I woke up drenched in cold sweat, Ma's stories about Quarter Quells echoing in my head. Nasty little Capitol traditions, each with its own sadistic rule change. The first Quell forced Districts to vote for which poor bastards they'd sacrifice. Neighbors sentencing neighbors to death. Democracy at its finest. Then the second Quell, the one that crowned our very own town drunk. Double the tributes, double the carnage. 48 kids thrown into the arena instead of 24. And Haymitch somehow clawed his way out alive, the sole victor standing on a mountain of corpses. Look at him now, then look at me.
Here I am, caught in the third Quell's twisted game. Multiple victors allowed? Sure, Snow's just feeling generous this year. Nothing suspicious about that at all. I stare at the ceiling, wondering what fresh hell the Gamemakers have cooked up this time. Whatever it is, they've had twenty-five years to make it special. Lucky me.
Thinking back on it now, I'm screwed in ways I didn't even anticipate. This arena? It's going to be nothing like what I remember. Why? Because Seneca Crane, the idiot who should've been executed after the 74th Games, is still breathing Capitol air and designing our death trap. Funny thing about Seneca, in another timeline, his incompetence was practically Katniss's guardian angel. The man couldn't make a strategic decision to save his life (which, ironically, is exactly what happened). When he should've unleashed hell on the Girl on Fire, he hesitated. When Snow wanted the spark snuffed out, Seneca got cold feet. He could've sent mutts to tear her apart or fireballs to roast her—game over, end of story. But no. He choked. Not that I'm giving him credit. Seneca's just another Capitol puppet with fancy facial hair and delusions of grandeur. He's swallowed Snow's propaganda hook, line, and sinker. Districts exist to serve, tributes exist to die, and the Games exist to entertain. Just another pampered idiot who's never missed a meal or feared for his life.
Still, his predictable stupidity might be something I can exploit. If I can figure out how he thinks, or rather, how he doesn't think, maybe I can stay one step ahead. Outplay the Gamemakers, protect as many tributes as possible, especially Katniss.
The question is how. What angles haven't I considered? What blind spots does Seneca have that I could use? There's a solution here somewhere. I just need to find it before they drop us into whatever nightmare he's designed.
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Breakfast came with a side of nerves. It's just the four of us in the dining car; me, Haymitch, Effie, and the girl on fire. Katniss stares out the window, eyes on the horizon like it's the end of the world. It's not. Not yet, anyway.
"Don't forget to smile," Haymitch says, shoveling eggs like he's forgotten how to chew.
"And wave," I add. "Everyone loves a good fan event." My voice drips enough sarcasm to drown a small animal.
"Proper posture, too!" Effie chimes in, spine straight as a ruler, teacup balanced delicately between manicured fingers. "First impressions are absolutely everything in the Capitol."
The train barrels toward the city, and we're pretending the orange juice isn't poison. We talk strategy. Talk alliances. Talk about things we can't say out loud, because the cameras are always listening.
"This could be the year we have some real support," Haymitch says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve like it's a napkin.
Effie winces, sliding a napkin toward him with two fingers as if touching him directly might be hazardous. "Honestly, Haymitch. Tributes reflect their mentors, you know."
"Play your cards right, make an impression, and you two might actually stand a chance," Haymitch continues, ignoring her completely.
Katniss glares at him, then back at her untouched food. I guess if youve grown up on squirrels, eggs seem suspicious. "How are we supposed to do that? By smiling and waving?"
"Can't hurt." He slurs his words just enough to sound like he's half in the bag already. I know better.
"It's practically foolproof," I say. "Unless they've upped the difficulty on smiling since last year."
Haymitch barks a laugh, a little too loud for the early hour. Effie clicks her tongue disapprovingly, patting her perfectly coiffed wig as if the noise might have dislodged it.
"There's nothing 'fool' about it," she says firmly. "Presentation is strategy. The right look, the right attitude—they open doors."
Katniss looks like she'd rather test her chances with a knife than our plan.
"Face it," I say, "they want a show. We give it to them, they give us sponsors. Simple."
"Precisely!" Effie beams at me like I've just discovered electricity. "A touch of charm goes miles further than moping about." She gives Katniss a pointed look.
Katniss narrows her eyes, those gray storm clouds gathering over her breakfast. "It's never that simple," she says, quiet enough that I almost miss it.
A long shot, sure, but we don't have a lot of other options. "You remember that arena they had a few years ago?" I ask, steering the conversation to safer ground. "The one that was all desert and sand dunes?"
"The one with the mutant worms," Haymitch chimes in. "That's a fun story."
