CHAPTER SEVEN;
natural selection

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     Vesper dreams of her mother that night.

     She can't see her nor hear her, as neither of those things exist in her faded memory of her. In theory, there's no way of knowing for sure. But she can feel that it's her — her name sits on the tip of her tongue, weighty and persistent, choking her silently as she struggles to say it aloud. Reagan.

Her surroundings are thick with ivy for as far as she can see. Footsteps and laboured breaths seem to taunt her from all directions, twigs snapping under boots that pound violently against the earth, broken gasps whilst checking if she's being gained on. But Vesper's feet are planted firmly to the ground; a mere spectator to the warped nightmare that only her subconscious can summon against her will.

She calls her name, feels it rip through her like a claw to the throat. She calls for her again and again and again.

     Reagan, Reagan, Reagan!

     The word just doesn't sit right with her. So she cries out something else instead.

     Mom, mom, mom!

Then there's a feeling, a horrible feeling — one that can only mean something horrible has happened. She can't see nor hear it, but she can feel it.

     MOM!

     The scream that she unleashes in her sleep only comes out as an unsettled gasp when she snaps abruptly into consciousness.

Vesper opens her eyes. Darkness envelops her, only slithers of moonlight from outside illuminating the polished dressers and other accessories in her grandiose room. The air is artificially cool, laced with the aroma of roses — everything smells like roses in this place — and now the vague odour of her own clammy sweat. She rolls over in her bed, tumbling weightlessly over the plump, fluffy mattress that's too cloud-like and makes her miss the squeaky, rigid thing she squeezed into at home. She wants to enjoy it but finds herself yearning for the familiarity of home.

Outside, the chants of crowds still rampage strong. Brainwashed, pampered citizens of the Capitol squeal and sway along the streets below, drums beating and indistinct chatter waver up to her window in a cacophony.

     It's sickening just to listen to.

     Vesper lifts herself out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet below. The ivory pyjamas given to her by the Capitol hang silkily around her frame, although the thin straps keep sliding down her shoulders (much to her annoyance), swishing as she begins to restlessly pace the spacious room, hoping to walk off the perturbation of her dreams. In the long mirror she catches a glimpse of her eyes — wide and alert, the outer edges still shimmering with remnants of the metallic make-up from hours before.

She remembers how striking they looked in the re-caps. Their efforts to perform dwindling, Vesper and Icarus had been ushered into the living room of the giant living room to watch the chariot procession once more. That's what had first struck her when they walked in — everything was so much larger than life, sleek and immaculate. It didn't take much to feel Hermia's eyes boring into her with disapproval.

     Surprisingly, they had fared rather well. With his head of alarmingly acid-green hair, the Capitol's plucky host Caesar Flickerman began listing off the top hits with the audiences. The first few were predictable — District One with their jewel-embellished apparel, followed by the fish scales from Four and the stoic tributes from Two. District Ten managed to salvage fourth place, mainly due to the crowd appeal of Talon's bare chest on full display, greased and shiny, under a cape of bear skin.

     What was even more of a shock was to see District Six come in fifth. The room broke out into satisfied titters and small rounds of applause, as Cordelia clinked a glass of champagne with a proud Benedict's. "To our gladiators!", he had toasted. Vesper's toes had curled with discomfort at the statement. As if they were champions of some sort. In reality, she was pretty sure she couldn't even hold a knife right, let alone throw it.

Either way, she would find out today. A much more comfortable set of clothing has been laid out for her in the morning — a polo shirt with the number 6 printed on both sleeves, some slim-fitting sports leggings and a pair of buckled boots. This is more in her element.

She notices Icarus is wearing a matching costume at the breakfast table, taking a painfully long time to butter his toast as he takes incessantly small lumps with his knife. But Hermia's slight impatience over the child is altered into disapproval as Vesper walks into the room. One glance is enough to stop Vesper in her tracks with a confused glare back.

     "What?"

     "Have you showered this morning?" Hermia asks suddenly.

     Vesper looks to Irma, who bows her head down awkwardly, before replying. "... No?"

     She shifts to the side in her chair, her fingers struggling to find a resting place on the polished table. Pursing her lips into a soured smile, Hermia squints down her nose at her like she's vermin. What is this woman's obsession with cleanliness? "You haven't tried the facilities yet? You don't think you might... well... need one?"

