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โ "I have no story to be told. But I've heard one on you, now I'm gonna make your head burn."
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๐ช๐๐๐๐๐๐ 7: The preparations for the Quarter Quell have begun. Now that Thomas has let go of his family, he is determined to carry out his plan. But most of the Victors, it seems, have a knack for getting on his nerves.
a/n: Have mercy, I think this is the longest chapter I've written so far. Anyways, RAAAHHHH MINHO. Sorry what. Why does Newt have a thing for sugar cubes bro (i know why). Also, pretend the gif is Thomas and Teresa okay? Okay.
Comforting someone else when they were crying was something Thomas had always been a little lacking in. Chuck was the main exception, though. But now, as his prep team sobbed and whimpered during their routine, he realized just how awkward it was to merely stand there and do nothing while someone cried their heart out.
Apparently, they'd gotten quite attached to him. Him returning to the arena simply broke them. 'Shocker.' He assumed it was because of the many big social events they wouldn't be able to attend anymore, which included his 'wedding', so everything became excruciating for them. Being that they never had to be strong for another person, he put himself in the role of consoling them.
Since he was the one being sent into a slaughter house, he was a little annoyed.
In spite of that, it was interesting, to say the least, to even think that the people in the Capitol thought anything of the Victors at all. They'd ultimately be forgotten once the gong sounded, but still. It was a considerably big thing when those in the Capitol felt something regarding the human lives of the people going into the Games. Watching children die every single year wasn't a hard task for them to do. This Quarter Quell, however, made them uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that they knew these Victors, especially the ones who were celebrated for so long. It was like watching an old friend die.
Maybe this time, they were forced to acknowledge who the Victors were. What they were: human beings.
When Mary finally showed up, he was mentally exhausted from pouring his energy into comforting the prep team, mainly because it brought back to mind the tears that were undoubtedly being shed at home. 'Can't think of that.' He repeatedly told himself. Standing there in his thin robe with his stinging skin, he couldn't handle another single look of regret or pity. So the moment she walked in the door, he spoke, "Please don't cry around me right now. I will go out on the chariots wearing this if you do."
Mary only smiled. "Damp morning, I assume?"
"That's a starter," he replied wryly.
She hooked her arm through his, leading him into lunch. "I won't cry, don't worry. I channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."
"I can't go through that again," Thomas muttered.
"I know, I know. I'll talk to them," she reassured him.
Thankfully, lunch made him feel slightly better โ moreso the dessert did. He'd forgotten about his love for sweets with all of the tragic circumstances that'd been lobbing at him as of late, but the chunks of fruit he dipped in a pot of melted chocolate reignited his enjoyment for them. Mary had to order a second pot because he started to eat the chocolate directly with a spoon.
"Hey, so, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?" He asked as he scraped the second pot clean. "It's got something to do with fire again, right?" He already knew the chariot ride would require him and Teresa to be dressed in something coal related.
Mary shrugged. "You could say that."
When it was time to get in costume for the opening ceremonies, she excused the prep team upon their arrival, telling them they did an excellent job but could take it from there. He was in Mary's hands, and he couldn't have been more grateful. She styled his hair first; fluffing it with gel and granting it extra volume. She even added a bit of makeup on him. It focused on his eyes, lining them in a deep black and filling his eyelids with an elegant dark shade that almost appeared like a dusky, midnight blue. "Kind of dramatic, huh?" he said.
"That's the point," she returned.
His eyebrows were touched up and then he was put in his costume, which looked deceptively simple at first. It was a fitted black jumpsuit that covered him from the neck down. Mary placed a half crown similar to the one he received as a Victor on his head, but it was made of a heavy black metal, not gold. She went to adjust the light in the room to mimic twilight and pressed a button she gave him. He looked down and was in awe. His costume was alive. It started off as a soft golden light but gradually transformed to the orange-red of burning coal. He turned into a glowing ember โ fire on legs. The colors shrouding his body rose and fell, shifted and mixed, in exactly the way a fireplace would.
"How the hell did you do this?" he asked, utterly fascinated.
"Mark and I spent a lot of hours just watching fires," she answered, as if it were common knowledge. "Now look at yourself."
She turned him toward a mirror so he could take in the entire effect, and he gaped at the being before him. No longer was he the boy who hunted in the woods. Instead, he looked as though he emerged from a volcano itself. The black crown, which now appeared red-hot, casted engrossing shadows over his face. Thomas Everdeen abandoned his flickering flames and fancy suits. He was the embodiment of fire, who would burn anyone in his way.
He let out a breath of admiration. "Y'know....I think this is exactly what I needed to face the others."
"Mhm, I think your days of gullible smiles and cute bow ties are behind you," Mary touched the button in his hand again, extinguishing his light. "Let's be sure we don't waste your power pack. Press it once you're ready. And when you're on the chariots this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, like the entire audience is beneath you."
Thomas grinned. "Finally something more easy for me to do."
She patted his shoulder and, since she had a couple things to attend to, he decided to head down to the ground floor of the Remake Center that housed the huge gathering place for the tributes and their chariots before the opening ceremonies. He expected to find Jorge and Teresa, but they didn't arrive yet. The scenery was very different from last year. The tributes weren't glued to their chariots; they were actually socializing. The Victors, both this year's tributes and their mentors, were standing around in small groups, just talking. They all knew one another and he didn't know anyone. Therefore, he deemed it fit to go wait next to his horse and gently stroke its neck, trying not to be noticed.
Unfortunately, his luck ran out at the worst time possible.
The crunching wrapped around his ear before he even realized the other Victor was beside him, and when he turned his head, Newt's honey brown eyes were only inches from his. Unironically, he popped a sugar cube in his mouth and leaned against his horse.
"Hello, Tommy," he greeted, using the nickname as if they were good friends.
"Hello, Newt," he replied just as casually, although he was a little nervous at their closeness, especially because of the bare skin he had exposed.
Newt lifted his hand, offering a sugar cube. "Want one this time?" he asked, his tone eerily similar to what one would call cheeky.
Thomas blankly stared at him. "No, thanks," he declined, not knowing why it was offered when his answer would never change.
He hummed, glancing at the horse. "That's alright. The horses can always have it anyways. They've got years to enjoy plenty of that stuff. You and I," he returned his attentive gaze to Thomas. "Not so much."
