harper Cress is every bit miffed, miserable, and unhappy standing under the glacial shower of the storm. The girl’s thick auburn curls drape atop her sulking shoulders. Her slender figure quivered against the frigid temperature, yet her eyes were burning defiantly, a sharp contrast to her algid response.
Her gaze alone sends an extra chill down Effie’s spine.
“Lucky for you, the Capitol has plenty of those,” Besides her, Haymitch recovers quicker even though he’s always incapacitated when it comes to the act of mentoring. “They might spare a few, maybe even lend you a golden press canopy all the way to the City if you give them the right impression.” He informs through the condensed misty fog that shoots past his freezing lips.
Effies senses the Capitol’s active camera crew, lens shuttering from afar and capturing District 12’s bleak and desolate reaping. It isn’t anything new, but she still winces at how they’re being perceived. She could feel their low chances plummeting with how much the storm had made them look more pitiful. Turbid, muddy, polluted with grime. That’s how they are going to be televised — not only were they known to be weak, but now, more dirty too.
This doesn’t bother Haymitch though. He simply nods sharply in Harper’s direction.
Twin orbs of dull ochre eyes appear flummoxed at first, blinking until they’re able to comprehend what he means. The girl’s trembling ceases immediately. Harper’s head swivels to where the film team is shepherded and tips her chin up in bold motion, staring through their hungry reception.
Another brilliant streak cuts through the sky, painting the surroundings hot white, and from there, Effie catches the sight of his smirk.
For once, Haymitch appears proud.
“Maybe this year won’t be so hopeless after all.”
“Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart,” The smirk is gone as he shuts down her propitious belief. “A bit of spunk won’t guarantee us anything. Twelve’s luck is still shitty as it goes. This right here,” Haymitch unveils his palm and scoops the drizzle of falling rain. “Is a reminder of that, and we haven’t even left for the Capitol yet.”
“Oh, stop being so pessimistic! I wasn’t implying anything of the sort,” She lightly slaps his chest, ignoring the way her knuckles made contact with his exposed skin. “I’m only a little hopeful.”
“Twenty-six of them will be duking it out, and there are four well-trained factions to watch out for,” Haymitch spills the ladle of water in his grasp and turns around. “You can always encourage yourself by watching who else they’re pushing in the meat grinder this year.”
“Being this calloused is not a good look on you, Haymitch,” Effie reprimands him. “...and it’s a shame, really.”
“Oh, is it?”
He stares back at her past the jungle-vine strands of hair that hangs over his eyes. In the opacity of the storm, they’re nearly an equivalence of dark nebulae.
“The kids haven’t said their goodbyes yet.” Effie changes the topic, pouting for dramatic measure.
Thunder pierces the silence, and the clattering sound of rain weighs heavy, gravitating down like relentless ice bullets. The quiet is only broken through the hefty boots of the Peacekeepers coming in to collect the kids for one final adieu.
“Alright, come on,” Haymitch shirks away the awkwardness and beckons for her to follow him. “Our odds are better when we’re warmer.”
He stays put in his spot, posture halfway turned. There’s a glance anchored in her direction while he patiently waits for her to move.
Effie’s face twists.
“Who knew you had an ounce of being a gentleman.”
She lets out a giggle when he groans at her.
“Don’t push it, sweetheart.” Haymitch turns a deaf ear at the sound of her mocking laughter.
Mayor Undersee lingers by the foot of the train’s brutalist compartment, doused by the flurry of hail and sporting one ruthless black eye on the right side of his beaten face. The elder man only shakes his head against Effie’s continual prodding. “It doesn’t matter what happened to me. All I want is for that girl to be on board without any more fuss.” He points out again by waving a tremulous finger in the air, punctuating his intention.
“I appreciate your concern, Miss Trinket. And I apologize that you have to see me like this and hear about such a scuffle,” Undersee aggressively yanks his loose tie, plucking it free from his rumpled and bloodied collar. “Have a safe journey. The storm’s getting hectic.”
