CHAPTER FOUR;
in the hands of a pacifist

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With the rumble of traffic that reverberates around their sleek, black cage of station-bound metal and the dispersal of citizens now filing into their warehouses and transportation, Vesper knows District Six has gone back to work. Hell, whether she likes it or not, even Blythe is probably having to suck it up and get back to scrubbing car parts, whilst choking on the putrid stench of gasoline.

     There's only one thing she can do about the inevitability of never coming home again — numb herself to it all. Whoever she was in District Six, she can't be that person for much longer, whether she lives or dies now. That girl stays at home. But then again... was it ever really home? She isn't sure when it stopped feeling like that.

     And with this, Vesper knows she can't dwell on what is out of her control. She's said her goodbyes. That's it. Instead, she has to focus on what she can do, who she can save.

     Icarus.

     He hasn't spoken a word nor made the slightest glance towards her since they were bundled into this polished car, Hermia chatting the chauffeur's ear off about the 'awfully hot weather' as her fanning grows more and more frantic. Now and then, she hears a small, suppressed gasp from him — the burned out aftermath of crying until you can barely breathe. Vesper, on the other hand, is still struggling to shed a single tear. But tears won't bring Icarus home.

When they stop in a queue of traffic, Hermia begins shuffling sporadically in the efforts to turn and face the duo in the backseat, almost knocking out the chauffeur in the process. Vesper wonders what the poor soul behind the wheel thinks of all this – has he been transporting tributes to the train station with this sickly woman for years?

     "Oh, chin up, you two!" their escort coos, "You wouldn't want your first appearances to the public to look so miserable, now, would you?"

     If only Vesper could strangle this woman right now.

     At her words — somehow intended to be encouraging — Icarus lifts his temple from the window, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. He looks around, dazed, before he tiredly meets Vesper's stare. What is she supposed to say? There are no words of affirmation that feel suitable right then, and if there were, she wouldn't want to say them in front of Hermia — besides, the last time she reassured him that everything would be okay, it resulted in both of them getting sent into the arena.

     Instead she settles for a simple, "You okay?" — nothing that Hermia can twist and torment her with, or sugarcoat into some contorted story for the public eye. And it seems to do the trick. Icarus shrugs, softening a little. As okay as can be. Vesper nods, understanding, and looks out of the window again with no other ideas of what to say.

     Outside, it strikes Vesper just how much of her home district she's never seen. With where you venture and where you settle being rather occupational, it's intriguing on days like these to see how the rest of Six operates outside her little bubble. So, she tries to take it in while she still can — the thick, guttural horns from the cargo ships, the ramshackle garages where young greasy-handed boys fiddle with the components. She wishes she'd had more time to travel it all.

     Vesper starts to wonder about the limited advantages anyone here could possibly have in the Hunger Games. The reoccurring theme from what she's seen is the strength that comes with working at an early age — often found in tributes who have mechanical professions, like herself. But she doesn't do the heavy lifting that would give her such strength, as much as she'd aspire to. She just fixes a crack in the train tracks, a loose bolt here, moving some debris there. It's hardly comparable.

     When they arrive at the train station, the traffic is virtually unheard over the rumble of photographers, muffled by the glass windows. They close in around them like vultures, and although she's inside the car, it's enough to tighten her stomach with a coil of claustrophobia.

FLASH! goes one camera, SNAP! goes another.

The sudden bursts of light, like intrusions of lighting bolts, stun her and leave a sea of phosphenes clouding her vision when she attempts to crawl out the car. Left, right and centre, they hone in on them like a pack of wolves; it's a wonder that Hermia can even cut a clear path for them, parting the sea of greedy faces with a commanding wave of her hand.

     "Come along!" she calls out and ushers her two tributes to the train, their feet dragging along the floor. When they get to the door, however, Vesper is tugged back from entering, instead being spun around to face the reporters eye-to-eye. Lambs to the slaughter, in every respect.

     FLASH!

     SNAP!

     CRACK!