     "Gee, thanks." Vesper deadpans, taking a seat. At least she didn't call her a tramp this time. But her hand still flies up to her hair, patting it self-consciously. Sure, it was on the greasier side, but usually she'd wait at least a day or two more before washing. The water is so dire in their apartment that she's simply used to Blythe's rule of limiting the water usage. It's not like her friends ever care, anyway.

     "I'm not trying to suggest anything about your cleanliness," Hermia defends herself, dropping a napkin into her lap. "I just think if it's your first —" she stops for a moment, staring rigidly as a dusting of crumbs that falls as Vesper grabs a slice of bread, and sighs. "— appearance in front of other tributes, then you want to look presentable. Everything matters from hereon-in. You can't be turning heads for the wrong reasons, no?"

     Dale's head lulls up from the table — she hadn't even noticed him there silently spacing out. "Hermia," he spits, "The only heads she'll be turning will be in a headlock."

     Vesper tries to hide a smirk. "Well, I'm gonna sweat like a pig anyway, so I'll just clean up afterwards anyway."

     "That's fine." Hermia mutters, as if it doesn't faze her in the slightest.

     "Alright—"

     "Orange juice?" Irma suddenly pipes up, holding up a glass pitcher filled with the stuff. "Orange juice, anyone? No?" Silence falls over the table like falling snow, only pierced by the slow pouring of orange juice into her glass — it isn't tense, in fact simply unwinding down to calmness. That's the Irma effect, Vesper supposes.

     Once Irma has taken a sip, she adjusts her silky peach sleeves and looks over to Vesper and Icarus across the table. Her soulful brown eyes fill with sympathy as she smiles, small but warmly, at them. "So how are you two feeling about Training today?"

    Icarus looks to Vesper, as if for guidance, but when she simply shrugs he turns back cluelessly. "Kinda nervous, I guess. But maybe it'll better once we, you know, get into it?"

    "Do you have any advice?" Vesper asks.

    "Well, since it's your first day, I'd stay clear from the weapons for now."

    "What? Why?"

     Setting down her fork, Irma sighs heavily — as if this rebuke was exactly what she was afraid of. "District Six is one of the many that are disadvantaged every year because of our lack of experience, unlike the Careers."

"Which is why we should start from Day One—"

"— Not if you want to freeze to death. Or starve. Or die of infection." The grave tone in Irma's voice drags them down like iron weight, a stark contrast to her usual understanding and empathy. "When I say you're experienced, I'm talking about everything. Attacking other tributes is only a small fraction of the Games — I'm afraid more often than you'd like, it's just getting by... no, today you should focus solely on learning survival skills. Starting a fire. Tying knots. Setting up a snare. You'll be thankful for the time you dedicated to those later."

     Vesper sinks back into her chair, feeling defeated. She's probably right — what with her experience, and all — but it still doesn't feel like a good idea. She still can't shake the dread of knowing that if she were thrown into the arena right now, there is a significantly smaller chance of her being able to defend Icarus or herself.

She feels Icarus sighing softly next to her; his breath is laced with slight exasperation as he pulls his chair in slightly. Surely he must think this is stupid too, Vesper thinks with a scoff under her breath.

     "So, what training stations did you go to first?" Icarus asks sincerely, looking to both Irma and Dale. "In your Games, I mean."

     "I believe it was the Knot-Tying station," she replies. "I just tried to start with one of the least violent options, I think. What about you, Dale?"

     "Fire-starting," Dale deadpans. He takes a long sip of his drink and drags out a sigh afterwards. Of course, Vesper thinks. That came in handy during his Games.

     She may not have been alive when Dale won the Hunger Games, but Vesper has heard enough stories from her father and her friends at the workshop who were around at the time. Vague memories of re-runs float into focus, but once Irma won a few years ago, all the attention was shifted to her victory. Both story and recollection come together to conjure the most horrific images...

     The arena was an island, thick with dark forest lathered in cobwebs, and the sky continually raining down ashes like snowflakes. The many horror stories she's heard speak of the giant spider mutts at the start of the Games — they would kill the tributes by swaddling them up in their webs and liquefying them, an unimaginable fate that folks say Dale narrowly escaped. However, this soon proved controversial since the deceased couldn't be transported back home, sparking discontent with the families of the dead. So, the Gamemakers swapped out one nightmare for another, replacing the giant arachnids with swarms of minuscule ones.