The train finally lurches into speed, its glass screens spewing a view that comes out more blurry than scenic. Effie trudges across the aisle amidst the brutal pelter outside the windows. She stops by one of the furniture seats that’s embedded close to the wall and flops down comfortably, hands clawing her lap.
“What was that about?” Haymitch questions from where he’s lounged, dipping a torn piece of toast inside a marmalade jar. For the most part, he’s dry and well-adjusted in his new attire — a sleek indigo Nehru jacket with black slim-fit sleeves, although his appearance is withered from the way he keeps himself in an unkempt state, which she knows is on purpose. The long record of his self-sabotage goes unspoken between them, and this wasn’t the day for Effie to speak out the obvious.
Not right now when he isn’t drinking, and when their plates are full.
“A man by the name of Cob Barlowe has gotten into a physical fight with the Mayor, along with stabbing one Peacekeeper, and almost killing another officer who attempted to stop him.”
Effie watches him take a greedy bite before formulating a response.
“Oh, really?” Sauce of marmalade stains the corner of his lips, and it takes a lot from her to hold back from commenting about his table manners. “You don’t hear that happening every day.”
“The man brought a knife with him inside the building, Haymitch! It was quite an aggressive confrontation.”
She mentally rejoiced when he reached for the table napkin. “Where’s the bastard now?”
“He’s in Peacekeeper custody,” Effie explains with a twirl of her hand. “Undersee says the man will be dealt with.”
“Who’s he related to?”
“The girl, if I’m not mistaken.”
As if on cue, light footsteps drag their attention away from the conversation. They spot her russet shade of hair in the narrow, polished part of the compartment. She’s no longer soaked from the earlier assault of rain and appears refreshed in a combination of beige pants and an absinthe button-down shirt that’s manually folded by the elbows. A dark halter top lies in between the drapes of her unfastened clothing.
She doesn’t look malnourished, better yet, obscenely rattle-boned like the previous Tributes were last year. Her build is fairly average, not wafer-thin, not fat, just average, which isn’t too bad to work with.
“Oh! Welcome, dear,” Effie’s face adjusts brightly, waving her over and smiling beyond the girl’s vivid confusion. “Come sit, please. There’s plenty of food to choose from. Oh! I bet you’d love eclairs. You can have them as dessert after supper — and speaking of supper, there’s some soup all warmed up for you. A nice appetizer to make up for this horrible weather lately.”
To her chagrin, Harper ignores her and strays to where Haymitch is occupied. The man takes the time to dab his mouth free of marmalade jam and pitches the napkin high in the air. It sails over Harper’s head, missing the mouth of a trash bin that’s positioned below the poseur desk. Effie clicks her tongue at his deliberate littering. Haymitch, however, adds more fuel to her annoyance when he condescendingly uses his flask as a lecture stick, giving Harper some unfavorable advice.
“There’s nothing I can do for you, except maybe, write a eulogy.”
A beat of taut silence goes for a few seconds, and Effie disrupts it by exploding on his lack of sensibility.
“You’re miserable, I get it,” The girl says, her voice unsettlingly composed. “You have a shit job, and every kid that relied on you ended up inside a coffin. Personally, I wouldn’t want your help either.”
“Young lady,” Effie chided in a sharp voice, redirecting her scrutiny from the scruffy man. Then, there’s a bark of laughter, and it’s every bit harsh and grim sounding to her ears.
“Look at you! Already barking before a dog fight,” Alcohol sloshes from the opening of his flask. Haymitch swings the thing around, not caring when it spills to the floor and ruins the train’s carpet-cut pile. “You can save that attitude inside the lion’s den. That temper of yours is better off igniting a crowd than it would do by annoying me.”
“Really?” The girl eyes him in suspicion. “How come?”
“Oh, I thought you didn't need my help.” He claps back, all while inspecting the inside of his pit-neck metal container.
“It’s just a harmless question,” The girl shrugs. “Besides, I don’t know much about the Capitol. I’m sure you’ve done more than liplock a bottle during your visit there.”
Haymitch lowers his flask.
“Did I say something wrong?”