     If it weren't for the fact that this was a live broadcast, Vesper would submit to the urge to shut her eyes. But she pries them open, staring hard at a distant point with her chin raised as her eyes water from the relentless camera flashes. No. She can't look like she's crying. In her peripheral, she spots Icarus shift closer to her — like he's seeking shelter. Instinctively, she rubs her elbow subtly against his, evoking an awestruck uproar from their audience.

Just like caged animals in a zoo, with gawping idiots poking and prodding through the prison bars. Dance, monkey, dance!

Eventually Hermia intervenes, shooing the reporters away like they're an infestation, and Vesper feels an unwelcome sensation of gratitude towards her. She would like to think she'll have time to co-ordinate herself again before meeting her mentors — the two people whom she will be counting on in the arena. The last thing she needs is their first impression of her being a dizzy, camera-blinded girl who has the worst luck in earth.

Well. The latter is nothing short of the truth.

The doors slide closed behind them, cutting off the overwhelming shouts and crackles of camera bulbs burning their forlorn faces onto a negatives. It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust, but as they do, her lavish surroundings begin to appear in her vision — the wall-mounted, intricately sculpted lamps of glass with bronze accents, the bowl of polished fruits that Vesper can't figure out if they're artificial, the deep, rich purple of the plush carpet beneath her feet. She's never seen anything like it. Did the people in Six craft the decorations for these high-speed trains, too? No, surely not — they just grant it with its sleekness, the way it can cut through the air like a bullet racing along the tracks. She presumes it gets sent to District One where they overflow the interior with their riches to erase the hard work of the young men and women who helped manufacture it.

She's heard stories from her father, about how his grandparents along with many others helped rebuild the railroads of Panem after the war. Somewhere in these trains that everyone takes for granted, somewhere underneath these priceless carpets, there are carved initials of those workers. A pang of guilt seizes Vesper, for what if she is trodding over their handiwork with their hard labour as the last thing on her mind?

"This way, please!" Hermia clip-clops past them with tiny but hasty footsteps, and they have no choice but to trail behind cluelessly.

As they enter a narrow hallway strung with paintings and photographs on both walls, Icarus cranes his head around him in wonderment. He seems to have temporarily let go of his anxieties as he marvels at his surroundings, unlike anything he's ever seen. No, not quite marvelling at it — just dumbfounded at the shameless display of wealth and luxury so concentrated in one place.

     Hermia stops by two doors on either side of them, and with an effortless turn of the brass handles, she gracefully swings them open. "Right then," she motions towards one doorway and places a hand on Icarus's shoulder. Vesper resists the urge to pull him back. "This is your room, Icarus," she then gestures to the left side, "and you're here, Vesper."

     "I'll be off to fetch the other two, so in the meantime you may explore as you wish. But unless you want to miss meeting your mentors, be promptly back in the living room in ten minutes sharp —" Hermia's lips thin into a little smile, as if she just thought of something witty, and she adds, "— if you have trouble telling the time, your big clue will be that the train starts moving."

     With a satisfied titter she departs again, clip-clopping down the corridor out of their sight. Icarus has already wandered into his room, and she hears an impressed whistle from inside.

     Sighing, Vesper pokes her head into her own quarters — it's fairly small due to the limited area of the train, but still largely more spacious than her room back in Vagary. There's a bed twice the size of her one at home, a swarm of plush cushions of burgundy and gold obscuring the headboard. Light pours in from a huge window that scales from one end of her room to the other, a slim rectangle displaying the hustle of the platform outside like a tableau vivant. Porters scuttle around peering over trolleys brimming with suitcases, bringing them to the baggage handlers who heave them off with a lifelong laziness.

She's sometimes been curious as to what it's like inside these high-speed Capitol trains. Whenever the Reaping was over and work began again, they would often pass Vesper and her friends at a slightly slower pace to admire the 'scenery' of a district. With this opportunity, it was almost tradition that they'd try and run after it, screaming and waving like madmen to get someone's attention. One time she could have sworn she saw a hand wave back.

Whoever that was, they're probably dead now.

There's a compact bathroom adjacent to the window, which Vesper lets herself into now. Instead of dusty concrete like at home, she finds polished marble beneath her feet, with stainless steel faucets on the sink, an immaculate mirror and a shower cubicle that has way too many buttons for Vesper to process all at once.