     Dale somehow managed to become last man standing through pure survival skills. He mostly ventured alone for the entire time, armed only with a spear. At some point he managed to craft a flamethrower of sorts, burning his way out of the webs and exterminating the bugs crawling into his clothes. As for the tributes against him, camouflage became his best friend. With his remarkable hand at painting, he managed to disappear into the woodwork of the arena, invisible to all until he found it best to attack.

     Upon remembering everything she knows, she's surprised he didn't become more of a hit across Panem. But it seems his Morphling-fuelled coping mechanisms faded him into obscurity — although Vesper guesses she can't blame him. She figures if she'd been through that much trauma, even she would struggle to numb the pain any other way.

"And, um, what about allies? Should we start looking now, or...?" Icarus trails off, sensing a bizarre discomfort settling over the table.

Oh yeah. Vesper had forgotten about that part. And she isn't sure how she feels about it either — so far, she can't think of any tribute she's seen who she would let within a five metre radius of them. Except maybe that girl from Three, although even Telle seems to emulate an air of cunningness hidden underneath that youthful exterior.

"It's up to you, really," says Irma. "I suppose if you do find anyone you get along with, then it couldn't do you any harm making an alliance with them."

All of a sudden Dale smacks his cutlery down on the table; a somewhat delayed reaction that startles everyone. "Oh, for crying out loud, Irma. This is the Training Centre, not the playground in Kindergarten! You're not here to make friends. Things just get more complicated and then you get baggage." He stabs a boiled egg with his fork and points it accusingly at Icarus. "Trust no one, you got that?"

"Dale, please—"

"It's true!" His heartless guffaw cuts Irma short, who watches as he almost tips too far back in his chair. "At the end of the day, only one of you makes it out of the arena alive. So don't bother. You'll only end up dead or heartbroken." On the last sentence, he glances over his glass of (what looks like) water to Irma, and as if she understood some kind of secret message, a pained look flashes across her face as she bows her head downwards.

Hermia clears her throat raggedly for the first time in a few minutes. "Well!" she crows. "That was a conversation killer. But no matter..." She starts topping up the only quarter-drunken cup of Earl Grey for Icarus, which he winces at silently. Perhaps he's too polite to say no.

"Don't mind those two. They have this quarrel every year, although not quite so... mmph, anyway, just make a good impression today, and maybe even forge some alliances if —" Hermia pauses to glare at Dale, who seems to have returned to his vegetative state. "— you feel inclined to do so."

Vesper finishes shovelling slices of toast and ham to fill up her stomach just in time, before the pair are ushered by an eager Hermia into the glass elevator which will take them down to the lowest floor where the Gym resides — and she doesn't know what aspect of it is making her stomach flip. Whether it's the training process being unknown territory since it is never televised, or if it's the looming afterthought of wondering what her mother was thinking right now.

Was she too trying to fight off the threat of her breakfast making a reappearance?

Much to Vesper's annoyance, Icarus picks up on her queasiness. Damn it. She thought she was being more subtle. But no matter how hard she clenches her jaw, stares at a point in the distance, ignores the unnerving sleekness of the elevator's descent or Icarus's ecstasy over the whole ride down... that boy will always be one step ahead of the curve.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm... fine." Vesper swallows thickly, her mouth dry like sandpaper as she refuses to shift her eyes away from the fixed point in the distance.

Icarus sniffs and looks forward again. "You look kinda nauseous."

"I probably just ate too much."

"Are you nervous?"

"I could be worse."

"... Maybe you have motion sickness?"

Vesper allows herself to laugh at such a ridiculous idea. "Motion sickness? As someone from Six? Huh, wouldn't that be ironic..."

"I'm serious!" Icarus gestures emphatically with his hands. "I mean, my pal Orville at home gets motion sick. Not on all things though. It's so weird. He's fine on the train, but in cars... oh boy! He can't sit in the back for ten minutes without chucking it up—"

"Icarus... don't." She grimaces as a sickly wave of nausea hits her all at once.

"Shit. Sorry."

Taking a deep breath, Vesper glances impatiently up at the numbers indicating their floor.

2... 1... G...

She's just about to speak to Icarus, tell him something about sticking with her if those Careers get on his back, but before she knows it the doors are opening and the words vanish like wisps of evaporating steam into the air. Only the doorway of the elevator provides them with a cage to hide from the mostly anonymous tributes, who they will now have to face for what lifetime they have left.

