❦

𝐸𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇
ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴏʟ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ

❦

It was horridly selfish to say, but perhaps one of the worst things so far in Cillian's mentorship ordeal was having to see the seventh floor of the training centre again. So much had changed and yet everything felt the same. He felt the anxious dip of his stomach as he stepped from the lift, Johanna and the rest of their group following closely behind.

"Hurry along, get cleaned and dressed," Eirlys said. "Felix and Selene will be joining us for dinner in celebration this evening."

Their floor was much like the Victor's apartment that was kept in the Capitol. Each line of view was filled with something that could be vaguely linked to District Seven, whether it was the oak panelling of the columns that held up the tall ceiling or the twisted vines of ivy that decorated the edges of paintings and half-empty bookcases. The neon lights towards the hallway of bedroom doors were hazed a forest green, replicating the dusty light of the sun beneath a canopy of leaves.

The sign was most likely supposed to be comforting, the last inkling of home before twenty-three of the tributes would be killed, never to see their families again. To Cillian, it was nothing but unnerving, a false and hollow recreation that left him feeling cold. And why should the Capitol care about the children they were sending off to become savages? These were the sons and daughters of the districts they oppressed, the people they called brain-less and beneath. The sole survivor would be used and abused. They didn't care. It was an opportunity for someone, somewhere to show off their design work, if Cillian had to guess.

But the two tributes wondered about the apartment with a look of awe on their faces. Cillian left them to Eirlys' mindless babble as Johanna had done the moment the lift doors had opened.

Cillian had taken Blight's old room. Nothing about it said that the older man had once used it, but it felt as if something still lingered there, as if Blight would return one day to see Cillian sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the last image that'd been chosen to be projected on the single beige wall. Dusted white and towering over the edges of the ceiling, the image was of a lone mountain, a river meandering through the sloping valley below. Perhaps it was the mountains that surrounded the Capitol- Cillian didn't know. But he grasped that it was Blight who chose the image.

Bright lights flickered on automatically when he stepped into the bathroom. Already there was a fresh towel waiting against the heated bars that ran in a circular pattern on the far wall, opposite the floor to ceiling mirror.

When he stepped out of his room, showered and dressed, Eirlys was already waiting, her dress now a deep green and somewhat toned down. Johanna sat to her right beside Felix, who was next to Selene. They were still talking when he entered, but quietened to Johanna's relief, when he sat opposite, the two tributes following shortly afterwards.

The usual abundance of food was piled onto their individual plates. The silent servants, dressed in their solemn white gowns, leaned across them to place down jugs of water and extra dishes. They turned mechanically, returning stoically to their places against the wall, hands crossed above their laps.

"Who are they?" Freyja asked, her voice intended to be small, but with such people around the table, everyone heard.

"Avoxes."

"Johanna!" Eirlys shrieked, waving her hand for the topic to be dropped.

"People the Capitol deem as traitors," Cillian said for her, earning a glare from the district escort.

"You mustn't worry about them," she said, a meek attempt at a coverup.

"Why not?"

She glanced again to the two who stood opposite, their faces washed of any bold colour, seeming even more grey thanks to the stark white of their shape-less clothes. There was only one avox close enough for her to observe- a woman with hair shaved flat to her head. It was hard to believe that such a person had once been courageous enough to go against the Capitol. Cillian tried to think about who she might've been before her capture and servitude. Perhaps a traitor from the districts or a deserter from the main city. But no matter how he twisted his thoughts, the image came to a single portrayal: it was his family serving him tea and biscuits, tongues removed and faces skeletal.

"Because she doesn't want you to know that the Capitol cut their tongues out when they accuse them."

"Johanna!"

Freyja shot up from the table, her knees pushing back against her chair, knocking it flat to the floor. The loud thump startled Eirlys more than anything, and the two stylists stared after her as if nothing had happened.

"Must she act like that, it's only the first day!" Eirlys complained before her eyes narrowed on Johanna, a bony finger pointing at her accusingly. "You upset her. Go fix it!"

❦

The time for the training sessions came too quickly.