For the first time since this morning, she stares at her reflection.

No, she may not have cried like Icarus has, but her face is set with a strain of withholding the emotions, bags forming under her eyes. She looks pale, drab, like she could topple over any minute. Weak. And she can't have that.

Running the tap, Vesper splashes her face a few times with cold water before dabbing it lightly with the silky towels hanging by the side. She grips the side of the sink and looks harder. Something's still not right. Her fingers fumble blindly around the back of her head until they find her loose up-do, sliding the pin out and giving her brushed out curls a shake, so they fall naturally down her back and by her cheekbones.

Much better. She looks more like herself again.

Herself.

Will she ever be 'herself' again in these coming weeks? She's not just another face in the crowd of children from District Six — she's a tribute. Expected to kill. So starting from now, she figures it's time she started thinking like one.

"Alright," Vesper mumbles under her breath. Time to go back.

When she emerges from her room, she finds Icarus waiting patiently in his doorway, and he perks up when he sees her.

"Hey," he says awkwardly.

"Hi..."

Silence ensues.

"Uhh... you wanna go back to the living room?"

"Yeah," Icarus sighs. "Good idea."

She follows him through the corridor, watching his unsure footsteps as he continues to observe his surroundings, taking it all in. All she can see is gluttony in every physical form. But perhaps for him, this is some kind of utopia.

They're the only ones in the living room. Icarus brushes his hand over the arm wrest of one of the luscious armchair. "D'you think we can sit?" he asks, unsure.

Vesper snorts bitterly. "I don't think they put them there just for decoration."

Although somehow that wouldn't have surprised her.

"Right, right."

He lowers himself onto the chair, sinking into the foamy seat slightly as his eyes widen at the sensation. Vesper feels it too — like memory foam. It's like she can feel the cash bursting from the seams under her weight. Icarus taps his hands on his thighs in an erratic rhythm.

"This is so weird."

"... I know."

Then she thinks something. She envisions her mother, whatever she looked like, sitting in this exact chair opposite her district partner — waiting for her mentors to appear. Irma wasn't around then. She finds herself hoping the other two weren't too harsh on her.

"I still don't think it's sunken in yet," he breathes, "That..." Icarus can barely bring himself to say it, but Vesper knows exactly what he means. That he might not see his family again. Well, that simply is not an option.

"Hey," jokes Vesper, "Wanna take a wild guess at who our mentors are?"

The boy manages a quiet giggle. Thank goodness. He rubs his hands up and down the arm rests, like he's sanding them. "I can't wait to meet Irma," he confesses bashfully.

"Yeah?"

"She's just so... cool. I mean, don't say anything, but —" Icarus checks if the coast is clear, and leans in slightly, "— Dale and Enzo scare me a little. Irma just seems a lot friendlier from what I've seen on TV."

He's not wrong in that Irma is probably the least intimidating person in all of Panem, supposedly why it comes as such a surprise that she won the Fifty-Ninth Games. But at the same time, Vesper also knows that a lifetime of hooking yourself to Morphling is sure to hinder your mental state, something she's positive Irma has only witnessed and never experienced.

Pulling one knee to her chest and propping her foot on the chair's edge, she shrugs. "Fair enough," says Vesper. "I don't know if I'd trust her with my life, though."

"Why not?"

"I... well, would you?"

"Yes!" Icarus scoffs, incredulously.

She raises her hands in defence of herself, slumping in the chair. "Look, I get that she's popular in Six and I respect that. And it's fine that she's a pacifist, but I mean..." she rolls her eyes. "This is the Hunger Games. What's she gonna make us do? Negotiate with the Careers? Hug it out?"

Vesper can't believe she's thinking it, but she'd almost rather have drugged-up Dale than the idealistic Irma. At least he'll be talking strategy, even if it is whilst downing Morphling tablets.

"Well, I admire her," Icarus sits up a little straighter, glancing briefly over her shoulder. He takes on a sudden maturity and sincerity that surprises her and adds, "I think... to win the Hunger Games without a kill count and still believe in your values from before? That's really something."