After a moment of silence, Thomas briefly gestured at Newt and changed the topic. "I would love to borrow that outfit sometime, though."
The outfit must've been a deliberate choice on the stylist's end. He was draped in a golden net that was strategically knotted at his groin so he wouldn't be labeled as naked, but it was a pretty fine line drawn.
Newt chuckled, making it evident that he was examining Thomas's costume. "You're bloody terrifying me in that getup. What happened to those adorable bow ties you wore?"
"I got bored of them," he said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.
"You sound just as intimidating as you look," Newt fired back dryly. Taking the collar of his outfit and running it between his fingers, he shrugged faintly. "It's too bad about this Quell thing, huh? You could've made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Money, jewels, anything you wanted."
Thomas recognized the exaggerated pity in the blond's words, but he ignored it. "I don't like jewels," he reminded him. "And I have more money than I need. You're not one to talk either, though, are you? You don't even let others pay you that way."
When he thought he went too far, that he shouldn't have brought that up, a slow smile spread across Newt's lips. "Oh, you remembered. How sweet," he practically cooed. "Since you remember what my form of payment is," he tipped his head in so his lips were almost in contact with Thomas's. "Do you have any secrets for me now, Mockingjay?"
For some stupid reason, Thomas blushed, heat crawling up his neck and onto his cheeks. Nevertheless, he forced himself to hold his ground. "No. I still don't," he paused, then whispered, "I'm an open book. It isn't that hard to read me."
Newt's smile didn't fade. "I think you're right on that one," his eyes flickered to the side. "Teresa's coming. I'm sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you," he held his gaze for another second before popping another sugar cube in his mouth. "Have a good day." He turned and sauntered off, 'politely' bowing his head to Teresa as she approached them.
She was dressed in an outfit nearly as identical to his, except hers was designed a little like a dress. "What did Newt want this time?"
Thomas shook his arms out, trying to calm his nerves from the unexpected encounter. "To know all my secrets."
Teresa surprisingly laughed. "Well, at least it's never a dull moment with him."
"I'd rather have it dull," he grumbled. "But I'll probably tell you more when my skin stops crawling." The music began and he saw the wide doors opening for the first chariot, heard the roar of the crowd. "Shall we?" He held out his hand to help her into the chariot.
She climbed up and purposefully pulled him up after in an overly rough manner, snorting at his startled reaction. "Sorry," she said.
If they were in any other situation where they weren't being sent into the arena again, he wouldn't have found that as funny, but he was glad to see that she still had the capacity to smile after everything that happened. "No you're not," he flicked her crown in retaliation, making her straighten it. "By the way, have you seen your outfit turned on? We're going to be glowing again."
"Of course. But Mark told me we're to be very above it all. No more Mr. Nice Guy...and Gal," she glanced around the area. "Where are they?"
"I dunno," he noted the procession of chariots. "But we better be ready." He could see people pointing at them, chattering away, and he had a feeling that he and Teresa would be the talk of the opening ceremonies again. They were almost to the door as he craned his head around, but neither Mary nor Mark were in sight. He was confused for their sudden no-show, but his thoughts were interrupted as his hand was grabbed.
Teresa gave him a reassuring nod, the dramatically dark makeup on her face โ the smoldering eyes, high arching brows, sharp cheekbones โ not able to hide her true candor from him. "We got this, Tom."
Looking at her now, Thomas welcomed the surge of relief that washed through him. He was more than glad he wasn't doing this alone. He had her by his side. Without further discussion, he squeezed her hand once and then their chariot rolled into the light. The voices of the crowd erupted into an ecstatic bellowing upon their entrance, yet the two of them didn't react.
Whether the Capitol viewed them as star-crossed lovers or not, he knew where his relationship with her resided. He held her hand as her best friend, as someone he cared for. He held her hand like she was his sister. And he wouldn't let them change that, not even as the people cried and hollered for them, idolizing them as two young people in love; a story the Capitol fabricated for themselves.
He fixed his eyes on a point far in the distance and pretended there was no audience, no uproar. He caught a glimpse of them on the huge screens along the route and had to suppress an elated smirk. The so-called star-crossed lovers were unforgiving. They would not catch the crowd's kisses. They would not wave. They weren't afraid to broadcast their fury.
And he completely loved it.
As they approached the loop of the City Circle, Thomas looked toward the balcony where President Paige stood, overseeing the parade. There she was, utterly composed, her face aloof and haughty while she watched from her Hightower.
'Pedestal of power.'
He remembered what he had thought of her the other day, making the spark of his rage rekindle. She would see him. She would see what she had done to him, what she had taken from him. He was already being paraded to his death, the least he could do was flaunt his indignation.
President Paige intently studied him and Teresa, tilting her head ever so slightly as if they were mere ants to her.
Thomas kept his eyes locked on hers and unhesitantly pressed the button in his other hand with his thumb. Teresa promptly followed suit, not missing a beat.
The audience's cheers merged into one universal scream as they began to glow, mesmerizing all of them with their ever-changing coal costumes. He heard people chanting his name, but he only kept his attention on Paige, ignoring the rest of them. In his peripheral vision, he could make out Teresa staring right at her as well.
'They're shouting a rebel's name. How does that make you feel?' He silently questioned her. President Paige's lips twitched into an uncordial smile in response. He didn't waver. Instead, he lifted his head higher, basking in his sweltering anger. They curved around into the loop and Teresa looked away with an uninterested roll of her eyes at the President. He wouldn't let Paige off that easily, though; he continued to instill his message to her, the message of so many other dead tributes.
Her smile fell once she saw that he didn't back off.
When the chariot was nearing the other far side of the loop, he knew he'd done what he was supposed to and finally returned his gaze straight ahead. That's also how he noticed most of the other tributes were watching them, too, albeit for a few seconds. He tried to act like he didn't know.
Him and Teresa waited until the doors of the Training Center closed behind them to relax. Mary and Mark were there, satisfied with their performance. Jorge showed up as well but he was with the tributes of District 11. He nodded at their direction and those from the other District followed him over to greet them.
