RAINFALL || [c. snow]

iv

ACT 1. REPUDIATE

❝SOME STORIES AREN'T MEANT TO BE TOLD❞

𓆩⟡𓆪

DOLORES TREMBLED A bit from the cold as all twenty-four mentors gathered on the balcony of Heavensbee Hall after lunch, per instruction. Their first official meetings with their tributes— second unofficial for Dolores and Coriolanus.

Her fingers toyed with the sheet of paper in her hands, the poor thing already half crumbled with her fidgeting. Each mentor had been given a brief questionnaire to complete with their assignee, partly as an icebreaker— which would hardly break the ice, in Dolly's opinion— and partly as a matter of record.

A record that this person existed before their death among the nobodies? she thought to herself in silence. Very little information had been archived on previous tributes, and this was an effort to correct that.

The nervous chattering of the mentors died away as they pushed through the swinging balcony doors and caught sight of what awaited them below. All signs of the reaping festivities had been stripped away, leaving the vast hall cold and imposing— not that it wasn't like that before.

Twenty four small tables flanked with two folding chairs each were spread out in orderly rows. Each table bore a sign with a district number followed by a B or a G representing boys and girls. Almost like a prison or interrogation— though that couldn't be far.

Two Peacekeepers entered and stood guard by the main entrance and the tributes were brought in single file. The Peacekeepers outnumbered them two to one, but it was unlikely that any of the tributes could make a break for it, given the heavy shackles attached to their wrists and ankles. Animals. Prisoners. And yet the Capitol still called them citizens of Panem.

Some of the tributes drooped in their seats, chins almost on their chests, but the more defiant ones tilted their heads back and surveyed the hall. It was one of the most impressive chambers in the Capitol, and several mouths gaped open, awed by the grandeur of the marble columns, the arched windows, the vaulted ceiling.

It must be a marvel to them, compared to the flat, ugly structure that was the signature style in many of the districts. As the tributes' eyes traveled around the room, they eventually made their way to the mentors' balcony, and the two groups found themselves locked in one another's gazes for a long, raw moment.

A chill ran down her spine. She searched for Otto among the crowd, but her eyes stayed fixated on a young girl— barely thirteen. What had she done to deserve this? It simply was a matter of odds. Her grip on the questionnaire tightened, almost ripping the paper.

When Professor Sickle banged the door behind them, the mentors gave a collective jump. "Stop eyeballing your tributes and get down there," she ordered, "You only have fifteen minutes, so use them wisely. And remember, complete the paperwork for our records as best you can."

Dolores quickly descended the spiral staircase and found the table where her tribute was sitting at. "I'm Dolores, your mentor. We met the other day."

"I... remember you," the boy, barely fifteen, spoke softly. He looked afraid— so frail in his chains.

Her heart clenched. "You may call me Dolly. I actually brought something for you, today. Again," she took her bag off her shoulders and drew out a delectable-looking muffin. Her breath hitched as her fingers brushed the cold iron table, handing the pastry to her tribute. Dark and cold— is that what they were used to? "How've you been?" She immediately chided herself for the question of stupidity, "I mean, how are you? How do you feel?"