For some reason this ticks her off. "If that matters to you, fine. But I think the last thing on my mind when I'm in the arena will be my 'values'—"

"He has a point, you know."

She freezes. A hot flush of embarrassment creeps up her neck and surfaces on her cheeks — Vesper tries rubbing it away as she slowly turns her head to meet the figure looming behind: Irma Bentley herself. Propped inside the doorway, she has her arms crossed with her lips thinned out into a genuinely amused smile. Her eyes don't smile with her. Irma's champagne blonde hair falls loosely down her back in rippled waves, only some frontal strands pinned back and twisted into an intricate knot — she fiddles with a bit of hair now as she lets her arms drop.

Taking note of Vesper's attempt to reconcile though stammers, she shakes her head softly. "Don't worry," Irma assures her, lips pursed. "You wouldn't have been the first to have your doubts." And she believes her. She doesn't worry. Her voice has a sing-song rhythm, but yet so calm. Like a spoken lullaby.

Vesper nods. She can't handle eye contact any longer, so she lets her eyes fall to the floors and observes her mentor from there. Irma's bottom half would look sterner – with her black leggings and shiny plum riding boots – if it weren't for her top half, with the blossoms of scarlet and lilac and indigo on her tunic, the sleeves rustling with every elegant movement of her arm.

"Oh, for goodness's sake!"

A figure staggers into the room, after a slap on the back from Hermia; the other half of the equation. Dale Tadros. An image painted quite opposite to that of Irma Bentley, looking semi-presentable. Dark bags under his eyes that twitch, vaguely jaundiced skin clammy with sweat... this is what Vesper thinks of when she imagines a Hunger Games mentor. A complete wreck. From looking at Irma, you would think the woman had never even heard of the annual death event.

"Well then!" Hermia claps, and Vesper flinches. "Isn't this lovely? Oh, this does make me so ecstatic. Simply ecstatic!" And there it is again. That weird, almost-sarcastic tone – like she's trying too hard for this Capitol indoctrination act. "I think it's time we sat down for dinner, don't you folks?"

"Oh, yipee." Dale deadpans. This seems to make Hermia falter, and her smile quivers before it returns more forcefully through tight lips.

Vesper thinks she might like Dale already, despite appearances.

As they go to their seats, Icarus manages to whisper something to her in the strictest subtlety. Looking worriedly at Dale, he asks, "Is he drunk?"

She shakes her head. "High."

"Oh..."

Hermia takes her position at the head of the table, with Irma sitting adjacent to her, followed by Dale one seat along. Vesper sits opposite the man, Icarus on her left and under close observation. As they wait for their first course, Irma lays a napkin on her lap and rests her hands delicately on it. "So," she begins, nudging Dale gently to bring him around from zoning out, "To start things off... how are you both feeling?"

Icarus vocalises exactly what Vesper is thinking: "Uhhhh..." he drags out, staring blankly at his empty plate. She really doesn't know how she feels. She doesn't want to think about how she feels, she wants to talk strategy. Surely that's the best way to begin.

"Oh, I've never been better." she replies.

Not the right answer, she thinks. Sarcasm doesn't seem to sit well with the overbearing Capitol escort at the head of the table. "Oh, Vesper, do try and be sincere when you answer these questions," she tilts her head to the side, inspecting something under the table. "And take your feet off the chair, dear. You'll make it filthy."

Very slowly, Vesper removes her foot from the chair, irritated. As it falls onto the ground, she feels something vibrating under the floor. Friction.

The train has started moving.

She turns in her seat, desperately staring out of the far window as she watches the train station start to disappear from sight. No turning back now.

Irma takes a deep breath, alerting her attention. "Well, there's something we should probably clear up right away, and that's mentoring."

"What about it?" asks Vesper.

"Are you two happy to be mentored together?" she stops for a moment, taking a gracious sip of water from a glass. "Because sometimes – well, quite often, actually – our tributes prefer to be mentored alone."

"Oh, surely together, right?" Hermia proposes with a teasing wink. "I think these two were chums already, which I think is inspired. It makes a nice change from boys and girls who simply won't talk to each other!"