If the alcohol was in his system, it would have pushed him to say something mean and snarky. Unfortunately, he’s boringly sober for the moment, and he could see right through her act. She’s trying to set him off, hoping to get a reaction — more importantly, something of substantial use out of him. Her open hostility was bait. To both of their surprise, he indulges her for a bit, because he can.
“As complicated and bizarrely wack their fashion is, by the end of the day, they’re fairly simple to please. You slap in some personality to your character, and if you become lovable enough, they’ll gobble it up like vultures. Serve them the main dish and the plate will be clean in seconds. You give them entertainment. A soap opera they’ll never forget. That’s how it works because it’s a damn TV Show! Shocker, isn’t it?”
“Gently, Haymitch,” Effie scowls in disapproval. “You’re coming off too strong.”
“What did you think this was, sweetheart? A nursery?”
Harper’s eyes flitted questionably between the two.
“Of course not,” Effie clarifies, turning her nose up. “But must you be so indelicate? You might overwhelm the poor girl.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” Harper defends herself, abandoning the Escort’s crumpled expression and resuming to prod more answers from her mentor. “If I do that, you think I have a chance to survive?”
Haymitch makes a face. “A chance is a stretch.”
“Then why'd you bring it up?”
He’s caught in a snag, and his eyes narrow. There’s a glimpse of a simpered grin from across the table, followed by a series of pratting against mahogany. Harper’s finger taps the varnished surface, producing a sort of patronizing rhythm in his ears.
Ah, this one is a little shit.
“Wait until I have my booze,” Haymitch tells her dryly. “It’s where I'll start spoiling you with my infinite wisdom.”
“Wow. You’re way better at playing hard-to-get than most of the girls in my class. Did you mentor them by any chance?”
Effie chokes on her posca. She had retreated to her little corner in the lavish dining compartment of the train, but that didn’t mean she was completely out of earshot.
For a while, Haymitch just stares, long and hard, his drink briefly forgotten. Harper’s lips thin to an unsatisfied line. The girl stops messing with him, but her eyes are another thing, they stay defiant and resolute. This is where Haymitch starts to really notice the faint wash of bruise marking her left cheekbone, her little mole popping in the mass of light purple discoloration. Where did that come from? Did she get into a fight with someone? It looks fresh. Fairly recent, even.
The scuffle between the Mayor and some man named Barlowe pops into his head.
Cob Barlowe.
The name echoes, lingering until he recalls a picture of a butcher shop in town.
“Witty, aren’t you,” Haymitch says, pausing when a memory flashes of billowing fire smoke. The bleary face that’s caked in soot and ash he caught a week ago is now looking back at him in the present. Everything about the incident screams ‘trouble-maker.’ “You know, Caesar Flickerman might actually love you. How about you work him up with this type of chit-chat instead of focusing on me.”
“But what do you think?”
She wants his opinion on the matter because despite what she said earlier, he’s her mentor, and it’s clear that she holds his opinion in high regard . Other than that, she’s onto him. Haymitch wouldn’t be surprised if she infiltrated his thoughts.
“If you can hit as hard as your words…” He trails off, connecting the ruthless Butcher and the orphan that the man adopted, wondering whether the latter is behind that arson attack. “...then maybe, I’ll indulge you with some of my time.”
Silence settled in for a while.
Haymitch deserts the patience to wait and takes a nasty swig, chugging down the drink until his throat is familiarly on fire. The tunnels in his ears ring until his mind starts tripping. Past the sting around the lids of his eyes, he witnesses the change like a light switch, catching the girl’s neutral expression melting off.
“Sounds like a sweet deal, mentor.” Harper chirps beyond the buzz in his skull, grinning uncharacteristically now that she’s secured his approval.
The girl is an actor, and a very clever one, at that. If his hunch about the fire is right, then maybe, maybe there was a chance. A slim chance, he thinks humbly. He’ll have to test whether the girl can bite as good as she barks.
Maybe this year won’t be so hopeless after all.
Effie’s words reverberate, loud and clear.