Thomas recognized Chaff because of the years he spent watching him and Jorge share bottles of liquor on television. He was dark skinned, his height somewhat intimidating, and had one of his arms ending in a stump due to his lost hand in the Games he won thirty years ago. The woman, Cecelia, was also with them. Her auburn hair, which was tied in a high ponytail, must've stood out in her District โ there weren't many who had that color from what he remembered. Her golden brown eyes enhanced her beauty, and her olive skin appeared healthy despite her age.
Before he could properly greet them, Cecelia suddenly moved, throwing her arm around him and giving him a big kiss right on the mouth. He instantly jerked back, his words getting caught in his throat, completely startled. Chaff cackled alongside Jorge; they must've found his reaction hilarious.
That was about all the time they had because the Capitol attendants sternly directed them toward the elevators. Thomas had an inkling that they weren't comfortable with the camaraderie among the Victors, who clearly could care less. 'Is kissing someone on the lips normal here?' As he walked to the elevators, trying to forget what happened, someone else rustled up to his side. The boy roughly unclipped the thick, gold cuff bracelets off his wrists, tossing it behind him without checking to see where it fell.
A frown of disappointment settled on Thomas's face.
Minho Mason. From District 7. Lumber and paper, resulting in the tree theme his costume had going on. He won, at age fifteen, by very convincingly portraying himself as weak and helpless so that he'd be forgotten. Little did everyone expect, he had a wicked ability to kill. He ran a hand through his already smoothly combed black hair, as if it needed fixing, and rolled his dark brown eyes. "Well, you guys look amazing, don't you? My costume sucks ass. My stylist's the biggest idiot in the Capitol. Our tributes have been stupid trees for forty years under her. I'd rather have Mary for myself, honestly."
Thomas could only blink at him, unsure of what to say. Teresa, who was still next to him, didn't offer any comment either. "Uh, yeah, she's great," he began hesitantly. "I'm grateful I have her. All of her designs are...super comfortable for me."
He internally cringed at himself. Was that the best he could come up with?
Minho huffed. "I know they are. I can tell. That suit you wore in District Two? The deep blue one with the diamonds? I was tempted to reach through the screen and rip it right off your back."
'Uh-huh, I'm sure,' Thomas thought. 'Along with some of my skin.'
While they waited for the elevators, Minho tugged his sleeveless gray overcoat off, then his bark-patterned pants, and unzipped his green bodysuit, letting it drop to the floor and kicking it away in disgust. Except for his sleek, brown Oxford shoes, he didn't have one stitch of clothing on him. "That's better."
Thomas, absolutely terrified, stepped into the elevator once the doors opened, but Minho ended up following them in. "So," he said casually. "What do you think? Now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?"
"I don't think that the whole worldโ" Thomas scoffed, but was interrupted.
"I wasn't talking to you." Minho corrected, any form of civility or respect being tossed away just like the rest of his clothes.
"Oh, okay..." Thomas muttered, looking anywhere but at him. He desperately wanted to cover Teresa's eyes from the awful sight before them, but he didn't, knowing that would probably give Minho a sense of satisfaction he was not going to provide. 'Not the best question to ask when you're naked, either.' He restrained himself from saying that out loud, letting Teresa take the lead in the conversation.
And she did. The two of them chatted about the clothing line she was working on as well as her painting hobby โ her two talents she perfected after the 74th Games โ all while keeping direct eye contact. The light of her still-glowing costume reflected off his bare, toned chest until he left with a smile. "That was fun. Let's do it again sometime."
Thomas felt like he couldn't move from his spot, even when Minho was gone. He ignored Teresa, but he knew she was grinning. He slowly turned to look incredulously at her when the doors closed behind Cecelia and Chaff, leaving them alone. She doubled-down, laughing uncontrollably.
"What?" He asked, storming off as they stepped out on their floor.
"It's you, Tom! Can't you see?" She said.
"What's me?"
"Why they're all acting like this. Newt with that whole sugar cube thing he has going on and Wright kissing you and...Minho stripping down." She snickered, then attempted to take on a serious tone, which she failed at. "They're playing with you because you're so...you know."
"No, I don't know," he hissed.
She sighed dramatically. "Pure. In the Capitol's terms, you're pure."
"I don't care about the Capitol's terms!" If anything, he hated being described by the Capitol. To hear that was just offensive.
"Hey," Teresa raised her hands. "It's true. I would've done the same thing, honestly. I'm not fully surprised by their actions."
"Oh, please, like you knew all of that was gonna happen," Thomas countered.
He started to rethink the question of who should survive the Games when the other elevator opened. Jorge and Trina joined them, looking pleased about something.
"C'mon, Tom," Teresa said a little more softly. "I was joking."
Jorge narrowed his eyes at her, most likely wondering what went wrong. Thomas shook his head and went down to his old bedroom. He was probably being petty, but at the moment, it felt as though everyone was trying to irritate him when he was about to go fight for his life in an arena.
Teresa joining in on that trend wasn't what he needed from her.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
By the time Trina knocked on his door to summon him to dinner, he was already out of his suit and clean from the makeup on his face. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants, he made his way down the hall to the dining room.
He ate in silence, not sparing Teresa a single glance. The others โ Jorge, Mary, and Mark โ were there, too, but they didn't pester him for his lack of speech. When they decided to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies, he wedged himself between Mary and Jorge on the couch because he didn't want to be next to Teresa. Still a bit petty. He didn't have the energy to care. He didn't change his mind about saving her in the arena, yet he couldn't forget her laughing at him like the other Victors had.
Watching the procession to the City Circle, he couldn't help acknowledging how cruel the whole thing was. Kids riding chariots in a costume was silly, but aging Victors taking that place was a pitiful sight. A few were on the younger side, like Minho and Newt, who happened to be the same age of nineteen, or whose bodies hadn't fallen into disrepair, like Wright and a tough-looking guy named Barkley. There was also Minho's District partner, a woman who might've been the same age as Chaff. The majority, however, who were under the bondage of drink or morphling or illness, looked grotesque in their costumes, depicting cows and trees and loaves of bread. Last year, he and the others rambled on and on about each contestant, but tonight there was only an occasional comment.
Nobody could deny how deplorable this year's Games were.
As soon as it was over, he stood, thanked Mary and Mark for their spectacular work, then headed off to bed. Trina reminded him to meet early for breakfast to discuss their training strategy, but even her voice sounded empty.