Irma's shoulders sink a little, like she's trying to calm herself and choose her next words carefully. "Well, it's up to you two. Which would you prefer?"

Vesper knows the answer anyway, but she still observes their two mentors — their lifelines from this point forward. Her life is in the hands of a pacifist and a walking Morphling drip. Fantastic. They might as well combine forces, rather than leaving any one of them with the other alone.

"Together," says Vesper confidently. "We'll do it together." All of it. They're a team now.

Icarus doesn't object; he seems almost relieved, which is a good sign. Irma nods and glances at her mentoring partner. "Good," she says. "That's settled then."

Dinner arrives. Of course, there's a vast array of food Vesper has never seen nor tasted, imported from the Capitol – plates loaded with glazed lamb chops and sides of asparagus and herb-lathered potatoes, glasses of a fizzy pinkish liquid tasting distinctly like peaches, and some sheets of something unidentifiable with a green dusting resembling moss (which, quite frankly, she isn't sure is edible or not). But equally, to her surprise, there are things that feel closer to home and feel like gourmet counterparts to the street food you'd find in the Epicentre — one dish in particular that Vesper can't get enough of is a rice mixture with a soothing, slightly sweet sauce that includes pickled onions as a side to freshen the palate.

Sticking to the dish closest to what she knows, Vesper is happily tucking in when about halfway through the meal Irma begins asking more questions.

"So," she begins, setting her cutlery down and pressing a napkin to her lips. "Which part of District Six are you guys from?"

She's looking directly at Icarus when asking this, suggesting she'd like him to ask the question — he's just taken a large mouthful of lamb and chews on it excessively, shielding his mouth with his hand as he does. After taking a sip of water to wash it down, he finally manages to reply, "Vagary. It's like the train part of Six."

"Yes, I've visited it before," Irma nods. She looks to Vesper. "And you live there too, I presume?"

"Uh huh," says Vesper, glass hovering by her lips.

"We're in the same neighbourhood," Icarus adds.

Hermia gives a pleased, raspy squeal from the top of the table. "Oh, how sweet!"

"Out of interest, are you two working yet?" inquires Irma politely. "I mean, maybe not Icarus yet, but perhaps you, Vesper?" Something about her warmth makes the conversation homely, like a family conversing over a meal. A little too homely considering the circumstances.

"Well... I do railroad maintenance."

"Oh, nice!" she replies encouragingly.

"It's not 'nice', it's boring. And barely pays well." Vesper sulks, staring across at her sourly. It's then that in her peripheral, she notices Dale picking at his untouched food. "Besides... it's not what I really wanna do, anyway."

"What would you like to do?"

"Mechanics, ideally."

Dale's head shoots up — a remarkable transformation, as his eyes light up with a sudden life Vesper has never seen in him on the screen nor in the flesh. "I was a mechanic." he announces proudly, back straightening. The clatter of cutlery falls silent, the table pausing at his sudden snap into what feels like sobriety. Sensing the shock of his clearness, he cowers into himself slightly. "Well technically not, since I never finished my training, but my father was. It's the family business. We make the chariots — you know, for the tribute parades."

"Whoa, really?" Icarus's eyes widen in intrigue.

Dale nods tiredly in response, and there's a glint or something in Irma's eyes as she looks at him. She thinks it's pride. "I used to paint them, and then we'd send 'em off to the Capitol. But... I guess that came around full circle..." And he's gone again; glazed over, staring into oblivion, perhaps reminiscent of his life before the Hunger Games. Or maybe he just short circuited and has now returned to his usual programming of unawareness. It's actually rather sad to watch.

Hermia is the one to break the silence. "Well!" she clasps her hands together again, her deep indigo nails like talons around her pale skin. "I think I'm ready for dessert. Who's with me?"

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     Stomach filled with more food than she probably needed, Vesper takes a seat on the soft couch next to Icarus. He stifles a yawn — quite suitably, for the sky outside is growing darker and darker, meaning she can no longer identify just when they'll be exiting her home district.