An abandoned part of Haymitch stirs awake, and for a quick second, it scares him. He doesn’t want to be hopeful, and it seems like the world agrees when their boy appears to join them for supper. Fletch Broncher immediately sticks out in comparison to Harper Cress. Pallid skin, haggard face, and most of all, gaunt. The shirt he’s wearing hangs too big for his body, making him look far younger than eighteen. He must be from the Seam, and the only thing that compensates for, well, everything, is that he’s tall. Towering at a 6 '6'’ at least, although thin and illy. The instance he’s in the perimeter of the Capitol’s humble banquet, his sunken eyes pop out in fervor. There’s an unmistakable growl of hunger that everyone hears, and Effie is the only one to react even when pity clouds her features.
“Help yourself, dear. They’re all for you to dig in,” She spares Harper a look, urging her to do the same. “Don’t think I didn’t see you touch anything! That goes for you too, young lady.”
“Effie’s right. Eat up,” Haymitch adds at the girl’s reluctance. “After you’re done, we can watch the recap for this year’s lineup, and maybe discuss what other secret skill you have other than triggering people’s headaches.”
“Can’t wait.” Harper deadpans against his jab but submits to his order anyway.
For the first time, Haymitch feels strange about seriously evaluating their competition. Last year, he didn’t even bother to try and sleep all the way to the Capitol after seeing what he had to work with.
He can’t be hopeful.
For now, all he can do is try to indulge and see if this goes anywhere.
By the time supper ends, Effie has grown attached to Fletch. She’s been blabbering non-stop about different types of desserts while the boy continuously nods at all the details she spills like an eager puppy, inhaling three slices of apple pie.
Whereas the boy is excited, Harper is more reserved with food. They notice that she avoids certain types of meat. She eyes the roasted porchetta vehemently and goes for a spoonful of mushroom soup. There’s a juicy lump of ham that makes Fletch salivate, and while Harper knifes a few slices of tender meat, she stops eating halfway and goes for hot crab-filled steam buns and tomato focaccias. She’s okay with salmon, along with the platter of seafood being doused with herbs, lemon, and melted butter.
“Can I eat this while we watch?” Fletch eagerly scoops the caramel popcorn bowl in his lap, craning his neck to get a good look at Effie.
“It’s may I eat ,” She corrects, combing the boy’s unruly dark curls. “And yes, of course you can, but do it slowly. If you eat too much now, you’ll get sick.”
“Does it matter?” His lips pull into a frown, and for a second, it completely takes her off guard.
The boy was no idiot, and Effie should have seen it past his exhilaration. It would take more than a superabundant feast to make him forget that all of this is the calm before the storm, an eerie opulent smokescreen that hides the real horror awaiting him once this journey pulls over.
Fletch is merely treating it as it should be — his last supper. Granted, that would be the last night before the Games start rolling, but Effie could not fault him for behaving like he’s lined up for death row, because he is.
Denial is a nasty thing, and just like her evasion with Haymitch’s self-sabotage, Effie cowers from confronting the truth.
Harper is sprawled in a luscious, cream beanbag on the floor, not too far away from where Haymitch is perched on a button-tufted sofa upholstered in cocoa-coloured leather. They’re all lounged in the viewing compartment as the recap from District 1 plays on the screen.
Two Volunteers at once. Predictable.
The broadcast spits an image of a girl with bright sharp eyes and a fistful of pearly teeth. Her blunt haircut puffs in brilliant waves of golden curls, sparing a thin braid behind her ear that’s distinctively glossed in a bright silken red color. Velvet Cassidy glows from the Capitol’s leering lens, smiling all too eager for the camera as if already practicing for her coronation.
“Oh, Red is fine. It’s what my friends call me, and who doesn’t love the color red?” She winks for effect.
“Ah, classic,” Haymitch says, shaking the refilled flask in his grip. “The Gamemakers must love that one. She has their touch.”
“Maybe they can focus on her instead of going after everybody else,” Harper adds, mimicking his dull energy.
“Well, if it's any consolation, red-themed apparel is a bit behind nowadays,” Effie supplies after their dry, sarcastic commentary. “Today’s league fashion designers crave Mediterranean sea-inspired teal, which is a complete antithesis palette from red! There’s not much fanfare with that catchphrase, if I do say so myself.”
