CHAPTER FIVE;
the public eye

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Vesper has seen death three times in her life.

     Well, if she eliminates all the gruesome or agonisingly slow deaths televised in the Hunger Games, it leaves three real life experiences — each of them as jarring and memorable as the other. The third, most recently, was the man flogged to death just yesterday on Reaping Day.

     The first time, she was thirteen years old. Vesper remembers it clear as day. She, Kirk and Axel were scaling the train tracks to clear debris. There was another kid too — Finlay, his name was. He had eyes the colour of opals, and hair growing down to his shoulders that burned in hues of wildfires. The boy's freckled skin was always smothered with blotches of peeling red sunburn over his freckles, just like they were on that day.

The quartet were navigating a narrow underpass where the tracks ran, of course an idea of Finlay's, sheltering in the coolness of the dark tunnel amidst the warm August day. Finlay was mucking about as usual, the jester of the group followed closely by Kirk.

And that's when the train started coming.

Vesper remembers running harder than she's ever run in her life; the rumbling of the tracks under her feet, the screeching of metal drawing nearer. Adrenaline coursed through her body in a desperate attempt to save her life, shoving her companions forward with a violent slap on the back if they started lagging behind. The rest of it was a blur, which she can just about recall — Finlay tripped. They screamed at him to get up. They got out. He didn't. Axel wouldn't let them into the tunnel after one quick glance, hollering at the two not to look. She still remembers catching a glimpse of crimson streaking the ground, just caught by the daylight flooding in...

The second time, but perhaps the most harrowing one, was her father's passing. It hurts to even think about. She doesn't like to reminisce of the way her heart dropped at the sight of a teary-eyed Blythe on the doorstep. She doesn't like to relive the moment she bounded up the steps, stormed in and swung open his bedroom door.

She thinks about all of this when she and Icarus step outside in District Five. There's barely a breeze, but the stillness of the night refocuses her. It seems to do the same for Icarus who, like her, is basking in the revelation of being outside their home district. Icarus points to the horizon, a faint silhouette in the distance.

"Look," he whispers, as if it's a secret, "Wind turbines..."

Vesper hums in interest, her head tilting up to the skies above. Away from the streetlights of Vagary, the stars are more vivid than she's seen them in many years. It reminds her of the times her father would wake her up at night, taking her outside in the field by their humble bungalow to see what they could spot.

The two of them stand mostly in silence, taking in the small panoramic of a life outside District Six. She's not sure what he's thinking, but her mind is spinning — wondering how the hell she's going to save him.

     Soon enough they're herded in by a paranoid Hermia, and the train is once more Capitol-bound. Vesper retreats to her room for the night, simply nodding to Icarus who tiredly closes the door behind him. What do you say to the boy who'll be taking home your legacy?

     The next morning, after a confusing medium of sleeping well in the plush bed and equally craving the familiarity of home, a round of impatient rapping on her door stirs her from a comfortable slumber.

     "Hellooo!!" Hermia sings outside, prompting Vesper to shove the pillow over her head. "Rise and shine, my dearies — we have a big, big day ahead!" and then, in a busybody tone that deceases in volume as she clip-clops down the corridor, "— So many things to dooo!"

     This woman's worse than Blythe, she thinks gruffly.

As Vesper pulls herself up into a sitting position, she feels her Reaping dress cling to her in the sheens of sweat on her skin. She must have fallen asleep in it last night. Not bothering to change, she hoists herself onto her feet — there will be plenty of time for that once they arrive in the Capitol today.

     She staggers over groggily to the black-out blinds obscuring the window, attempting to pull them up by her fingers to no avail. It's then that she remembers the remote pad she discovered last night, and she turns around to find it waiting for her. With one press of a button, the blinds begin to slowly lift, revealing a new scene in daylight before her. In the horizon of her window view, she can see peaks of mountains in the horizons. Her best guess is that it's District Two. Either way, it momentarily takes her breath away — the mountain range is a stark contrast from the industrialised, fairly flat areas of District Six she's roamed.