Freyja walked ahead, far enough that her eyes were free to roam without their bodies blocking her view but close enough that her ears need not strain to hear the clumps of advice that fell from their lips at Otis' questions. Her footsteps were entirely silent, falling to the floor as if she was floating on clouds.

"So what do we do?" Otis said as they made their way toward the training room.

"Make use of each and every station," Cillian said.

His head inclined. The sounds of following footsteps filled the hallway and he quickened his pace, making the others follow until they were in line with Freyja. Johanna took the space to her left, nodding slightly.

"You'll want to head toward the weapons, everyone does, but start on survival. Many tributes die by the arena rather than an opponent."

"Learn how to make snares and identify poisonous plants first," Johanna said in agreement. "Then you can show off as much as you want."

"After Johanna's win, they'll all be expecting more from you two than from the other non-career tributes," he said. "So there'll be no acting weak until the end."

Despite his previous courage, Otis's face had turned the colour of a blank sheet of paper. He nodded vaguely, glancing to meet his gaze with that of his district partner.

"How do I stop this?"

They halted at the doorway, glancing through the pale glass doors to the tributes who already surrounded the small central space, dressed in identical black, skintight suits.

"Stop what?" Johanna asked bluntly.

"The nerves," Otis snapped, eyes darkening as he turned his face.

"I would be more concerned if you weren't worried," Cillian said.

There was much he could say: that bravery could not come without fear, that nerves were solely there for your own protection, or that the anxiety showed he was not foolish. He said none of them. When Otis noticed he would say no more, he nodded and nodded again, circling his shoulders.

"See you on the other side," he said, and pushed through the doors, sending them swinging.

Freyja paused a moment, looked back between her mentors, and then followed his pathway, curving around the room, hiding behind the attention that Otis had gained.

The two mentors waited until the tributes had found their way to the plant identification area before they began their own journey to the platform in which they'd been invited to watch the first few hours of the long day of training. There, the head game maker and his apprentices would be waiting along with a few other of Snow's allies and the odd spectator who'd managed to snag an entry ticket for a reason which was most likely blackmail.

At least, however, there would be no sign of Caesar Flickerman. The presenter would not be able to sink his teeth into the gossip from where they were heading, as Cillian reassured Johanna before they reached the glass doors. The knowledge seemed to calm her- but only slightly. She still held herself tensely, her shoulders raised into her neck as if her hands were itching to reach for an axe that wasn't there.

A few other mentors were already there, huddled individually against the far wall, creating as much distance between themselves and the people of the Capitol as possible. He recognised Giselle first and found himself walking her way, letting Johanna decide for herself whether to follow.

"Cillian," Giselle said. "They finally decided to spare you."

A grin spread across her face. He'd always admired the fact that she wasn't afraid to show her feelings. Her face was an affective mirror of her heart, so much so that it would have been expected that such a show of emotion would detract from the intimidation caused by the large muscles that complimented the curve of her figure. But it was the opposite. There was never an act of bravery as admirable as the show of one's heart. Not when the Capitol wished to keep the truths of those individuals hidden.

"I must've been lacking," he said, inclining his head forward, returning a smile.

"I said the same thing two years ago," she said bluntly. "I don't even know which is worse. The prostitution or the mentoring."

Like Finnick and him, Giselle had been deemed pretty enough by the President to work in their ways, using body and words. Like him, her role as a mentor had been the only break.

"No, the worst thing is that that wasn't a joke," she said, shaking her head, eyes sliding to his left, laying on another. "Ah, Johanna Mason. Seems I'm the only one you haven't met. Giselle Armani, District One."

Johanna's eyebrows shot up. "You're in high spirits."

"It's easier when your tributes look like that."

Her head nodded down toward the training room. The two District One tributes had claimed the two swords and were swinging at each other, the silver blades moving as easily as an extension of their own arms.

"Though brawn doesn't mean everything," she said with a sigh. "Not when they refuse to listen to my advice on survival. It's my district's flaw. Arrogance."

"You must be the exception," Cillian said, and he truly meant his words.

"That wasn't setting you up to compliment me, I promise."

It was easy to see why she was so popular with the Capitol. Her words were naturally flirty, spoken like liquid gold. Her personality shone through her speech, unlike Cillian, who used it to hide his own. It was a miracle that they hadn't managed to ruin her.