“...I think she looks great,” Fletch remarks in a soft voice, munching the sweetened kernels more slowly.
All pairs of eyes dart to his direction, and the boy’s face burns an embarrassing tomato.
“Hey, if you can find a way to charm her, then I’m all ears!” Harper laughs, her joyous peal filling the tension up until the male Volunteer strides on stage. For what it’s worth, he’s a copy-pasted version of the girl, except he’s not as intrinsically natural, coming off too strongly. His lines don’t even land as hard. Haymitch actually cringes at what he hears, and he spots Effie miming his reaction. There’s a split second where they lock eyes, and he tips the mouth of his flask her way before dragging it to his desiccated lips, shaking his head. Her pretty baby blue rolls at him whilst she suppresses a snicker.
She’s been doing a lot of that lately, Haymitch notices.
District 2 provides the usual hound pack. The intimidating image of Astrid Lamar tints Fletch’s face sickly green. Their boy stops eating, and that’s not even considering the male Volunteer who’s built like a muscled Ox. His gunmetal eyes pierce through the barricade of their screen. If looks could kill, this was it. Their cannons would have fired.
Harper’s lenient position on the beanbag stiffens. Unlike Fletch whose gaze flickers to his bowl of food, hers remained tracking on Atlas, studying the boy who earned the Titan’s namesake from physicality alone. While Harper is focused on him, Haymitch is focused on her.
The light air that surrounds the girl a couple of seconds ago has evaporated. It’s hysterical to think that she has a chance against District 2’s hulking killer, but then Haymitch lets himself have the benefit of the doubt, if only a little, thinking back of the accident at the butcher shop and a very pissed-off Cob Barlowe that’s heatedly accusing the orphan to be a delinquent.
Cleverness can only go so far, though.
District 3 presents a jittery thirteen-year-old named Minerva and a fifteen-year-old named Link. None of their first impressions resonate with them, aside from the initial pity they feel for the girl.
District 4 flashes by and they seem to be a ripple combination of 1 and 2. Serafin Huxley doesn’t quite glower as hard as Astrid did but still strikes a menacing factor in their charts, whereas Percy Seaward radiates the same aura as Velvet Cassidy, a bedazzled smile stretched wide for the cameras.
District 5 and District 6 follow in that order. None of them seem memorable until the boy from the latter District trips on stage. In that instance, the name Tolly and his flush face embed itself in Harper’s head and in thousands of viewers. The boy’s embarrassment will be the highlight of his downfall as the broadcast projects it clear for everyone to see.
District 7 has Peacekeepers dragging a shell-shocked fourteen-year-old girl named Gimm. There’s more promise with the boy, Malik, who holds himself steady and treks for the stage in confidence. He appears bored while his Tribute partner is completely the opposite.
When it comes to the recaps of District 8, it’s where the tension really thickens. Their female Tribute is palisaded by a guide, but what really sticks out is the white cane that the girl is stirring to the front of her path. Even before she’s perched on stage, it becomes clear to them that Raife Gaspers is blind. Her District Partner, Kelsey Singers, holds her hand tightly after shaking it.
There’s a chill in the room when they both stand in solidarity together, but then the clip immediately cuts away instead of being extended.
“I guess that means they'll be working together,” Harper says in a tight voice.
Effie and Haymitch exchange glances at first, then flee to their own Tributes. Fletch is back to eating, although now he lacks the primary fervor that he had before. Harper says nothing else after that, steel eyes too preoccupied on the screen.
Where District 8 is allied with another, 12 certainly isn’t.
Effie fidgets in silence while Haymitch drinks.
The allyship of Raife and Kelsey leaves a shadow over them. District 9 passes by and leaves too quickly. District 10 almost mirrors this transition if not for their boy looking physically massive, although not as burly and powerful as Atlas.
There’s a scene with District 11. The girl, Alyssa or something, has broken to a scream, and it's maddening to hear. She’s been restrained by a squad of Peacekeepers and swiftly shunned away from prying eyes. The Escort Reaps the boy and pretends there was no meltdown happening.