When she exits her room, Icarus's door is still closed. Hermia is pleading mercilessly at Dale's door, only to receive an onslaught of slurred insults back. She continues tirelessly — Hermia must have gotten used to this by now.

Vesper feels strange as she scales the corridor, like she shouldn't be here. With every step along the carpets, floorings of which over a hundred boys and girls have trodden along only once. Only three people have avoided this one-way journey to their deaths: two of them will be trying to make sure she doesn't, either.

     A cart suddenly emerges from one of the side doors, making Vesper step back hastily. The Capitol employee, kitted out in white, simply nods in gratitude before scurrying along in the same direction she's going. As she trails behind the servant, she catches aromas of something rich and sweet — she figures it must be the thick, creamy liquid distributed between five mugs on a silver tray.

     She's still following the sight and smell of the drinks when she reaches the living room, the cart slowing to a stop.

     "Good morning."

     Vesper jumps, spinning around to find the voice. That would be the second time Irma's scared her like that. "Morning..." she sighs, clutching a hand to her chest.

     Irma smiles, daintily raising a teacup to her lips and taking a sip. She's sitting cross-legged on the sofa, wearing some airy trousers and a shirt made of flowy fabric; it gives her the illusion of clothing strung up on a washing line, being carried by a summer breeze.

Setting down her teacup on the saucer, her mentor gestures to the armchair opposite. "Please, sit." she says softly.

Vesper looks around the room as she slowly descends into the lavish chair like yesterday. They're the only two here so far. She lets her hands fall on her lap, studying the man stirring sprinkling something over the two mugs.

"Did you sleep well?" asks Irma.

"Uh... yeah, I guess."

"Good, good."

Now she's being handed a mug of the stuff, and Vesper flinches at the discomfort of wielding the warm beverage in the early July heat. She raises the mug to her nose and sniffs it, blinking in bewilderment over the power of the smell. She's definitely smelled it before...

"What is this?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at the drink sceptically.

"Hot chocolate."

Chocolate! That was it. She's seen chocolate before, displayed in stalls dotted around the Epicentre, but far too expensive for her to try. Now she can identify it in the frothy, almond brown stuff that gives off a wintry steam. With a couple of puffs to cool it down, she takes a sip — it's dark and rich, floating across her tongue like sea-foam before it slips down her throat. The taste lingers on her palate, tingling with the indulgence. She takes another sip, but this time it hits a different nerve. Now it's too rich — much like the Capitol, actually. It's all comfortable luxury to a point. Vesper wrinkles her nose.

"What do you think?"

Slowly placing the mug down on the table, she shakes her head. "It's... just a little strong for my taste."

Irma nods in agreement. "Yeah. It's quite rich, isn't it? I prefer tea, anyway," she says, looking pointedly at her teacup with a fondness in her eyes. "Although... my mother used to make it just right. Not too chocolatey, and the right amount of milk. It was pure bliss."

Vesper smiles weakly — she isn't sure how to respond, rather thrown off guard at the sudden moment of intimacy between them. "Oh," she settles for, "I've, uh... I've never actually had chocolate 'til—"

"Who's got chocolate?!"

Icarus hovers in the doorway, eyes already locked on the tray of beverages. He's no longer wearing the outfit from yesterday, now having changed into something from the wardrobe Vesper didn't bother to explore — a beige shirt made of thin, breathable fabric with sleeves that he's rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of dark denim trousers. He appears fresher and surprisingly well-rested, so much so you'd think he'd forgotten where this train was going.

     "It's hot chocolate," says Irma fondly as she smiles at Icarus. No one can blame her for already becoming attached to the ray of sunshine. "Wanna try some?"

     "Uh, duh! If it's got chocolate, you can count me in." Icarus seizes a mug and takes three forceful gulps, before sighing happily afterwards. A moustache of cream has settled upon his upper lip, and Vesper snorts. The boy looks at her, puzzled.

      "You've got a little something..." Irma taps her lip. "Right here..."

     Embarrassed, he wipes it on his sleeve with a boyish giggle.