He delayed going down to breakfast in the morning when he awoke. What was there to talk about? Their training strategy would be the same as last year: him and Teresa would continue to act in love. That was it. Every Victor already knew what everybody else could do. Or used to be able to do.
Thomas took a long shower, dressed sluggishly in the outfit Mary left him for training, and ordered food from the menu in his room by speaking into a mouthpiece โ far too fancy for his taste. In only a minute, sausage, eggs, potatoes, pancakes, juice, and hot chocolate appeared. He ate his fill, purposefully dragging out the minutes until ten o'clock, when they had to go down to the Training Center. By nine-thirty, Jorge came pounding on his door, ordering him to the dining room that instant.
He still brushed his teeth before going, adding another five minutes to the clock.
Besides Teresa and Jorge being in there, the dining room was empty. His mentor's face was flushed with drink and irritation. On his wrist he wore a solid-gold bangle with a pattern of flames โ what Thomas guessed was the concession to Trina's matching-token plan โ that he twisted somberly. It was actually a very elegant bangle. "You're late." Jorge snarled.
Thomas shrugged. "Sorry. I was enjoying the little time I have to myself before I go to death's door," he meant to sound hostile, but his voice ended up cracking a bit at the end of his sentence.
Jorge scowled but soon relented. "All right, never mind. Today, in training, you've got two jobs. One, stay in love."
"Duh," he said.
"And two, make some friends."
"No," Thomas scoffed. "Not happening. The other Victors are as weird as it gets. I don't trust any of them, and I'd rather operate with just the two of us."
"That's...what I said at first, butโ" Teresa began.
"But it won't be enough," Jorge finished. "You're going to need more allies this time, Thomas."
"Why?" He asked, becoming impatient.
"Because you're at a big disadvantage. Your competitors have known each other for years. So who do you think they're going to target first?" Jorge pressed.
"Us. And nothing we're going to do is going to change any old friendship," he answered through gritted teeth. "So why bother?"
Jorge gestured his hand at him, as if that was all the explanation he needed. "You can fight. You're popular with the crowd. That could still make you desirable allies. But only if you let the others know you're willing to team up with them."
Thomas didn't say anything at first. Then, "You mean to tell me that you want us in the Career pack this year?" That heartily repulsed him. Usually the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 collaborated, possibly taking in a few other passable fighters, and hunted down the weaker competitors. That wasn't his way of thinking. At least, he hoped it wasn't.
"That's been our training strategy, hasn't it? To train like Careers?" Jorge insisted. "And who makes up the Career pack is normally agreed upon before the Games begin. Teresa barely got in with them last year."
Last year. Thomas suddenly remembered the loathing he felt when he discovered that his best friend was with the Careers during the last Games. It was a trick, a plan she played on everyone, including those watching, all to save his life. He thought she had betrayed him. He was beyond relieved to find out it was fake. "So we're to try to get in with Newt and Barkley โ is that what you're saying, Jorge?"
"Not necessarily. Everyone's a Victor, hermano. Make your own pack if you'd rather. Choose who you like. I'd suggest Newt, I actually...talked to him many times over the last couple of years. And Cecelia and Chaff," his mentor said. "Find someone to team up with who might be of some use to you. Remember, you're not in a ring full of trembling, scared children anymore. These people are all experienced killers, no matter what shape they're in."
Not only did Jorge drop the information of him speaking to Newt on separate occasions, but Thomas realized, begrudgingly, that he was right. But who could he trust in there? Certainly not someone who stripped right in front of him and his best friend. Even if he chose to trust Newt or Cecelia, that would mean he'd eventually โ possibly โ have to kill them. Any alliances wouldn't produce good results in the long run. But he recalled his pact with Alby, and knew he had to try. He told Jorge he'd give it a shot, even though he was probably going to be pretty bad at it.
Trina arrived earlier than expected to take them down since last year, even though they were on time, they were the last two tributes to show up. Jorge told her he didn't want her taking them down to the gym. None of the other Victors would be going with a babysitter, so it was important they looked self-reliant. She had to satisfy herself with taking them to the elevator and pushing the buttons for them.
"Stand straight. Be sure to be courteous!" She chirped, seemingly forgetting that everyone in that arena would inevitably kill one another or die some other way.
Her worrying was pointless in the end. Only Barkley and the woman from District 2, Rose, were present. Rose appeared to be about thirty and, from what Thomas could remember, she killed one tribute by ripping open his throat and severely damaging his nose with her teeth. She became so famous for that 'marvelous' act that, after she was a Victor, she had her teeth cosmetically altered to make each one as sharp as a fang. Everyone adored her.
Next to him, Teresa leaned in so she could speak in a lower voice. "Don't forget, Tom, today's about making allies."
He knew, at least for the training, he couldn't hold on to any bitterness toward her. So he didn't act angry as he responded to her. "Yeah, well, so far I'm not overwhelmed by our choices," he whispered.
By ten o'clock, half of the tributes arrived, and he told Teresa it'd be a good idea to split up in order to cover more territory. When she went off to chuck knives with Barkley and Chaff, he headed over to the knot-tying station. He was fond of the trainer, who remembered him from last year and how much time he spent at that station. She was pleased when he showed her he could still set the trap that left an enemy dangling by a leg from a tree. She must've taken note of his snares in the arena last year and saw him as an advanced pupil, but he also had Brenda to thank for that.
He pushed away the twinge of sadness that came with her name being brought to the surface of his thoughts.
He asked the trainer to review every kind of knot he could make, as well as a few he'd probably never use. He would've been content spending the morning alone with her, but after about an hour and a half, someone put their arms around him from behind, their fingers easily finishing the complicated knot he was sweating over.
Thomas flinched and immediately moved out the way, not completely surprised to see Newt lightly chuckling at him. "M' sorry," his laughter regressed to something quieter, his smile becoming more faint. "I'm really sorry." He said.
Not anticipating for the genuine apology, Thomas managed a nod, watching what he did next.
Newt picked up a length of rope, made a noose, and then pretended to hang himself for his amusement. He must've spent his entire childhood doing nothing but wielding tridents and manipulating ropes into fancy knots for nets. Or something.
Ignoring the slightly unsettling joke of a noose, Thomas awkwardly gestured at the blond's toned arms. "Do you always sneak up on people like that?"
"Not all the time. Consider yourself lucky," Newt jested with another smile returning to his lips.