     Instead, they are seated in front of a flat screen mounted on the wall before them. Dale slumps himself catatonically in one of the armchairs, enduring the stern shake of his shoulder he receives from Hermia every five minutes when he's dozing off. Irma, on the other hand, stands up by the screen with a remote in her hand.

     So they can watch the Reapings.

     There's a nauseating dread that sits in Vesper's gut — something revolving around the idea of seeing all these faces she'll have to confront in the arena. Quite possibly, any of them she could end up being skin-to-weapon with, whatever way round it ended up being.

     "Alright..." Irma sighs the biggest sigh Vesper has ever heard. It suggests that perhaps she hates doing this annual ritual of showcasing the opponents for her tributes — and of course it would, for someone with those kind of peaceful beliefs. It's sure to be a life of self-betrayal. "First of all, I don't want you two to dismiss the importance of this. It is essential —

     "Paramount!"

     "— Thank you, Hermia. Paramount that you pay attention," she shakes her head softly at Hermia, who's balancing a pair of slim glasses on her nose. "Because this is your competition in the arena. These are the people who are fighting for survival, just like you, and they..." she's struggling. Dancing around the words 'kill', Vesper thinks. "... they're out to get you. Even your allies could turn on you. So, take notes of what you see now. Memorise faces, names. It's better to start now than later."

     Seemingly glad that her pro-Games speech is complete, Irma hastily presses a button on the remote and takes a seat in the remaining arm chair. The Panem anthem blares through the room — rich with sound, a dramatic fanfare of patriotism. The emblem blazes on the screen and pours light onto the carpet below.

"Good luck," Icarus whispers all of a sudden, gazing up at Vesper with wide eyes.

"Thanks," she says, not sure what she needs the luck for, "You too." However, she still appreciates the gesture.

As always, the recaps begin with Districts One and Two, every other district preceding them in the numerical order. Expectedly, the first Career district is alive with the calls of volunteers in the sea of strong, trained killers, all above and below Vesper's age. In the end, the final boy and girl rise to the stage. There's the slender but athletic-looking Hermes, possessing an ethereal charm that will surely help him win over the Capitol. He waves to the crowds, dimples forming at the corners of his lips. The girl, Emerald, is smiling and waving too — something about it seems so frantic, like border-line hysteria. Her eyes brim with tears and she weeps; when her escort asks what's wrong, she replies with little whimpers, "I'm just so happy... so happy!"

Vesper feels her toes curling in her shoes. The idea of volunteering yourself for the Hunger Games is enough to repulse any non-Career.

And District Two is no better — if anything, twice as bad. You can barely hear the Capitol escort speaking over the roar of volunteers, pushing and shoving their way to the stage. The camera cuts to a later shot of the two tributes who finally made it to the stage. The girl, Hero, is small in height but compensates for it with the sheer muscle packed on her limbs. She seems unfazed, calm and collected as she stares out at the crowds like a true warrior.

But it's the boy, Boaz, who she really takes note of.

"Gee," Dale remarks, "He looks like he's been sucking on lemons all his life— ow!" he grumbles, rubbing his arm on the spot where Hermia flicked him scoldingly.

His description seems fairly accurate. Boaz is a tall and lanky boy, surprisingly lacking in the strength department from the outset for someone from Two. But Vesper knows better than to underestimate any Career. She can tell from the way his features harden with pure hatred, jaw clenched spitefully as he looks out at the crowds. He's seething with desperation, and that kind of manic behaviour could well be dangerous in the arena. Vesper makes a mental note to herself:

Look out for Boaz.

Moving on to District Three, it's a whole different story. The square is filled with ashen-skinned people, a seemingly common feature for people from Three. The boy on stage possesses this quality, tall and skinny with hollow eyes that seem lifeless as they stare down at the floor. It's the girl next to him that stands out — Telle is the name Vesper catches. Her skin, while still greyish, is alive with rosy cheeks and freckles peppered all over her face like flicks of paint. Her head of short, curly ginger hair compliments her alarmingly blue eyes that cut through the dull greyness of Three like a burst of turquoise.

     "She's so... young," Vesper says, watching the girl on the screen intently. "She can't be any older than Icarus, surely!"