Next to enter the living room is Hermia: trotting in as always, but slightly more agitated than Vesper has seen before. Her hands clench into fists (of a sort, with her extravagant manicure) as her beehive hair bobs with every remote tilt of her head. "Ugh!" she huffs. "He's not budging. I say, that man can come down whenever he feels most appropriate — I'm done with bribery! Done!"

"Did he say anything?" Irma asks, routine concern starting to set her features. It tells stories of year upon year where Dale has most likely failed to show up.

"Only to tell me to... putting it in lighter terms... 'clear off'. So embarrassing!" Hermia clenches her jaw, becoming fixated all of a sudden on one of her two tributes. Vesper squirms uncomfortably in her seat. Looking her up and down, the escort rolls her eyes. "Are you really wearing that old thing again?" she asks disapprovingly.

     Confusion hinders Vesper. She brushes a hand over the fabric of the dress, not quite sure to make of the question. "Uh... yeah?"

     "But you wore it yesterday."

     "So?"

     She really can't see the problem. It's common practice in her home to wear the same clothes a few days consecutively, for it saves Blythe the job of doing excessive laundry. That girl already has enough washing to do at work — the least she can do is spare her stepsister any extra strenuous activity.

     "So," Hermia says, surprisingly passive-aggressively, "The audiences will remember everything! Couldn't you have at least had a wash before we get into the station?"

     "They're going to strip me down in the Capitol, anyway, so what's the point?"

     "You'll understand the point when you receive zero sponsors for looking like a tramp!"

     Irma cuts in rather conveniently, for Vesper has already sprung to her feet in a flurry of agitation. Icarus observes subtly, eyes darting downwards as he takes another hasty sip of his hot chocolate. "How about," Irma suggests calmly, hands raised in a peaceful gesture, "we just eat some breakfast, hm? We can discuss this later."

     Forever the peacemaker.

     "Yes..." Hermia pinches the bridge of her nose, nodding with a sharp sigh. "Yes, good idea..." she turns to Vesper, relaxing slightly. "I do apologise, Vesper. Irma and Dale know very well that this whole... regime can make me very stressed."

     "Cranky, more like." Vesper says.

    "Alright, cranky, yes, thank you Vesper... you'll have to excuse me if I ever lash out on you. And my goodness, this kind of stress isn't good for my wrinkles!"

     In silence, the quartet rise and gather at the dining table. Yesterday it had been filled with lavish dishes that sat strangely in Vesper's stomach and gave her a taste of the luxury life. But today, to her relief, breakfast is a surprisingly more familiar array — a basket of freshly baked bread sits in the centre like a keystone, warm to the touch and melting the butter she spreads thinly on the top. She lets Icarus drink her supply of hot chocolate, instead turning to a simple glass of water to wash down the richness of it. A platter of meats arrives — thinly sliced salamis, hams — accompanied by a cheese board, crackers and segments of melon. Today she can confidently load her plate with a decent meal, and not have to doubt being misled by disguised foods.

Ten minutes into their breakfast — as she's copying Irma with curiosity, who's wrapped slices of Parma ham around the melon — Dale enters the room, fashionably late just like yesterday. His hair remains scruffy, but it appears he's attempted to neaten it simply by smoothing a shaky hand over it.

"Ah," says Hermia, watching him drag a chair out for himself, "Look who finally decided to show up!"

Dale glares daggers at her, slumping in his seat with a fatigued groan. There's something about him that seems more sobered today — less spaced out. Perhaps he's coming off a high. "Did you..." he blinks hard, and gives a little shake of his head, "Did you talk about strategy yet?"

"No. But I was just about to, so you're right on time." Irma tells him softly, watching him register the information.

"Alright..."

Strategy. Vesper sits up in her seat. Here is where she needs to start paying attention — whatever they say from here on in, no matter how absurd it sounds, she knows she'll have to try and take into account. After all, she can't help Icarus if she dies in the Bloodbath.

     She decides to jump right in.