The tributes seem to have arrived in ascending order of their districts, and are already clumping together in cliques — obviously all of the Careers, from One, Two and Four, herd together like a pack of wolves. Elsewhere, both tributes from Three and Five are standing together two, close enough to look sociable but still far enough to communicate their air of distrust. Unsure of where else to stand, Vesper and Icarus wander over to join the oddly vague triangle of outsiders that is forming.

     Other districts begin filing in — Seven, Eight, Nine, in that order. Heads notably turn when Talon from District Ten enters the room, to which he averts his gaze to the floor, still holding his head stoically. Before long, the room is full of varying congregations of tributes, mostly sticking to their home District partnerships.

     Vesper surveys them properly for the first time, since they are neither obscured by flamboyant attire, nor squashed by a television screen. The meatiest tributes appear to be Talon and Durian, the boy from Eleven, although a few of the Careers could easily punch the lights out of her if she wasn't careful. Fern, the girl from Seven, is of a tall and slender build but has a sharp look about her — the foreknowledge that she's probably swung an axe on more than one occasion is enough to make her wary of her.

     More promising, perhaps, are the seedier looking tributes. The boy from District Five — Edison, she believes his name was — looks like he could barely withstand a weak nudge, let alone a lethal weapon to the body. And Telle is a scrawny little thing herself. But Vesper has been watching the Hunger Games for enough years, to know that brains of those from the likes of Three and Five can be the sharpest weapons of all.

     It would seem they are out of their league before they've even started.

     The Head Trainer, Marshal — a stocky man with a squared jawline — starts giving a speech about how they use their stations over the next three days, how they conduct their behaviour in the Gym and so on, Vesper senses a skin-crawling suspicion that she is being watched. Slowly, she cranes her head around to where she feels the pair of eyes trained on her, and feels her heart jump as the two black holes of Boaz's eyes lock firmly on hers with a bitter smirk, just as Marshal lingers on the words, "Twenty-three of you will be dead."

More and more, that boy seems to be finding ways to taunt her, and they've only shared one hostile exchange.

Marshal finishes off on an overwhelmingly optimistic note, letting it be known that everything you do in these next three days is on you. If you choose to build up your strength or survival skills, they won't stop you. But no one will raise a finger if you sit around and do nothing, either. Which Vesper thinks is a indiscreet translation of "We don't give a damn about you."

Once the speech has been rounded off, everyone disperses — many, especially the Careers, flock like sheep to the weaponry stations. Then there are the outcasts who either wander over to awkwardly join the queue, or silently stalk their way over to one of the quieter stations, like camouflage or fire-starting.

Remember what Irma said, Vesper wills herself to think, as she glances longingly at the queue for sparring. Icarus, on the other hand, seems rather relieved to be putting any lethal weapons at bay for now.

"At least there isn't a queue for the other things..." Chuckling uneasily, he stretches his arms behind his back, before letting them swing lightly by his sides. "So, what're we starting with?"

"I don't know," she shrugs passively. Her eyes are trained on Boaz, who has just picked up a knife and examines it with an eerie fondness. She snaps out of her trance once he flings the knife through the air and hits the outer rim of the target. Where to begin? Slightly clueless, Vesper begins surveying the options surrounding them. An instructor sits alone by little sticks of wood, his shoulders sinking with a sigh. "How about fire-starting?" she suggests in response.

The instructor's face seems to flood with relief the moment they make their way over — perhaps not many tend to shoot for fire-starting on their first day. Vesper knows she wouldn't. Not by choice, anyway.

     She gets the hang of it quickly. Within ten minutes, Vesper has a steady flame going, and not long after so does Icarus. This is how she works — all her life she's been picking things up quickly after learning them. She still remembers her first day at the workshop, as a twelve year-old with a greasy ponytail and softer hands than now. One of the older kids tossed her a screwdriver, and before long she was a natural, coming home at the end of every week smelling pungently of gasoline. If this is going to be a reoccurring theme with these survival skills, she'll be over in about an hour.

Somewhere she imagines Irma disapproving of her logic. She is right, even if Vesper doesn't want to admit it herself. But maybe it's better this way — the sooner she and Icarus can get these little things out of the way, the better.

Thankfully camouflage proves to be a little more challenging, much of her time spent struggling to get a steady hand. No matter how hard she tries, she can't get the mixing of the colours right, since the only painting she's ever done is lathering thick layers of white on the cracking plaster walls of their apartment back in Vagary.