"Don't mind Gloss," she said, acknowledging the furtive glances that Johanna was sending his way, upon his glare. "He's been out to get me ever since I took his sister's place. I suppose they'll replace me with her again once the shine of the new toy wears off- I'll be of more use in the audience anyway."

Her eyes switched to Johanna.

"Congratulations on the win, by the way. You shocked them all. They didn't half know what to do with the mutts they were preparing to send out," Giselle said. "Let me get you both a drink. We may as well drink their tables dry."

She turned in a flood of crimson hair and the minimal crowd of mentors parted to allow her through. On the other side, she was quickly greeted by the fountain of champagne and her lips moved graciously to respond. A few watched her- both in distrust and pretension. It was to be expected. She was District One after all.

Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve was not there, but Cillian supposed years of loss and pessimism- and drinking- might've stopped him from bothering too. Behind Gloss, was the two District Eight victors, their faces hard, struck by a constant anxious expression. They were older than many of the other mentors, their dark skin carved with ageing wrinkles and fine lines.

His line of sight toward the other mentors was broken by the glean of tanned skin behind a loose, white shirt. To the side of the familiar boy, was an elderly woman, hair greyed and thinning but flowing long down her frail back. Even with the wrinkles cutting through her pale skin, she was soft and gentle, soothing and calming to the eyes.

"Ah, my favourite mentors," Finnick said.

Giselle glided to his side, three crystal glasses balanced easily in a single hand, gripped faintly on the edges. Not a single drop of the lemon-coloured liquid was spilt.

"I hope that's not you leaving me out of your highest compliments, Finnick," she said, her arm stretching playfully around his shoulder, her cheek turning away from him.

Finnick cracked at the sight of her, a smile creasing his face. "Never, Giselle," he said. "I hold you in the highest regards."

"Mags, this is Johanna and Cillian," Finnick said, gesturing to the two District Seven mentors.

The old woman gestured something with her hands, a tender smile on her face. To his surprise, Finnick flushed. His eyes fluttered, landing anywhere but on Cillian.

They watched the training in silence. The sounds of grunts and clanging metal drifted up from below, and from behind, the noise of laughter and shouting filled the air. Freyja and Otis had parted at some point, separating into two separate survival stations. Johanna and Cillian stepped from the group of mentors to stand by the invisible barrier.

The two tributes shared a glance and turned to look up at the platform at the same time. The mentors nodded. Freyja moved first, slipping over to the strength and agility area, planting her hands around a thick set of ropes. The thick threads rippled beneath the hard pressure and she tugged on it as a test. Something felt right in her movements, as then, in one graceful movement, she hoisted herself up, rope slipping between her legs, coiling around her feet.

It seemed like only a few seconds later, that she was at the top of the ceiling, the rope looped around the top of her thighs, leaving her hanging freely and without fear. Only a couple metres away, was the high nets, enveloped across the roof like the patterns of tree leaves. Freyja took one look below her, to the tributes that were crowding around the mat, waiting for her to fall, then glanced to her mentors, to Johanna who'd stepped closer to the barrier, and then jumped...

...landing squarely in the centre of the net with perfect balance. Moments later, she'd disappeared amongst the ropes again.

It was Otis' turn to impress. As Freyja finished, a loud clang rang through the room, echoing from the far corner. It was there that the human-like targets stood, their outlines enshrouded in darkness, thanks to the low, murky lights that mimicked a forest or late night. At the heart of the middle dummy, an axe was lodged. Twelve feet away, stood Otis, another weapon strapped to his back.

Again, this time with eyes on him, he threw it, letting the blade spin only once before it struck its match on the target to the left. Otis charged for it again, ripping the weapon from the figure's hold, and began to slash, hacking precisely at the body until he brought his arm around in one swift swing, wiping the head clean from its neck.

There was no blood splattered across his body as there should have been. Freyja's hands were void of friction burns and scrapes. It should have ruined their show, weakened it- not strengthened them as it did. Cillian's eyes flicked to Johanna, only to find that she was already looking at him. He raised his glass.

District Seven would do better than they thought.

❦