     "So, just right off the bat," she sits forward in her seat, "Would you say running straight into the Cornucopia is better, or—"

     "Whoa, whoa, whoa..." Dale grumbles, letting his head fall into his hands. "Slow down, kid. You're really jumping the gun here." Vesper's confusion catches his eye, making him sit up again. "Weapons are the least of your worries right now —"

     They are if I can't even swing a sword.

     "— so for now, we focus on your image."

     "My image?"

     "How you appear to the public eye, dear," Hermia clarifies proudly. "Just like I said before."

     Vesper is just relieved she wasn't dubbed a 'tramp' by Hermia again. She stumbles for words, teetering on the edge of her chair. "B-but... Icarus and I, we've got no experience with weapons. At all."

     Setting her cutlery down gently, Irma daps at her lips with a napkin. "Neither did Dale and I in our Games. That's why how you are perceived is so important. Survival is actually... somewhat easy to learn, if you put your mind to it. But there's no way I would be here today if it weren't for the sponsors I had. And that was all down to the lead-up, the publicity."

Defeated, Vesper falls back in her chair. She can't help feeling like they are wasting precious time — if she has only a week to learn how to start a fire, hunt, wield a weapon, surely there is no time like the present? And the last thing she wants to discuss is what dresses she'll look pretty in, or how she should smile when she walks on stage.

But she really has no choice. "Fine." she mumbles grumpily.

"Why don't we start with you, Icarus?" Irma suggests.

Icarus, who has been quietly indulging in his breakfast until now, perks up. "... What about me?" he queries, puzzled.

     "I think you'll get a few sponsors anyway, 'cause you're young," Dale proposes, whilst seeming preoccupied by something in the bottom of his glass. "They'll pity you."

     "Oh, yay."

"Tell us a little bit about yourself. For instance... what do you like doing?" asks Irma.

     "Well..."

     Vesper shuffles in the chair, tuning out of Icarus's far-fetched story about his dreams to fly, his school achievements and etcetera. She can't bear to listen to it — not because of him, but the every aspect of constructing this persona for the Capitol. Why should she care how she comes across to the public eye, or whatever Hermia called it? She couldn't give two shits about that. All she wants is to get Icarus as far into the Games as possible, to bring him as close to home as she can.

     Her hands collapse onto her lap, feeling the Reaping dress underneath; once again she's thinking of her mother. Vesper doesn't want to, but an involuntary image pops into her head: her mother, sitting in this very chair, being given the very same lecture by Dale and Enzo. She wonders many things all at once. Was Dale more sober back then? How did she take being pampered like this? Did she think of getting home to her family, or had she given up?

     "— mechanics, too?"

     The latter half of Dale's question snaps her back to present time. "Sorry, what?"

     "I asked if you do mechanics, too."

     "I don't. I do railroad maintenance, remember?"

     "Eh..." he shrugs flippantly, "I think we'll stick with the mechanics story. They'll enjoy that more."

     Vesper's brows knit together, perplexed. "That's not what I do—"

     "Do you know enough about mechanics to talk about it in a televised interview?"

     "Of course."

     "Then it's settled."

     "But—"

     "Vesper, my dear," Hermia places a hand on hers, and she fights the potent urge to yank it away. "See, the beauty of this is the audiences won't know if you're telling a fib or two. In theory, you can be whoever you want to be. A persona just the way you'd like it — isn't that exciting?"

     "Mmm," Dale snorts, picking up a cracker topped with a slice of brie, "Until you actually survive the fuckin' thing and have to live with it for the rest of your life."

     "Now who's jumping the gun?" Irma teases, but there's bitterness in her voice. It's not meant to be funny.

     Hermia ignores their bickering and continues. "Does anything else worth telling spring to mind? It could be anything, absolutely anything... so long as it's juicy."

     Reluctantly, she begins to rack her brain for anything remotely intriguing. So far, nothing. She's not like Icarus — she hasn't gone to school, done projects, or anything spectacular. And as for anything further than her work... well, she'd rather not have to dig that deep. The last thing she wants is Capitol aristocrats fetishising her home life.