     Icarus shift in his seat, leaning closer to the screen. "Look at her. Is it me, or is she —"

     "Smiling."

     It looked like she was — just a trace of a grin, nothing too obvious, but the lightness in her face is hard to avoid. She must be up to something, whatever it is, for the smile connotes inner thoughts of mischief and intelligence that no one can possibly know.

     Of course, no volunteers step forward. The notion is absolutely absurd in a place like Three.

     In District Four, the last Career district, whilst the commonality to volunteer is still there, the energy that One and Two radiated doesn't follow. The girl and boy on stage gaze at each other uneasily, a wordless exchange that the cameras cannot pick up on. They must know each other. There's a familiarity between them that's hard to miss — but they don't seem to be family, since Vesper notices their surnames differ and they aren't too alike in appearance. However, though their surnames are fleeting, she takes note of their first names: Coral and Levin.

     "It just hit me," Icarus mumbles suddenly, "That these kids are all out to kill us."

     Silence cloaks the room. It's a known truth for them all, but coming from the sweet, young boy it sounds so much more sinister. Vesper thinks of the tributes they've seen so far — the charming volunteers from One, the stoic killing machines from Two, the peculiar little girl from Three — and her stomach does a somersault. She pictures Boaz holding a blade to Icarus's throat, not a bone of mercy in his body. How could any of them even fathom murdering someone like Icarus?

     "Yes..." Irma says, finally. Dismally. "You should also take this opportunity to see anyone who sticks out as potential allies to you. The more the merrier, honestly, because they can carry you through."

     "Until they stab you in the back," Dale interjects. "Literally."

     Vesper agrees with Dale. There is no way she'd trust any of these kids to not betray them, to manipulate them. And what's the point of starting an alliance if it will end sooner or later, anyway? But she also knows Irma's words have a ring of truth — countless years from watching the Games, tributes have survived longer in the Games by having temporary allies to share supplies with and protect. Perhaps it can help she and Icarus survive longer.

     She tunes back into the recaps halfway through District Five, watching a snivelling boy — Edison, his name is — walk onstage. It seems with Five that their odds go one of two ways every year. They either get a tribute with brains, strength or even both... or they don't.

     "They'll get flattened in the Bloodbath." Vesper scoffs, shaking her head.

     Irma studies them carefully, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger. "I don't know," she says. "The vast majority of children in Five are nurtured very well. Most have a brilliant education, and therefore intelligence, which I think tops any other weapon."

     Of course she'd say that.

     Before she's ready to process it, the background behind the Justice Building materialises from power pylons to the shipyard in the Epicentre. Her heart hammers against her rib cage. There's Hermia, trotting up to the glass bowl for females, melodramatically flattening out the paper she picks up. Vesper's name sounds like poison when Hermia speaks it. It's something else, however, that renders her speechless — a long wail, a lament that soon turns into choked sobs from the side-lines.

     Blythe.

     She didn't even hear that scream at the time. She couldn't hear anything. The shot pans to the source of the scream, zooming in on Blythe being pulled into Axel's chest, his hand stroking her hair.

     Now she feels even worse. She might well die in a few weeks, and they didn't even leave on a positive note. Her father would surely be turning in his grave right now...

     Vesper watches herself on TV, in a strange out-of-body state, bounding up the steps and being led over to the spot on the far left of the stage. The cameras are trained on her carefully, studying every facial expression, every place her eyes dart to avoid the crowds. They are still fixated on her when they call Icarus's name — capturing the exact moment she crumbled.

     She wishes she hadn't made herself so obvious, but there it is right in front of her — her eyebrows knit together, eyes popping open in what is first disbelief. As Hermia repeats his name, her head whips around to face her, lips parted in horror, soon staring in shock as the crowds part for the boy. There's a brief shot of him walking stiffly to the stage, but the cameras soon refocus on the emotions dancing across her face before the public. With every blink of her eye, every restless movement she makes on stage, Vesper knows exactly what's going through her mind in the moment.

     Suddenly, she's thinking of her mother again.

     All she can do is picture her standing in that exact dress, shaking her district partner's hand, the cameras panning to her loved ones. Another thought — what if her father was shown on the screens? What if she was shown, as an infant? For some reason she's never considered the fact, but now it blows her mind.