"Oh, not at breakfast, please," Effie flutters her hands in protest. "Those Games were simply dreadful for my digestion."
"Just wondering if we should be training for the swim team," I say. "Or if it's time to practice sliding on ice."
Haymitch gives a noncommittal shrug, wiping toast crumbs from his chin. "Can't predict these things. That's half the fun."
"Fun isn't the word I'd use," Effie mutters, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "But your stylists will prepare you for any eventuality." She brightens suddenly. "I've heard rumors about your team this year—absolutely top-tier talent!"
I shoot Katniss a look. Her face is still, but her eyes are doing all the talking. They're saying we're screwed no matter what. "You got any theories?" I ask her.
"Nothing worth planning on," she says, but the way her voice catches tells me she's thought about it more than she's letting on. Maybe more than I have, which is impressive.
"We'll find out soon enough," Haymitch says. "Just remember, eyes on you is food in your stomach."
"And here I thought food went in your mouth," I say. "I've been doing it wrong this whole time."
Katniss doesn't laugh. Not that I expected her to, but a guy can dream. One day she might. I'm crossing my fingers on that.
Effie actually laughs at that, a delicate tinkling sound like expensive glass. "You have a natural charm, Ashton. The cameras will adore you."
I lean back, giving my best impression of someone who isn't in over his head. "Guess we should make this alliance official," I say. "Better now than when we're getting picked off."
"You seem awful sure I'm the one who needs you," Katniss lifts one of her eyebrows, and this time she doesn't bother to look up.
"Don't take it personally," I reply good-heartedly. "I'm an equal-opportunity user."
"That's the spirit!" Effie claps her hands together. "Teamwork is so refreshing. Last year's tributes barely spoke to each other."
Haymitch leans in, low enough that even the walls won't hear. "One thing I learned in my Games," he says. "The minute you think you're safe is the minute you're dead."
Cheery. But he's got a point.
"And this whole strategy of trusting no one?" I ask Katniss. "Not to criticize, but..."
"But what?" she shoots back.
"But it might not work out so well when your partner here dies of starvation." Her lips twitch at that statement.
"Alright," she says, finally relieved that she wasn't going to fight alone. "Alliance it is."
"Nothing like the promise of certain death to bring people together," I say, trying to lighten the mood that's hanging over us like a storm cloud.
"Well, I for one think it's marvelous," Effie says, checking her watch. "Now, we're only thirty minutes from arrival. Katniss, you should eat something. Can't have you looking gaunt for the cameras."
We lapse into silence, each of us chewing on our own thoughts, or in Haymitch's case, on his fourth piece of toast. Effie fusses with her schedule, muttering about appointment times and prep teams. The train clatters and groans beneath us, carrying us faster than I want it to. I'm holding my breath, waiting for the first sign of civilization, but the only thing out the window is more mountain. I know what's on the other side. The Capitol, with all its bright lights and false smiles, waiting to eat us alive. Katniss leans back in her chair, still not touching the food. I watch her from across the table. She's trying to act like none of this scares her, but I can see the doubt creeping in around the edges. I'm scared, too. I know what's coming. Or I thought I did, until they pulled Prim's name a year too late.
"You nervous?" I ask, because I want to know, and because I want to pretend I'm not.
She looks at me like she's deciding if she wants to bother with an answer. "No," she says. Then, softer, "…Maybe."
"Good," I say. "Nervous means you're alive."
"Alive's not the same as safe," she says.
"It's a start."
Effie rises suddenly, smoothing down her skirt. "Five minutes! Places, everyone. Haymitch, please wipe your face. Katniss, chin up. Ashton, you're perfect as you are." I smile and give her a wink. Because one can never really hate Effie. I know Haymitch tried.
The train begins to slow, a whining noise that echoes down the halls. I brace for impact, and for a second, I'm five years old again, watching my first Games. But I shove it down, past the food and the fear, where I can't feel it anymore.
"Here we go," Haymitch says, slapping the table and standing up.
"Remember, smiles!" Effie trills, already shifting into performance mode. "District Twelve is making history this year with our volunteers!"
Katniss and I follow, and we make our way to the windows at the front of the car. The Capitol comes into view, a pastel monstrosity that stretches in all directions. Tall glass towers pierce the sky, and everything shines. Even the people on the platforms below, their faces smeared with metallic makeup, look like they're made of chrome. It would be beautiful, if it weren't so off-putting. Katniss stiffens next to me. I don't think it's the sight that gets her. I think it's the people. Thousands of them, gathered to greet us, asking for pictures and autographs.
"Remember," Haymitch says. "They can't get enough of you, long as you keep them wanting more."