     "... I'm honestly not that interesting," she finally replies. "I go to work, I do the work, I come back home and that's it."

     For a few moments, Dale stares long and hard at her. She's not sure if he's assessing whether she has more to say, or if he's just spacing out and happens to be gazing blankly in her general direction. Eventually he huffs, taking a bite of his cracker. "Fine..." he says, gruffly. "We'll leave it at that, then."

     Vesper nods, mumbling a decisive "Good." She grabs another bread roll and begins buttering it, as the tension in her body from before begins to slowly fade away. A comfortable quiet settles on the table, and it remains that way for a good twenty seconds further. In her peripheral, she notices something — Icarus is looking at her. It's like he's weighing something in his mind, debating whether he should do something or not. Cluelessly, she tilts her head at him. With a guilty squint, he takes a deep breath; she's in no way prepared for the words that come out of his mouth.

     "Vesper's mom was in the Games."

     Everyone freezes. Stares. Thinks. At a loss for words, there's a stunned silence that dominates the initial aftermath of what he's just said, like they are still trying to process each syllable.

     And then the table erupts.

     "Really?" Hermia squeals, hardly able to contain her ecstasy.

     Vesper's face becomes numbed from burning with choler, as she looks daggers at Icarus. "Why would you say that?!" she exclaims incredulously. She can't even think of when she told him that — in fact, she's pretty sure she's never told him that. So how the hell did he know?

     "I'm sorry!" Icarus whimpers. "I— I was just trying to help—"

     "In all my years... this is simply unprecedented!" Hermia whoops, eyes wild with fascination. "Dale, do you remember mentoring a mother tribute?"

     "I don't know..." Dale looks to Vesper, bewildered. "What was your mother's name?"

     "It doesn't matter, let's just move on."

     Please.

     "No way! This is the most exciting thing we've heard about you yet!"

     "Forget it!" Vesper hisses, but inside her guts are churning with panic. Her mother's state is better thought of internally, where no one has to taint how she imagines her.

     But they just won't stop. "Oh, hell's bells, what was her name?" asks Hermia out loud. She drums her long nails on the table in deep thought. "I can picture her face so clearly."

     Icarus watches the back-and-forth helplessly, as Irma tries her best to cut in once more and mediate, but even she looks as astonished as the rest of them. "Guys, I don't think she wants to—"

     "I thought you said we could make this up!" Vesper cries.

     "How many years ago was it?"

     "Do you remember her Games?"

     "No, surely she must've been pretty young. Teen pregnancy."

     "Did you even hear me when I said forget—"

     Suddenly Hermia clicks her fingers and stands bolt upright. "Reagan, was her name!" she proclaims. "Reagan Dunnage!" The woman glows with pride, scaling the table with her eyes as if she thinks she's won first place at a carnival, and she's awaiting her prize.

     Vesper's stomach flips.

     Reagan Dunnage.

     She's only heard the name once, and it feels like some kind of unexplainable betrayal to hear it spoken by anyone other than her father — least of all, Capitol scum. Wordlessly, she pushes her chair out and doesn't even flinch when it scrapes deafeningly against the floor. Vesper doesn't bother to say anything more as she storms out of the room, blocking out the voices beckoning her to sit down, to talk it through.

     Bullshit. All of this is bullshit.

     Vesper doesn't slow down until she's navigated her way to the very back of the train — she finds herself in another large living room, daylight flooding in from every corner thanks to the wall of windows extending from wall to wall, and being rebounded off the crystallised glass flasks and vases on display. Along the bottom of them, a grey, horseshoe-shaped sofa sits with plush cushions. Feeling like a bull in a china shop, she lets her body collapse onto the sofa in the efforts to calm herself, resting her chin on the top of the headrest and gazing out at the view zooming away from her.

     The mountains surround her now, towering and great, with light dustings of snow at the top. What if the arena was full of mountains? Vesper wouldn't have the first clue about how to tackle them, but she'd have to adapt soon enough. More importantly, what if her mother had been thrown into an arena like this? How would she have fared?