Fletch sinks in his seat, looking highly uncomfortable. “Why did she do that?”
“Why wouldn’t she do that? She probably doesn’t want to die,” Harper states, looking at him for the first time. “People keep forgetting that this is messed up.”
“Don’t let your upcoming fans know that or else their head will explode,” Haymitch cuts in. “The Capitol doesn’t like whiners, more so Tributes who make it their problem to be there.”
“They don’t like it when we’re conscious, you mean?” Harper challenges, lifting a brow.
“Not when you use it to defame their five-star-quality show, no. You can be clever, just not too clever,” Haymitch stares down from where she’s basked. “Remember, we’re the performers here. We don’t have room to complain, only entertain. It becomes a biohazard when we breach the fourth wall.”
Can’t exactly have your audience squirm with that piece of knowledge. Next thing you know, they’ll turn their TVs off, and that’s not what the Capitol wants.
That’s not what Snow wants.
It takes a while for Harper to respond with a snort.
“That’s a tough crowd to please.”
“Only when you’re too stubborn to fall in line.”
The girl regards him with keen eyes. If only it was possible to pry open people’s heads, then Haymitch would have tried to know what she was thinking about. The broadcast snatches his attention when it spills their portion of the Reaping.
The scene plays out relatively normal up until the sky turns against them. By the time Fletch is called on stage, Harper is already pelted by torrents of water. It’s a pitiful sight. Haymitch overlooks the central focus and pays more attention to where he snakes beside Effie, urging her to take refuge inside the Justice Building. He sees himself giving a sharp nod, and then, lightning plummets on Earth.
It lights up the defiance in Harper’s eyes, painting her sharply in the pouring water. When the ambiance dims, intense shadows complement the brief glow in her irises. She’s no longer shaking from the cold. She looks fierce, adaptable to the temperature, and somehow the cameras were able to capture the sound of thunder. It grumbles in the background, supported by the delayed cast of lightning flickering in short bursts.
Past Fletch’s trembling, his little moment with Effie is captured on screen.
Haymitch spots her carefree laughter after deeming him a gentleman. The audio doesn’t carry like how nature did, so the sound is only in his memory. It’s a surprise to him that she’s laughing instead of complaining about being drenched. The Capitol might highlight the blaze in Harper’s eyes, but he’s more mesmerized by the twinkle in Effie’s baby blues. The image sticks to him until their recap ends.
He realizes that he hadn’t sipped in the entire time that it played.
God. What was happening to him?
There's a groan. Haymitch peers down and spots the girl covering her face, suddenly sheepish.
“It wasn’t bad,” Haymitch says before he could stop himself.
“Not good enough, you mean,” Harper murmurs, hoping to disappear from existence.
“You looked great,” Fletch comments. “I’m the one who didn’t look good.”
“Only because that storm was uncalled for!” Effie chimes in, her voice is loud for some reason. “Nonetheless, it could have been worse.”
“Whatever,” Harper says embarrassingly. She takes a deep breath before dropping her clammy hands to her lap. “I’m heading to bed when this is over.”
Haymitch remembers what’s in his grasp. The flask weighs the remaining hard liquor that he hasn’t quite finished, which is a first, considering that last year, the amount he spilled into his system had rendered him immobile. He contemplates ditching the urge to drink, thumb-stroking the stainless steel while his thoughts hammer down. Too many thoughts, he thinks.
“Where are their Escorts?”
He blinks just in time to see a Staff Sergeant on the screen. The man is clothed in a dull army gray uniform, strictly marching to where a black burnished lectern is perched on stage.
“13 doesn’t have Escorts,” He explains to Harper, eyeing the flask one last time before capping it close. “You see, they don’t do Escorts. They don’t allow anyone from the Capitol to reap their own. They’re too special for that.”
Harper’s brows shoot up at the bitterness hinted at his tone. “Then how are the kids picked?”
“Still pretty much the same,” Haymitch shrugs.
