Flooding Panem: The Hunger Games

Chapter Five: Encouraging

Ours is the fourth floor. Every room has high ceilings, bright, cubic furniture and fishnets hanging off the wall. Marvel tore them down the moment we were left alone. There’s a balcony that overlooks the streets, where I can see Avoxes clearing up the leftovers of the Opening Ceremony. Everything is suited for the needs of the tributes for which this is a penultimate home.  

My rooms are beyond even the train compartment in grandeur. My window/TV covers the entire wall, but it’s not just a TV; it lets me look at other districts through security cameras. I’ve never realised how much the Capitol watches us. From my screen I can see my road, the justice square, the school, even the beach. It’s quiet though; there’s no movement tonight. Everyone will be inside, watching the highlights of the Ceremony. What do they think about our opening costumes? Will they even recognise me behind all of it?

Errid is acting a bit less excited than I thought he’d be. In fact, he looks terrified. I can figure out without much effort he’s worried about whatever rules we may or may not have broken with our halos. Even as he’s congratulating our stylists, he’s fidgeting with his long golden fingernails. When he brings up the lights, I prey there aren’t any cats nearby because his voice almost goes beyond human hearing. Throughout the meal he’s staring at his plate.  

Laxina and Hercule, on the other hand, are riding high. It’s been a while since any tribute made such a strong impression, let alone a tribute that wasn’t a career. Hercule, who I’ve now realised is excruciatingly happy when in a good mood, refuses to stop talking all through dinner. Of course, our dinner consists of flavour-enhanced fish, so I can’t tell whether I’m more annoyed at how the food’s been processed or his excessive clapping. Everyone else at the table is also getting irritated; Marvel is sitting with his jaw clamped shut for the most part, and when he chews it’s with an awful lot of bone-on-bone sound. Laxina, when not eating, is patiently stroking her knife, though the corner of her mouth is twitching furiously. Our stylists are doing the same thing as I am, staring pointedly at their plates, only looking up to whisper to each other. The only person who isn’t annoyed at him is Errid, who is too wrapped up in his own woes to listen to someone who is chittering like a squirrel on caffeine. I’m sprinkling salt on my seaweed salad when a bang wakens me from my daydream.  

Looking around blindly, I’m shocked to see Hercule, leaning his arm on the table, gaping at a knife lodged in his chair, barely an inch from his shoulder. At first I think of Laxina stroking her knife, reliving her Hunger Games. But then I see her staring, amazed but not shocked, at Marvel, who is now calmly cutting up his fish with his fork. Errid starts bumbling about something, but Julia, Marvel’s stylist, whacks him over the head to shut him up. Hecule has stopped staring and started smiling.  

“Good to see you’re not just brawn, Marvel. But save the target practice for training and not me!” His voice is fast, and in it’s cracking as he tries to calm his tribute down. But no calming is necessary, as he shrugs and caries on eating silently.  

Through the rest of the meal, the conversation is more two sided, but Marvel and I still avoid talking, only perking our ears when they mention the other tributes. Hercule, who for some reason didn’t remove the knife, keeps banging his head on it. Marvel and I share a smile as Julia eventually removes it and hands it back to him. But I get a faint chill when I see him polishing his knife, and remember that in less than a fortnight, we’ll be out to kill each other. The thought makes me gasp quietly, but I cover it by sipping my juice, a citrus concoction that I’ve never had before. I sit, quietly through the remainder of the meal, avoiding looking at anyone. It’s not until we reach dessert that something catches my senses.   Of course, I’ve seen plenty of Avoxes since we arrived, even though it’s only been a day. They look similar, with red hair and eyebrows, white skin and black lips that never open for fear of revealing what isn’t there. Most have resigned, obedient looks about them, though some fail at hiding their pain or resentment. But standing in the corner, one man captures my attention. He looks the same as the others in colour, but he shows neither resignation nor resentment. He’s afraid.