"I don't think so," he replied, rolling his eyes and heading over to another vacant station where tributes could learn to build fires. He heard Newt's subtle laughter, but forced himself to carry on. He was already capable of making excellent fires, but he was still dependent on matches for starting them. The trainer had him work with flint, steel, and some charred cloth. It was much harder then he thought.
Even working as fervently as he did, it took him about an hour just to get a fire going. He huffed triumphantly, grinning, and looked up, then discovered he had company.
The two tributes from District 3 were beside him, struggling to start a decent fire with matches. Thomas was going to leave, but he wanted to try using flint again, and if he had to report back to Jorge that he at least tried to make friends, those two could possibly be a bearable choice. Both were relatively small but had different appearances. The woman, Rachel, was probably around his mother's age, maybe a little younger, and spoke in a quiet, intelligent voice. She had dark skin, dark eyes, and pure black hair that was tightly curled together. He did notice, however, that she had a strange habit of dropping off her words in mid-sentence, as if she'd forgotten anyone was there. Aris, the man, was a bit older than her and somewhat fidgety, always reaching up to mess with his dark brown hair in one way or another. 'Kind of weird...but I don't think they're the type to strip naked.'
He glanced around the Training Center. The morphlings from District 6 were in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls. The male tributes from District 5 were...vomiting wine on the sword-fighting floor. 'Gross.' Newt and the old woman from his District were using the archery station. Minho was practicing with an axe.
He decided to stay put.
Aris and Rachel made some decent company. They were friendly but didn't pry. They talked about their talents, and he was impressed to find out that they both invented things. It made him feel quite stupid compared to them.
At one point, Rachel stopped and gazed up at the stands where the Gamemakers roamed around, eating and drinking, sometimes paying attention to them. "Look," she murmured, her head vaguely nodding in their direction. Thomas did, and he saw Vince Heavensbee in the grand purple robe with the fur-trimmed collar that designated him as Head Gamemaker. He was eating a turkey leg.
He didn't know why that was brought up, but he hummed in acknowledgment. "Yeah, he's been promoted to Head Gamemaker this year."
"No, no. There by the corner of the table. You can just..." She trailed off, distracted by something in her head.
"Just make it out." Aris finished, squinting attentively.
Thomas stared in that direction, perplexed. But then he saw it. A patch of space about six inches square at the corner of the table seemed to vibrate. It was like the air was rippling in tiny, barely visible waves, distorting the sharp edges of the wood and a goblet of wine someone had set there.
"A force field. They've set one up between the Gamemakers and us. I wonder why they did that," Aris wondered aloud.
After a moment's hesitation, Thomas replied, "Me, probably. Last year I shot an arrow at them during my private training session." They looked at him curiously. "I was angry. So, do all force fields have a spot like that?"
"Chink," Rachel answered.
"In the armor, as it were," Aris continued for her. "Ideally it'd be invisible, wouldn't it?" He paused, examining the force field again. "Electromagnetic." He concluded.
"How can you tell?" Thomas asked. That must've been a funny question to them; they started laughing, grinning at each other as if he'd spoken the most hilarious thing ever to be uttered. He felt uncomfortable. "Is it...obvious or something?"
"Is it obvious?" Aris repeated with a chuckle.
"They might as well have a sign," Rachel snickered.
Aris settled down, becoming uncannily serious. "Look around you. All the lights in here, every now and then they flicker. Why?"
Having the need to prove he understood, Thomas thought about his answer before responding. "Because the force field is taking up too much energy."
Smiling faintly at him, Aris nodded in approval. "There's always a flaw in the system," he observed.
Thomas wanted to ask them more, but lunch was announced. He searched the room for Teresa, but she was hanging with a group of about ten other Victors, so he decided to eat with District 3. 'Maybe I could get Wright to join us.'
When they walked into the dining area, he realized some of Teresa's gang had other ideas. They were dragging all the smaller tables to create a large one, granting them the ability to eat together. 'Great.' He took a tray and started making his way around the food-laden carts that encircled the room. Teresa jogged up to him at the stew. "How's everything going?"
"Good. Fine. I like the District Three Victors," he said. "Rachel and Aris."
She furrowed her brows. "Really? They're something of a joke to the others."
"And why does that not surprise me?" Thomas retorted dryly. He remembered how Teresa was always surrounded by a large group of friends in school. He truly considered it a miracle that she even noticed him enough to be his friend as well.
She shrugged. "Minho calls them Nuts and Volts. I'm pretty sure the girl is Nuts and the guy is Volts."
He sighed. "Yeah, let me just take Minho Mason's word for it because I'm so stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because, by all means, let's take the advice of someone who stripped his clothes off and talked to us, naked, in an elevator."
"Actually," she said in a tone that warned him to calm down. "I think the nickname's been around for years. And I didn't mean that as an insult, Tom. I'm just sharing information."
"Well, Rachel and Aris are smart. They invent stuff. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to get some allies, I want them." He tossed the ladle back in a pot of stew, splattering them both with the gravy. His shoulders sagged.
Teresa blinked and wiped the spot of gravy off her cheek. "What are you so angry about, Thomas?" She scrubbed another small blotch from her shirtfront. "Because I teased you on the elevator? I'm sorry, I thought you would just laugh about it."
He wiped gravy off his eyebrow. "Forget it. It's a lot of things."
"...The Games?"
"Yes," he said, emphasizing the word. "Jorge, too โ him making us team up with the others."
"But he is right, Tom," she urged gently. "You know that."
Thomas stared down at his bowl of stew. "I do. Don't tell him this, but he usually is right, when the Games are involved."
"Okay, to cheer you up, you can have the final say about our allies, hm? But right now, I'm kind of leaning toward Chaff and Cecelia," Teresa suggested.
"I'm okay with Chaff, not so much with Ponytail," he muttered. "At least, not yet."
The nickname he gave to Cecelia didn't register to her right away, but when it did, she chortled.
"Come on," she dragged on. "Eat with her. I promise I won't let her kiss you again." She grinned, nudging him with her elbow.
Reluctantly, he did. Cecelia didn't seem as bad at lunch. She was sober and civil. She even apologized for startling him with her kiss. He warily accepted her apology. Chaff, on the other hand, was loud and terrible at making jokes, most of which were at his own expense.