     She closes her eyes, almost wincing at the thought. The girl yearns for a time, only a mere day ago, when her dead parent — or at least the first one — wasn't on her mind all the time. Sure, she'd had her moments throughout life where she would really feel the absence of a motherly figure, but it's only these past twenty-four hours that it has increased by tenfold.

     Would it really be so bad if she let the world know that her mother died in the Games? Blythe never knew her and her father is dead, so no one should really care except Vesper. And since she's already sworn a sacrificial oath to herself, what is there to lose?

     Vesper loses track of dwindling time, so much that she almost anticipates the inevitable knock on the door after a while. It could have even been hours since her dramatic exit. Nevertheless, it still ticks her off — especially since she's sure it's Hermia. "The tramp doesn't want to talk right now," she says, "And if you need the tramp for something, reconsider."

     The person who knocked seems to ignore this request, for she opens the door anyway. Irma's head is slightly bowed as she drifts over to the sofa and takes a seat about a metre away from her. "Are you alright?" she asks.

     Vesper draws in a long breath — in through her nose, out through her mouth — and runs a hand through her hair. "I... don't know. I don't know."

     Silence.

     "You probably don't want to talk about it, and that's fine..." Irma begins, hesitantly. "But I wanted to tell you I'm very sorry about your mother. It must be horrible." A pause; she waits, and Vesper remains soundless as she lets her head drop. "If it's any consolation, I've spoken to the others and persuaded them to leave it alone."

     The uplifting news places a finger under her chin and tilts it upwards, as her eyes lighten. Whatever happened to the ruthlessness of the Capitol's demands? Against them, Irma's unwavering kindness and empathy prove to be a force worth reckoning with. "I... that's..." Vesper stumbles, not sure what to say. "Thanks. I mean, you didn't have to." Is she pleased or dissatisfied? She can't even read her own emotions at this point. "But if I said yes, would it really make that much of a difference?"

     "You'd be surprised."

     Vesper nods slowly, letting it sink in. "Crap," she whispers. "I had no idea this publicity stuff would be so hard." Who knew her dead mother could be a bridge between sponsors or no sponsors in this deviant game?

     "It's like the cake with the cream, isn't it?" Irma remarks sarcastically.

     "Cake with the...?"

     "Oh, it's just an idiom. Don't worry."

     "Oh."

     In the quietness that follows after the awkward exchange, she finds herself reflecting once more — this time on the people who are still back home. She remembers the way Axel's face slowly fell when she made her promise, the way it hardened with a maturity she'd never seen so strongly instilled in him. Even now, she can't figure out why he said what he did. But she can bring his brother home if she tries.

Vesper studies Irma carefully, holding her tongue before she announces anything. Surely she can be trusted. Up to now, this mentor has been nothing but helpful and understanding. If there is anyone who will take her feelings into account and won't hang her out to dry, it's her. Usually she wouldn't open up this soon to anyone, let alone someone who's a total stranger.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

"I kind of made this promise..." says Vesper. "Back home. I told Axel, Icarus's brother, that I would bring him home no matter what. And I still stand by that. So... I don't know how much you can do, but if it's as much as you keep saying you can, I want you to make me a promise."

Irma awaits the answer, watching apprehensively as she takes a deep breath.

"In the area — and before then — Icarus comes first. In everything. He is your priority."

Winding a lock of blonde hair around her finger, Irma takes this into account with uncertainty. "I..." she hesitates, her eyelids fluttering shut. As if this is hurting her as much as it's hurting Vesper. "It's limited what I can do. For starters, a lot of it is out of my hands. It would also be wrong to take sides and just hang you out to dry. Not to mention the sponsors—"

"Alright, but whatever you can do, you do it. Can you promise me that?"

"... Okay."