"Wave like you're greeting old friends," Effie adds, demonstrating with a practiced flick of her wrist. "They're all here for you!"
Katniss stares down at the mob. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. "That's exactly what they think," she says.
I grin. It's reckless, sure, but that's what we're about to be. "So let's prove them right," I say.
The train glides to a stop, and the sound of the crowd hits like a tidal wave. Haymitch smirks, Katniss scowls, Effie beams, and I'm somewhere in between, smiling just enough to fake it. We get off the train, and the cameras flash like a hundred tiny bombs. I want to think it's the last explosion we'll face, but I know better.
We've got this, I tell myself. We have to.
=====
Everything gleams. The floors, the walls, the people. The whole Capitol looks dipped in a vat of glitter. They drag me to the Preparation Center and get to work, clucking over me like chickens with a shiny new egg. Their fingers are hummingbirds, flitting over my skin. They pick and preen and plaster me with compliments.
"So unexpectedly put together!" they say.
I'm a different species to them. A Capitol rarity: Districtus fitus. They marvel at my muscles, my silver eyes, the fact that I manage to look so well-fed. It's like they've never seen a tribute who wasn't starving.
The trio—Lavinia with her turquoise hair, Octus with his spiraling gold tattoos, and Venia whose eyelashes could probably sweep floors—descend on me like vultures on a carcass. But prettier vultures. With better smelling perfume.
"Arms up!" Lavinia commands in her twittering Capitol accent.
I oblige, and they circle me, wielding what looks like medieval torture devices but are apparently just fancy hair removal tools. They strip me of every hair below my neck with hot wax that feels like someone's peeling off my skin. I grit my teeth and try not to imagine what kind of damage these people could do in an actual arena.
"Such lovely muscle definition," Octus remarks, poking at my bicep. "Did they feed you specially in 12?"
I catch his eye, deadpan. "Oh yeah. Premium grade coal dust. Very nutritious."
They laugh like I've told the most hilarious joke, not realizing I'm making fun of them. Venia begins scrubbing me down with a grainy substance that smells like chemicals and flowers having a fight to the death.
"This will remove all those nasty dead skin cells," she chirps. "You'll be as smooth as Capitol marble!"
"Just what I always wanted," I mutter, as she practically sands off my top layer of epidermis.
They dunk me in various baths, one smells like pine, another like something that died but in a fancy way, and then oil me up like I'm a turkey about to go in the oven. My skin tingles in places I didn't know could tingle.
I let them fuss, let them ooh and ahh. "Didn't you hear?" I say, as Lavinia examines my arm like it might have wings. "I'm this season's must-have accessory."
They giggle, a chorus of delighted Capitol accents. "He's so charming!"
"He's so..." They can't find the word for it, but I can. I'm so alive, which makes me quite the oddity around here.
While they trim my fingernails into perfect half-moons, I decide to fish for information.
"So," I begin casually, "any hot gossip about the Games this year? You guys must hear all the juicy details."
Venia perks up immediately. Capitol people love nothing more than feeling important. "Well, I shouldn't say anything, but..."
"Oh, go on," I encourage, flashing her my best smile, with dimples and all. "Who am I going to tell? I'll be in the arena soon anyway."
That seems to loosen her tongue. "Well, my cousin works for one of the Gamemakers, and she says this year's arena is going to be absolutely revolutionary."
"Revolutionary how?" I ask, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperate for information.
"The most challenging ever designed," Octus jumps in, clearly not wanting to be left out. "There's even a rumor—" He lowers his voice dramatically. "—that it might be so difficult, it's possible that no tribute will survive to become victor."
"No victor?!" Lavinia gasps, scandalized. "But President Snow just announced multiple victors are allowed."
"That's what makes it such delicious drama," Venia giggles.
I keep my face neutral, but inside my mind is racing.
No victors? You've got to be kidding me. Even the Capitol isn't that stupid. They need their precious champion to parade around! That's the whole point of this sick popularity contest. Hell, it's why Seneca Crane fell for Katniss's berry trick. Two victors was better than zero for the ratings.
But wait... this isn't about ratings, is it? This is about Snow. The man who would cheerfully poison his own grandmother if she looked at him sideways. Dangling hope just to yank it away would be exactly his style. "Look, districts! Multiple victors allowed! Isn't your President merciful? Oh wait, nobody survived our impossible arena. What a shame."
Even though it's just a rumour, I believe it. It's a perfect demonstration of Capitol power. Classic Snow—offering candy with one hand while hiding the knife behind his back with the other. Just another way to tighten his stranglehold on the districts while smiling for the cameras.
Well, isn't that just fantastic.
So… how do I outplay their King?