Thomas tried to be more sociable, not just with Ponytail and Chaff but with the entire group. After lunch, the Toad and Misty, the sister and brother from District 1, invited him over to make hammocks for a while. They were polite but cool, and he had to stop himself from gawking at their bright red hair multiple times. It was more vibrant compared to Cecelia's, that was for sure. Both his hammock and his attempt to connect with them were mediocre at best. He later decided to join Rose at sword training and exchanged a few words, but it was painfully clear that neither of them wanted to team up.
Newt appeared again right when he was wiping beads of sweat from his forehead as he arrived to the fishing station. "Tommy, there you are," the blond called, getting his attention.
'As if it was hard to find me,' he thought, but carried on respectfully. "Newt," he greeted.
Newt held his hand out at the old woman next to him. "Let me do the honor of introducing you to Keisha," he said, a hint of pride in his voice, as if she was his prized possession.
Thomas realized, after talking to them for a little while, that between Keisha's District accent and her garbled speech, he couldn't make out more than one in four words โ mostly. But, on everything he loved, the lady could make a decent fishhook out of anything โ a thorn, a wishbone, an earring. Eventually, he tuned out the trainer and simply tried to copy whatever she did.
Once he made a pretty good hook out of a bent nail, he beckoned for Newt to come over and fastened it in his hair, since it was a bit longer than his. Newt wasn't anticipating for that to happen, based on the brief look of surprise on his face, but he quickly relaxed. Thomas presented it to Keisha, unconsciously seeking her approval as he offered a small smile. She gave him a delighted grin in return and an unintelligible comment he assumed was praise, her dark eyes sparkling.
Something squeezed his heart, and he felt his stomach drop when he knew what it meant. 'I messed up.' This was just wonderful. Now he had to go back and tell Jorge he wanted an eighty-year-old and Nuts and Volts for his allies. That sounded fantastic.
Suddenly dreading what Jorge would say, he excused himself and went to the archery station in hopes to distract his mind. It was a little secluded room, high-tech, and had bow and arrows in excellent quality. Glass doors slid open as he stepped up to plate, skimming through the tablet that sat on a stand, giving him different options to choose from for his training. His eyes locked on a particular one that sparked his interest.
A bit of a challenge was just what he needed.
He selected the required buttons, thankful he understood how it worked, and walked into the open space with a bow and a full sheath of arrows. He loaded one on the string as the lights around him darkened, the glass panels doing the same, preventing him from seeing anything on the outside. He waited. Then they came.
Thin beams of orange light shot down from the corners of the ceiling, scattering throughout the floor before they all pointed to his left โ when he was looking in the opposite direction, of course โ and formed a holographic figure of a person. A tribute. He quickly saw it was charging at him for its attack, and he promptly released his arrow at it, making it shatter and crumble to the ground. That could've been a representation of Rose, but he'd never really know.
Then another one.
His eyes sharply followed the lines of light that shifted to the upper columns above, swiftly shooting his arrow at a hologram that was obviously supposed to be him; its weapon was a bow, just like his. He eliminated it before it could properly raise its arms.
The lights moved. He moved with them.
Thomas's hands nimbly loaded his bow once more, tracking the stirring orange beams. The new hologram launched a spear at him, to which he quickly pivoted around and fired at it, marking another one down.
Again, the beams changed, and he secured an arrow on the string. He heard it behind him this time. He turned, letting his arrow fly, making it land straight in the hologram's head.
And another.
He felt himself getting lost in the shooting, forgetting that he was still in the gym as he pointed his weapon at the next one above in the columns again. It was running in a different direction, but that didn't waver his aim. The tip of his arrow followed the hologram until he pelted the missile at it โ another victory for him.
The lights shifted to stand a few feet off in front of him, but he was already prepared; the rhythm of nocking an arrow on his bow was all too familiar for him. He launched it at the enemy before it could throw its sword.
Another hologram appeared, more far back than the last, but it ran rapidly toward him, training its axe at him and precisely throwing it at his head. He knew who that was supposed to be. He rolled, ducking out of the way, then pointed his arrow right where a heart should've been, briskly getting rid of it as it raised a second axe.
He felt more accomplished than he probably should have.
The process repeated and a hologram charged at him from behind. Thomas whirled around, releasing his arrow at it, but it didn't disappear yet. He only had a second or two to see it, but he could tell this one represented Teresa, with the knives it was about to throw at him. He propelled an extra arrow, making it crumble to the floor into nothing, just like the rest of them.
He directed his aim to where the beams moved next, up above, and immediately knew it was meant to be Newt. It deftly wielded a trident, leaping down to 'pierce' him with the holographic blades. He wouldn't allow it.
Thomas launched his arrow, letting the sharp end fly dead center into it, resulting in the figure of a person to diminish into blocks of orange light, then nothing.
He panted a little, expecting more, but the noise of the holograms faded. The room brightened, the glass panels finally cleared, and he blinked at the crowd standing there. All of the Victors were watching him and he didn't know it. He saw looks that ranged from envy, to admiration, to hatred. Rachel was clapping for him.
Thomas brushed his hand through his hair. He wouldn't let their stares unsettle him. He's had enough of their attitudes for one day.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
"Good news," Jorge announced. "At least half the Victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally."
Thomas stopped chewing the chocolate covered orange he had in his mouth. For one, it actually tasted better than he expected. Two...'what?'
"They saw him shoot," Teresa said jubilantly, pride tangible in her voice.
"You that good?" Jorge asked as he sat across the table from him, not even glancing at the dinner laid out. "So good that Barkley wants you?"
Thomas recoiled slightly. "But I don't want Barkley. I want Keisha and District Three."
"I should've seen that coming," Jorge sighed and ordered a bottle of wine. "I'll tell everybody you're still making up your mind."
After his shooting exhibition, Thomas got teased a little, but it no longer felt like he was being mocked. In fact, it was as if he'd been initiated into the Victors' circle. During the next two days, he spent time with almost everybody going into the arena. Even the morhplings, who, with Teresa's help, painted him into a field of yellow flowers. Newt, too, who gave him an hour of trident lessons in exchange for an hour of archery instruction. He was forced to acknowledge that Newt wasn't so bad โ although he was still a bit odd. Maybe it was the District accent.