Behind the man, there’s a rectangular flat panel reaching both corners. Once the monitor boots, it turns into sleek indigo blue and presents a list of names that Haymitch knows are the deceased.
The kids lean forward after being exposed to a different setting. District 13 holds their Reaping inside a massive auditorium with a ceiling high enough to escape the camera’s view. This is an exclusive shot where only a select few Elites from the Capitol, Mentors, Escorts, and current Tributes have the privilege to watch. Recaps ranging from District 1 all the way to 12 can be played on their screens, but not 13. An announcer from the Capitol would only respectfully mention their Tributes' names and spell them on screen without showing anything more.
In a way, it creates some buzz when their train pulls on Capitol soil, playing on the audience’s patience with their two mysterious Tributes.
“Keep your eyes peeled, you two. They don’t normally play this outside normal screenings.” Effie tells them carefully.
The Staff Sergeant takes his place behind the lectern, adjusts the mic from the slop top, and starts his speech.
“At our defeat, we repent our mistakes to the Capitol by offering our own in this year’s 72nd Annual Hunger Games. To our cadets in the crowd, know that your serving time will be honored in 13. Your names, and your time with us, will never be forgotten. In the case that you are reduced to sacrificial lambs, you will have the burial of a soldier. No matter your age, your service is highly acknowledged.”
The man steps off from the dark platform and walks to the center of the stage. Nothing seems amiss at first, until a small portion of the floor slides open, revealing a massive gravity slot machine ascending in their peripheral view. There's a massive glass dome head that pops out, caging thousands of amalgam-colored paper slips of black and gray, holding the names of their potential competitors.
Harper takes a deep breath, and so does Fletch, watching as he powers it up. Immediately, the sphere shuffles the names through a torrent-controlled space. Every single piece of paper flies in the air, spinning in a twisted hurricane for a whole minute. It’s hard to keep track until the man finally powers it down. There’s a narrow slot where the machine spits out two envelopes. One black, and one gray.
He retrieves them and takes his place behind the lectern again.
“For this year’s Tributes, Soldier Jillian Kasprak and Soldier Nadine Alfonso will represent our unit as a whole,” Their names echo from the mic and are printed on the large monitor, replacing all the names that died in the previous games. “From this time forward, both of your services are acknowledged. As odds go, may they be in your favor.”
The camera cuts to black.
It was so sudden that even Effie and Haymitch were caught off guard.
“Are you serious?” Harper reacts first, features peeling to disappointment. “We didn’t even get to see them.”
“Last year wasn’t like this,” Effie announces, confused.
“Ah, classic District 13,” Haymitch merely says while uncapping his flask. “They’re always pulling this type of shit to see how much they can get away with. Spoiled bastards.”
“They’ve done this before?” Harper inquires but she’s ignored in favor of gulping down what’s left of his liquor.
“13 can be…a bit unpredictable, sometimes,” Effie admits. “They’re usually the odd one out of the bunch.”
“Doesn’t matter if you can’t see’em,” Haymitch belches out an answer. “Their asses will still show at the parade.”
“Well, okay,” Harper replies. Her mouth pops open but then pauses. Whatever she was planning to say has been rephrased after seeing the state of her Mentor. “Do we talk about strategies tomorrow? Since 13 will be there, we can start evaluating my — our chances,” She stumbles, looking directly at Fletch. “...our chances, I mean, against everyone.”
Haymitch stands abruptly and nearly trips in his steps. At his clumsy stride, Effie catches him by the torso. She’s frozen solid when his head pitches to land on the collar of her neck, lips sputtering nonsensical things.
She heats up at the contact.
“Yes,” Effie says through gritted teeth after sensing Harper and Fletch’s eyes burning holes in her back. “After the Tributes’ parade, the three of you can talk about strategies. In the meantime, you can rest, preferably back at your chambers.”
Haymitch was heavy, and she’s using every ounce of her strength to keep him upright. Effie shoves one last smile to the kids and gestures with a tilt of her head for them to get going. “I will come to fetch you when we’re nearing the Capitol, as I’m sure you have very eager people waiting for your arrival.”