     Icarus sniffs next to her. When she turns to look at him, a tear slips down his cheek that he attempts to wipe with his sleeve.

     "Here, here," Hermia sighs, whipping a handkerchief from her pocket and passing it to the boy. He does a double take and inspects it for a second, the luxurious embroidery intriguing him, before he dabs weakly at his eyes.

     "It's hard to grasp, isn't it?" says Irma.

     "Y-yeah."

     "I was the same when I watched the recaps."

     "She was much worse, actually." Dale adds, his head lulling back tiredly.

     "... Thanks, Dale."

     After a few minutes of recomposing themselves — a few more tears from Icarus, silent reflection from Vesper — Seven and Eight have already passed, with Nine's ceremony drawing to a close. When the recaps move on to Ten, another young girl is picked named Merona.

Hermia takes her glasses off and polishes them with her handkerchief. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," she mutters in a surprisingly remorseful way, "a lot of very young souls this year."

"The boy from Seven looked young too," Irma adds sadly. "Grover, I think his name was."

District Ten's male tribute is picked — a tall, broad-shoulder boy named Talon with deep red hair, who is by far the most built of all the tributes thus far, even trumping those from the Career districts. He walks to the stage with a Herculean kind of power, a kind of handsomeness he doesn't seem aware of himself. Even for Vesper, she figures he could squash her like a grape in the arena if he wanted to.

Of course he wants to. Look at that face. Hard and unmoving.

The boy from Eleven is exceptionally sturdy too, along with his district partner, Briony. The recaps end as always, with the anti-climax that is District Twelve. Slatia, the girl, tries her best to ignore the baby wailing on the side-lines — presumably her brother or sister — as she wearily staggers up the steps to meet their peppy escort, Effie Trinket, who appears to be a walking sunflower this year. Both literally and figuratively. The young boy, Ash, could be quite nimble if it weren't for how malnourished he was — he coughs uneasily as he gets up on stage.

     With the anthem of Panem blaring once again, the recaps close with a flourish.

     And that's it.

     "So!" Hermia stands up, folding her glasses and letting them fall around her neck. It's only then that Vesper realises they're attached by a necklace. "I think that concludes our evening. I suggest we all pop off to bed rather promptly, for tomorrow is an early, early start! Exciting days ahead!"

     "I have a question..." Icarus hesitates, sighing. "Have we left District Six yet?"

     "Hmm, well let me see..." she scurries over to the window, and nods. "Ah yes, we most certainly have!"

     Home...

     "My best guess would be that we've entered District Five. Admire it whilst you can, because after a gas stop tonight we'll be going full steam ahead!"

     Vesper perks up at the mention of a gas stop. "Could we have a little walk, Icarus and I?" she asks, straightening up in the sofa. She looks from him to Hermia, who seems slightly sceptical. "We could use some fresh air to clear our heads. And you said it yourself, we could do some... sight-seeing?"

     "... Oh, alright, just whilst we have the gas stop. But after that, straight into bed," Hermia instructs sternly. She begins to trot away, but stops. Swivelling on one heel to face them, she cries, "And for goodness's sake, don't run off anywhere! I'd rather not find you two some replacements."

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A/N;

this chapter came a little later than i'd planned, and i have an explanation for that... so recently there was this security breach on wattpad and the whole thing was just a terrifying ordeal for me to deal with. i just felt really panicked and distrustful in wattpad for a while, therefore not in the right headspace to write. but thank you for being so patient, and having taken a breather from this app i feel a bit better!

also, you may have noticed something else at the end of this author's note... i've taken on a new pen name! it was for privacy reasons, but even before the breach i'd been considering it. i'm slowly getting used to the name imogen on here but it's still very fresh and new for me 😂

anyway, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! what did you think of the other tributes? and TEAM DISTRICT SIX 🙌 now might be a good time to refer back to the 'meet the tributes' chapter in which the cast is listed for all of the tributes for the 68th games — see who you can match up from this chapter! 🥰

[ published: 26th july, 2020 ]

— Imogen