He found himself trying to point out the flaws of the other tributes, too, but it started to become more and more ineffective. As he came to make connections with most of the Victors, he realized that he was attempting to shield himself from liking them. He failed. Because, on the whole, he didn't truly hate them. And a lot of them were so damaged that his first instinct would be to protect them.
But all of them were destined to die if he was going to save Teresa.
The final day of training ended with their private sessions. They each had fifteen minutes before the Gamemakers to amaze them with their skills, but Thomas didnt know what they could show that would be super impressive. The morphlings had a chance, perhaps. If anything, there was a lot of kidding about it at lunch for what they might do. Sing. Dance, strip, tell jokes. Keisha, who he could understand better than he did last time, declared she was just going to take a nap.
The dining room became quieter and quieter as the tributes left to go perform. While they did so, he couldn't stop thinking of the fact that they all had a matter of days to live.
He was finally given some alone time with Teresa once they were the last ones in the room. She rested her elbows on the table. "Got any ideas for what you're gonna do yet?"
He put his forehead on the table, focusing on his hands in his lap. "I can't really use the Gamemakers as target practices this year because of the force field stuff. Maybe I'll make a couple fishhooks. What about you?"
She pursed her lips. "Not a clue, honestly. I'll probably ask if I can bake a cake or something."
Thomas snorted, lifting his head to meet her eyes. "Good luck with that. I suggest you do more camouflage."
"If the morphlings even left me anything to work with," she said bluntly. "They haven't abandoned that station since the training began."
They sat in silence awhile, but he couldn't contain the raging thought in his mind and blurted out, "How are we going to kill these people, Teresa?"
She wasn't quick to respond, yet when she did, she spoke in a whisper. "I don't know."
"I don't want them as allies. Why did Jorge want us to get to know them?" He persisted. "It's just making it so much harder than last time. Except for Alby, maybe," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But I guess I never really could've killed him."
Teresa's brows creased. "His death was very despicable, wasn't it?"
"None of them were pretty," Thomas said, thinking of the tributes he murdered in the arena.
They called Teresa, so he waited by himself. Fifteen minutes passed. Then half an hour. It was close to forty minutes, with him ready to take a nap like Keisha said she would do, when he was called.
As he went in, the sharp odor of cleaner products bombarded his nose, and he noticed that one of the mats had been dragged to the center of the room. The mood was entirely different from last year's, where the Gamemakers were half drunk and idly picking at tidbits from the banquet table. They whispered among themselves, looking annoyed. 'What did Teresa do?'
He grew worried. That wasn't a good sign. He didn't want Teresa singling herself out as a target for the Gamemakers' anger. That was his job. But how did she upset them? He needed to know, because he'd love to do just that and a lot more, to break their smug veneers and aloof demeanors. They, who used their brains to find entertaining ways to kill people.
'Don't you know how much I hate you?' He silently told them. 'How much we all hate you?'
Thomas tried to catch Vince Heavensbee's eye, but it looked like he was intentionally ignoring him, as he had been the whole training period. He remembered how Vince sought him and Teresa out, asking his best friend for a dance. His friendly mannerisms were nowhere to be found now. Why did it matter, anyway? Thomas Everdeen was only a tribute, bound to die, and Vince was the Head Gamemaker. So powerful, so careless, so safe.
He studied the exquisite purple robe on the Head Gamemaker, and it clicked.
He knew what to do.
Thomas went over to the knot-tying station and grabbed a length of rope. He started to manipulate it, but it was hard since he'd never made that actual knot itself. He only watched Newt's clever fingers, and they moved extremely fast. Who would've thought that joke would come in handy now.
After ten minutes, he made a respectable noose. He dragged one of the target dummies out in the middle of the room and, using a few chinning bars, hung it so it dangled by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would've been the cherry on top, but he figured he was running out of time. He hurried over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes had made a giant mess. But he found a partial container of bloodred berry juice that would serve its purpose for his idea. He carefully finger painted the words on its body, concealing them from view.
At last, he stepped away to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers' faces as they read the name on the dummy.
And since the Capitol loved it so much when he did it, Thomas held one of his hands over his chest, extending his other arm out, and bowed deeply.
Excited because I finally get to write about other tmr characters in thg universe for the Quarter Quell and watch them suffer and watch them become besties ๐ซฐ
Okay but can you imagine, just for a minute, what it would be like if Thomas was a crank instead?? What would that goober even do?? Bro would go EXTRA feral for Newt, that's fs.
i read a scene where brenda holds a knife up against minho so i decided to draw it BUT i tweaked it so itโs technically not book lore accurate ๐ญ I JUST DRAW MINHO WITH HIS HANDS UP OKAY DAMN
dont worry imma draw the actual scene ๐ also lowkey saw @cancatsbecowboys draw the scene and wanted to give it a go so I hope you dont mind me taking inspo ๐ญ๐ซถ
โ "Trepidation, speculation, everybody, allegation. In the suite, on the news, everybody, dog food. Black man, black mail, throw the brother in jail. All I wanna say is that they don't really care about us."
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
Next chapter
๐ช๐๐๐๐๐๐ 6: The horror of the Hunger Games has returned to Thomas' doorstep, and he is left with only one last goal in life: To make sure Teresa is the one who survives it.
a/n: ohmygoshohmygosh, IT'S STARTING. I am both scared and excited to go into the process of writing the 75th Games. Help. Also, a bit of a warning, there is a little more mentions of blood in this chapter. If that makes you uncomfortable, please be advised. (And I feel like I could've did a better job with this chapter, but it is what it is ig)
His body reacted before his mind had a chance to catch up.
Thomas, submerged in fear and disbelief, saw the house blur into one discombobulated color as he rushed outside without his shoes. The sharp bite of the wind consumed him, trying to push him back into his home to face the truth of what he just heard. He wouldn't let it.
None of this was real.
It couldn't be.
It had to be some sick joke the President planned, but as he ran to the one place where he knew he'd find a scrap of comfort, he realized Paige wasn't one for jokes.
He abruptly forced his feet to a halt, sliding on the ground and nearly stumbling onto the snow. The fence encompassing the woods was alive with electricity, buzzing a warning to those who dared to go against the laws set for them.
He couldn't go in the forest. The Peacekeepers, Leavitt, finally put the rules to work. He couldn't leave, not even if he tried.