Instantly, Vesper feels an invisible weight lift from her shoulders. Maybe it's that she's shared her inner turmoils with someone, or that she's one step closer to sealing Icarus's ticket home. Either way, it's liberating. A sigh of relief. And it's enough to prompt her to say something even more insane,

"In that case," she puffs her chest out a little, trying to assert confidence in a moment she considers too vulnerable, "I guess I don't mind you using the 'mom card'. If it really helps that much. Just... don't rub it in."

     With a swoosh, the room is enveloped by darkness momentarily as the train speeds through a tunnel. Through the dim light Vesper sees Irma's body tense up. Of course. She remembers it crystal clear. Irma's arena was an elaborate network of caves, different tunnels leading to a variety of wonders or horrors. And on top of it all, the last man standing — in this case, Irma — couldn't be collected once she'd won until she had found her own way to the daylight above ground. She can't imagine anything worse: no light, no space to breathe, no clean air to breathe. No wonder a handful of tributes lost their minds in that place.

     As soon as the darkness dominates it vanishes, giving way to a glorious view of the Capitol.

     It's even grander than what she's seen on TV. Towering skyscrapers, but much more magnificent in architecture than the Epicentre, claim a golden halo from the sun that brims past their polished glass exteriors. Everything looks so clean-cut, so perfect in every detail, that Vesper can't help but marvel at it. Neither can Icarus, apparently, for she hears him bounding eagerly down the hallway to get a better look. A dramatic backdrop of the snow-dusted mountains hangs behind the glittering skyline, and in the foreground lies a body of water that still doesn't challenge Lake Mercury in size, but overshadows it effortlessly in grandeur.

It makes it easy to forget that it will be the host of her preparation for the arena.

Vesper clings onto the seam of her dress, gulping uncomfortably. "There's no turning back, is there?" she asks, to no one in particular. She still receives a solemn shake of the head from Irma, which she isn't sure she needed for reassurance.

Further into the city itself, holographic billboards are decorated with Capitol propaganda and the face of Augustus Braun, last year's victor from District One. Never has Vesper seen a victor who has been so widely praised by the Capitol — every time she dares look at the news back home, the muscular bronzed God with the chiselled chin is always there. Augustus most definitely stands as the Capitol's shiniest new toy, even trumping the charm of District Four's Finnick Odair, who was all the rage just a few years ago. Vesper can't say she swoons for the boy like everyone else seems to; it's not to say she is blind to how he wins over people.

Still, it's hard to believe all three of them are essentially the same age.

The mesmerising but confusing wonder of the Capitol still can't prepare her for pulling into the station. One minute she's looking into the streets, and the next she's met with the faces of... what seem like aliens. Women — or she thinks they're women — with candyfloss hair and blood-red lips, dogs dyed the colour of lilac, people with golden teeth, obscure tattoos, facial reconstruction.

     She feels like she's seeing animals in a zoo. And yet, they are the ones observing her.

     It makes her want to run, escape as soon as possible. But she remembers what she had thought from just moments before: No turning back now. So instead of turning her back, she stands unmoving — staring right back into the eyes of the strangers who will be gambling on her life.

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A/N;

OOOO WE'RE IN THE CAPITOL NOW! next chapter, we meet vesper's prep team and *drum roll* her stylist...

also, today is the 13th of august... which means it's VESPER'S BIRTHDAY! happy birthday to you, vesp – sorry i put you through so much all the time, but i promise it will be worth it... hope you have a great day mucking about with your friends and having birthday cake! (p.s: please be nice to blythe. she's trying her best)

if there are any spelling/grammar errors, please tell me – i originally wanted to get this chapter out on vesper's bday, but then we got struck with this heatwave and i was basically out for the count for 2 days. literally i felt so sick and like i couldn't face writing, so i gave up. but then today it got cooler and i felt inspired, so it was a RACE to get this chapter done (and i shit you not, this entire chapter was written in one day... ya girl is exhausted) but that means it might be a little unedited/unchecked, so lemme know if you spot anything!

anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter! and please leave a comment if you get the chance — votes are okay, but comments are much more valuable because i love to hear what you guys think about the story!

[ published: 13th august, 2020 ]

— Imogen