The Odds

'Zinefic Article: A Not-So-Glorious Return

Two Peacekeepers, helmeted, visors shaded so that I can't see their faces. One at my left and one at my right. Are they there to protect me or stop me running? I'm going to guess at both. Though nobody who would harm me knows I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere until I find out exactly what's going on. It's not every day you go to what you think is a meeting with one of your former Academy tutors and find yourself bundled into the back of a cab.

Whoever did it was just a push at my back. The Peacekeepers were waiting inside for me. They gave me darkened glasses to wear, so that I couldn't see where we were going, but as soon as I was ushered up inside and allowed to take the glasses off I knew. There's only one place that still thinks pure white floors and walls are fashionable. From the door there was an elevator so subtle I thought it was just a room until one of the Peacekeepers announced we'd reached the top floor. Now they're leading me down a cream-coloured corridor scuffed with the marks of history, sliding panels at intervals showing me where various rooms are tucked away. The colour has a faded, ethereal look. I wouldn't be surprised to hear the tap-tap-tap of stiletto heels that aren't there or to turn and catch a glimpse of a ghost. Even though I know that many of the people who used this place are still alive.

The Peacekeepers take me to the room right at the end of the corridor and tell me to press my fingertips to a sheer panel. When I do it the door washes green, sliding open with the faintest of hisses. At a gesture from my guards, I step through and into a world of concentric consoles, of white accented with gentle hints of neon blue.

We're in the old Gamemaker Suite.

I've been in the new one. It's cool, all rippling walls and fake fire and rooms upon rooms of outfits. They have airpool tables and lev chairs. It looks like a great place to relax between planning sessions, more like the old Recreation Rooms in the Academy. The central consoles in question are raised up on a platform instead of being sunk down low into the floor, and they hover over all of it rather than having a room all to themselves. And there's not a hint of white in sight.

This room isn't empty. Some of the chairs are occupied by people who, even by Capitol standards, look strange. True to the aesthetic, they're wearing white everywhere but their faces; even their hair is hidden away behind carefully draped white hoods. Their faces themselves are hidden behind thick lacquered masks in layers and layers of colour, built up shade by shade until it's deep and glossy. Blue. Emerald green with streaks of black. Livid red. Pink. Violet edged with lilac vines. Even their eyes are covered, lurking behind swathes of coloured net. All the masks turn to look at me. I can't lie: it's spooky. But I try to stop any sign of it reaching my expression. I put on a mask of my own, firm and confident, and wait to be greeted.

"Carys," one of them says.

A mask in various shades of orange leans forwards, tipping and twisting to get a better look at me. "She has the eyes. And the hair doesn't matter too much. Shame about the jaw, though. Maybe it could be pinned."

Ohhh no. 

"This is about Aunt Alithia, isn't it?"

"Not exactly. Please, sit."

I stay standing. "I would appreciate it if somebody here were to start making sense."

"Of course you would," says a pink-green mask resplendent with rose buds. "And we will do. Our friend Orange here got carried away, that's all. But we'd like you to sit down and be comfortable first."

"Get a feel for the place," Orange says.

It's hard to tell with the netting shading their eyes, but I get the definite impression that a lot of glares are shooting at him right now. He shrugs and leans back in his chair, unperturbed. A mask the colour of the raging sea coughs to get my attention and folds her hands in her lap. She's wearing gloves. Very careful. "Please, Carys. This isn't about your great-aunt, I promise. We know you must be sick of that sort of thing."