      Icarus seems to possess a little more artistic flair than she does, but even he is unmatched to the girl from District Eight opposite them — silently she paints swirls of light dabbling the leaves onto her arm, comparing it to the tree trunk every few minutes to track her progress. At one point she smiles, hiding under her long locks of dark brown hair framing her face, as she narrows her eyes to focus in on the details.

     "Man, you're good," Icarus blurts out suddenly, bewildered as she paints shadows on the tree bark like magic.

     The girl looks up with alarmed eyes. Then she softens, this time with a smile of gratitude, as she picks at some dark green paint gathering under her fingernails. Her name is Twyla, she tells them. Vesper secretly hopes she'll be one of the underdogs who surprise everyone with their calm rise to being last man standing... how sweet that would be in the face of those monstrous Careers!

But then she remembers that, if she gets that far, it would mean they would have to face off. Maybe not, then.

Leaving Twyla alone with her colours, the pair move on. At the edible plants station, the infamous head of red hair bobs with every turn of her head as Telle selects symbols correlating to specific plants at an astonishing speed. Nudging Icarus in the elbow, Vesper manages a light chuckle. "Are we gonna go over, then?" she asks. He doesn't answer but simply takes a few steps forward anyway, his hands balled into nervous fists at his side.

     "Hey," he says, in an overly friendly tone. "Telle with an E!"

     The girl whips her head around, her hair rustling like windswept shrubs across her cheekbones, as she flashes a huge grin at them. It's a relief to see the bouncing pom poms have disappeared from her head today. "I was wondering when y'guys would come," she says, "You took your time gettin' here."

     "We had our try at camouflage," Vesper stretches out her arm, still stained with remnants of the paint. "But turns out it takes longer than just slapping some greens and browns onto your skin."

"Oh yeah, I ended up not bothering w'that. My pops always said I was too loud to blend in anywhere." Suddenly she giggles loudly, attracting an alarmed stare from the District Five boy a stone's throw away. "Hey, y'met Huxley yesterday, right? Huxley!" Telle waves her arm frantically to usher the sullen boy over to her. He's less padded without the giant box costume, his ashen, malnourished frame more prominent now.

     Huxley nods unflinchingly, shifting his gaze sleepily between them two. "And... you are?"

     "Oh yeah, I never got your names, did I? Huh, how funny."

     Just when Vesper begins to open her mouth, she finds herself being overtaken by an eager Icarus as he butts in, "I'm Icarus, and this is Vesper here. We're friends back home."

     "You are?"

     "Yeah. We work together."

     "Work? You don't go to school?" Huxley queries, almost critically, if it weren't for the edge of sleepiness to his voice.

     "He does, I don't," Vesper takes over this time. She hadn't considered the concept of other districts not working so young. "It's pretty normal where we're from, isn't it?"

     A girlish squeal turns all their heads to its source, just catching the moment where Talon roughly flings the District One boy over his shoulder and onto the mat without breaking a sweat. As he uncurls his back into a straighter posture and wipes his hands down on his trousers, there's a ghost of a satisfied smile threatening to break through, as Hermes stands up and mutters obscenities to nurse his bruised shoulder... and ego.

     "Anyway," Telle says, eyes still focused on the scene as she shakes her head. "So if you work, what d'you guys do exactly?"

     "We're railroad mainten— mechanics," Vesper catches herself, all of a sudden remembering the lie she's supposed to tell. She seems to have the others fooled as they nod, impressed. "It's obviously limited what we can do at this age, but we can still do a fair bit. Fixing railcars, mostly." She kicks herself mentally. Even that was too much. There was no way she was going to remember that. This PR business is more exhausting than she'd ever anticipated.

     "I don't do as much work, since I'm still a kid, but I guess you could say I'm an apprentice," Icarus adds, without batting an eyelid. He's much better at these white lies than she is — if only they knew he only turns up at the workshop to visit sometimes, only having worked on smaller projects for school, and earning some extra cash on the side by removing shrubbery from the tracks. She's pretty sure he doesn't even want to be a mechanic, if all that aviation talk a couple of days ago was true.

     "Wow..." Huxley trails off, staring into the distance. Vesper isn't sure if he is genuinely bewildered or has simply spaced out on them.

     "I just go to boring ol' school right now. But hey, I've got something cool to show y'guys!" Telle plunges her hand deep into her pocket, and pulls out a small, spherical object made of wood. It balances in the pale palm of her hand as she watches the two of them inspect it with confusion.

     "It's... a ball?" Vesper raises an eyebrow at her.

     "Not just any ball. Look here..." Turning around the ball in her hand, Telle feels around and wedges her thumb into a button Vesper didn't even know was there. After a few seconds the ball opens up like a claw, carefully carved components popping out it with the suddenness of a Jack-in-the-Box. "It's nothing special, I just thought it was kinda neat, s'all."

     Icarus eyes it curiously. "So is that your token?"

     Telle inspects it herself for a moment, folding the branches back into their spherical cage, before nodding definitively. "Yeah, I guess it is! It keeps me calm sometimes, just rolling it around in my hand..."

     She smooths her freckled fingers over the wood to demonstrate. As Icarus begins asking more questions and conversing naturally with the girl, Vesper begins to sense what might be the beginnings of an alliance. She starts thinking it over to herself — Telle is smart. There's no doubt about that. And Huxley fares remarkably well in the edible plants test too, despite his doziness at first glance. He doesn't look fit to make it far enough into the Games, but Telle could, surely. And she could teach them a thing or two.

     But what about when it came to the last numbers? Who would turn on who? Maybe Dale was right about broken hearts, she ponders solemnly, observing as Icarus laughs at something Telle said.

     By the time lunch rolls around, Vesper's stomach has been growling periodically for some time. To her profound relief, the cafeteria buffet is stacked simply with baskets of bread loves and fruit, accompanied with jugs of water to pour for yourself — the most recognisable array of food she's seen in days. Her stomach gurgles again with jovial approval.

     Queuing up is a bizarre experience. She stands one of the last in line behind Icarus, Durian standing behind her. Every so often she has the urge to turn around, to check if he's posing a threat, but the gentle boy from Eleven stands calmly, balancing a glass of water on his tray.

     Even now, she already has one foot in the arena.

There seems to have been an unspoken arrangement that they will be sitting with Telle and Huxley for lunch. The other three have already wandered off to claim a table, tucking themselves into a seat. Vesper, meanwhile, stacks her plate — she might as well gorge herself whilst she can before the arena. She cuts herself three slices of bread (warm, she might add), grabs an apple or two as well as an orange, which she's never tried before.

Not looking where she's going, Vesper begins to turn with tray in hand, when she almost collides with another body.

"Whoops!" The boy from District Four steps back and chuckles, unnerving Vesper. "Sorry about that..." Levin steps to the left just as she does, blocking her way accidentally, and they both instinctively do the same on the right side — creating some sort of strange dance they they can't break out of. "Which— uh, which way are you—"

Rolling her eyes, Vesper brushes past him successfully with her tray. Stupid Careers, she thinks to herself. They're all as stuck up as each other. However, she still looks back again, just catching Levin sheepishly scratching the back of his head before he looks away, magnetised to the Careers table like a migrating bird.

Vesper tucks herself into the space next to Icarus when they're mid-conversation, only barely getting the words "my birthday".

"Whose birthday is it?" she asks.

Telle raises her hand slowly, staring down at the table with a smirk. "Guilty as charged."

"What? You mean, today?"

She nods. What a stroke of bad luck. As if she senses the pity simmering through the table, the girl remarkably perks up, despite knowing herself that it's not a desirable situation — knowing that this birthday could maybe be her last, and she can't even spend it with her family. "Hey, don't sulk 'bout it. I'm not. I mean, I'm fourteen, for crying out loud!"

Vesper takes a sip of water to hide the small smile that has crept onto her face. Telle's optimism reminds her of Kirk's, and how he always seems to unfalteringly have a witty comeback for every dismal situation. She could do with a few jokes from him right now. In fact, she could just do with him right now; someone in this place who doesn't take everything so seriously all the time.

"How old are you guys, then?"

"I'm thirteen," Icarus says, looking expectantly at Vesper.

"And I'll be seventeen in August," she adds. It suddenly occurs to her that she could end up stuck in the arena for her birthday. What a joyful birthday that would be — if she even makes it that far.

"I was sixteen in May..." Huxley also chimes in, scratching his eyebrow with his finger.

     Vesper digs her nails into the orange peel and begins peeling it off, the tangy aroma stinging her eyes brilliantly. She slowly picks a segment away from the centre and sceptically pops it into her mouth — instantly a burst of citrus explodes on her tongue, setting her taste buds ablaze. It's delicious, and strangely nothing like the orange juice they served this morning at breakfast.

     "Have you tried these yet?" she asks, almost giddy with excitement as she pops another segment into her mouth.

     "Uh... yeah?" Icarus chuckles, confused by the question. "We have them at school sometimes."

     "We don't get many oranges in Three," says Telle. "Not where I'm from, anyway."

     Vesper shakes her head in agreement. In Six, oranges are a luxury only the upper ranks of the people can enjoy. Either that or you'd have to scrape up a hefty amount to get some shrivelled, dry thing in the market at Geminos Circle. "I'm gonna get another one," she announces ardently.

     Her palette still alive with fireworks of flavour, Vesper meanders past the various cafeteria tables — the one with the sullen tributes from Twelve, the Careers table where they laugh with Hermes juggling some apples, the mixed congregation of those from Seven, Ten and Eleven. She steps forward to the basket of oranges eagerly, where Two's tributes stand to the side saying something to each other under their breaths.

     As Vesper starts picking up different oranges to decide which one she wants, she hears a chorus of titters from Boaz and Hero. And she has a growing suspicion that the laughter might be about her.

     Just ignore them, Vesper.

     But it's impossible once Boaz drags her into it, projecting his backhand comment her way as he retorts, "I'm sure Sixer here knows a thing or two about appetite."

     She drags out a long sigh and summons the patience (and courage) to look him in the eye. His face contorts into a stupid, smug-looking expression, as he stands with his arms folded across his chest. It's hard to tell whether Boaz is just playing around, or actually wants to pose a threat with his next words:

     "Wouldn't want you going savage again in the arena, huh?"

     It takes her a few seconds, but Vesper knows exactly who he's talking about, and she resists visibly wincing.

     Titus. The name haunts District Six's history in the Hunger Games like a stain that can't be washed out. She can't believe after almost a decade, people are still highlighting it and jabbing them about it — do their tributes get this twisted ridicule every year since then? Or is Boaz just as psychotic as she thought?

     She remembers it more vividly than she wants to. It's quite normal for tributes to go mad after many days in the Games — whether it's from starvation, heat, or even some kind of rabid disease. But that year... that year was different. When the insanity of being trapped in dark caves for days on end, starved and terrified, finally got to him, it took a gruesome turn. The first time he sank his teeth into human flesh, the Capitol were quick to pan away or blur it out, as they did with censoring the rest of his kills.

     But not quick enough to erase the image from a seven year-old girl's memory.

     If Irma hadn't won that year, who knows how much longer they could be hearing about it? How much more blame from the Capitol for such "explicit content", as if they were the ones to blame for breaking a poor boy beyond repair? Titus was certainly all anyone talked about when Irma first won — it shrouded her remarkable victory in a dark cloud, she remembers. It was only after her Victory Tour and her public appearances that she started winning hearts left, right and centre, neatly brushing Six's grimmest moment underneath the carpet for the time being.

     Vesper doesn't know what Boaz is trying to get at with the comment. Is he subconsciously pitting against District Six for no apparent reason? Singling her out as his first kill? Or does he just want to jump on the bandwagon of ridiculing those lower than him? She really can't tell. She never was good at reading people like that.

     But just for the hell of it, Vesper picks an apple from the next basket down, biting a large hunk out of it. She looks Boaz dead in the eye for a moment, wiping the apple juice from her lips with her wrist, before making her way back to Icarus and their allies from Three.

     Let him figure out what that one means.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

*sees the last time i posted a chapter, it was september 16th*

.... i'm alive?

so it's been a while, huh? sorry about that — first of all, i got really inspired by my stranger things fic paranormal, so i focused on that for a while. then i was like "RIGHT, i'm gonna write iron now!" and literally that week, a flood of tests from college hit me like that bus hit regina george in mean girls. i SWEAR in late nov/early dec, schools always love to just purge every test they can find before the christmas holidays 😂

but anyway, I'M BACK! there was a lot in this chapter to process, but it also felt like a big filler? literally everything leading up to the games feels like a filler though.... anyway...

vesper: queen
icarus: smol
telle: with an e
levin: DORK
boaz: scary
dale: still high
hotel: trivago

please leave a comment if you enjoyed this! authors really appreciate feedback like that — votes are great and all, but we wanna know what YOU think about it! ♥️

[ published: 12th december, 2020 ]

— Imogen