'Focus.'
His breaths were ragged, short, and alarmingly difficult to maintain. Did they do that on purpose? Cut off the one source of refuge and freedom he used to hide from the cruelty of the Capitol? To spite him? Of all times, they've chosen to restrict him in a moment of dread.
He turned and sprinted back, struggling to see straight. The cold air did no good for his lungs, leaving his heart pounding with the extra effort to merely keep him alive under the oppressive realization that he was being forced into the Games. His chest heaved. His ears rang.
'Focus.'
The Victor's Village returned to his blurry vision, and the only thing he was aware of next was his fist colliding with a window to an empty, unoccupied house, pushing himself through the shattered glass and staggering inside.
Then, he blinked and he was in the cellar, hastily gasping for air on his hands and knees. He couldn't escape this. He couldn't escape President Paige, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Thomas attempted to scream, but all that came out was a strangled breath, practically choking him. He fully collapsed on the floor, horrified that he might die right then and there. But wouldn't that be a good thing? Shouldn't he have preffered that over what he was bound to face later on?
For a split second, he welcomed death, welcomed the possibility of not being able to put oxygen back into his lungs, but his instincts, naturally fortified from being in the woods for most of his life, begged him to fight. To survive.
'I can't breathe.'
He clawed at the collar of his shirt, at his throat, unable to stop his constant hyperventilating. Someone called his name. He couldn't tell who. He couldn't fight. He couldn't do anything. The Capitol would place him in another arena. The Capitol would watch. The Capitol would force him to kill again.
That reminder alone made him succumb to the horrid anxiety pressing him down, leaving him drowning in its depths.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
"Alby!"
Thomas released his arrow, allowing it to find its home in the tribute's neck. The boy made a horrific sound, half choking, half a gasp of shock, and he fell to his knees. He roughly pulled out the arrow, one final defiant act, then the rest of him tumbled on the ground. Dead.
The world around Thomas shook, and he turned to gape at his new friend, the one he started to consider the older brother he never had. Despair lurched in his heart. The spear nestled inside Alby's stomach.
Thomas quickly caught him before he could fall, freezing at the sight of the wound spilling out warm blood that tainted his trembling hands. There was too much of it. It scared him. "H-Hey, Alby, it's gonna be okay, we're okayโ" He mumbled incoherently.
Alby's eyes already seemed to be losing their spark, his hand weakly clasping Thomas's blood stained one. "Hey," he rasped. "You...you're gonna win this thing, alright?"
"No, no, stop. That doesn't matter right now. Iโ"
Alby winced, his grip tightening to the best of his withering abilities. "Listen to me," he coughed. "You have to win." His voice held a faint urgency; his last dying request.
Thomas tried to prevent his body from shaking, tried to hearken to his friend's words. But all he saw was blood. All he saw was his friend and the life draining from him too fast for anyone to stop it. Yet, as he looked in his eyes, he recognized it: the quiet pleading of a dying boy, asking for one more bit of comfort.
He nodded, tears rolling off his cheeks. "I will," he whispered. "I swear I will, Alby..."
That satisfied him. Alby stared afar off at something in the distance, his lips twitching in the smallest of smiles โ the most sincere one Thomas had ever witnessed from him. "Don't let me down, Thomas." He murmured.
And all he could do was watch as Alby breathed his last, his eyes forever locked on the forest around them, the arena the Capitol put them in.
It took Thomas twenty, thirty minutes โ however long โ to know what exactly his friend was looking at. He barely heard it through his muffled wails, having been burying his face in his jacket.
A small, tentative chirping.
He turned, directing his gaze to the trees above them. A singular mockingjay, tilting its head this way and that, monitored the scene. It was uncharacteristically quiet when Alby died. Even then, as they stared at each other, it chirped as if it didn't quite understand if it was allowed to in that moment.
Thomas couldn't suppress the enraged sob that left his mouth, and he furiously reached for his arrows, nocking one on the string of his bow and blindly shooting at it. He missed. The bird flew off, repeating his cry in a tune he earnestly wanted to forget.
He made the mistake of taking a glimpse at the boy he murdered, and he covered his mouth โ only to flinch at the blood still covering his hands. It got on parts of his face, making him let out a faint shriek.
The boy, one whom Thomas didn't even know the name of, had his life taken from him by one of his arrows. He killed him. And what surrounded the two dead tributes in front of him was a sight he knew, from the bottom of his soul, he would never forget.
A pool of scarlet encompassing both boys.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
The dusty cellar slowly came back into view.
He coughed, the cold atmosphere draping over his skin. How long had he been up there? He weakly straightened himself to sit against the wall, breathing slowly as he recounted the reasons why he passed out.
The television. Mandatory programming.
President Paige.
Reading of the cards.
Tributes will be reaped from...
Thomas pounded his fist against the floor once he remembered, causing him to hiss in pain. He glared at his hands, not noticing their wounds until now. They were bleeding. Why were they bleeding?
'Oh, right...from the window.' He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the crimson coating most of his skin.
'Focus.'
He was being sent into the Games again. Paige said the tributes were to be reaped from the pool of Victors.
'Focus.'
The cuts in his hands, on further inspection, were gradually drying up. He must've been in the cellar for a while.
'Focus.'
He was returning to the arena. Jorge and Teresa as well.
That thought made him pause, sharply looking away from his injuries. Jorge. He was the other male tribute. If his name was called, where would that leave Thomas?
'No.' He swiftly got rid of any ideas that gave him a morsel of hope. He shouldn't be relieved if his name wasn't called. Watching two people he cared about fight to the death in the arena wasn't exactly reassuring. He knew himself enough to also know that even if Jorge's name was called, he wouldn't hesitate to volunteer. Again. Although this time, his brother wasn't involved.
He leaned his head back on the wall, closing his eyes as he maintained a steady rhythm of breathing. None of this was fair, he came to terms with that a long time ago, but the Capitol wouldn't stop at the sake of fairness. He had to go into the arena with Teresa. That was the only way. He'd tear himself apart if he sat by and watched the Games from a screen. Specifically, this one.
The memory of someone calling him returned to mind, causing him to stand and look for the exit of the cellar. He didn't know how much time passed, making him assume that Teresa already went and spoke to Jorge. About what, he guessed he'd never have the full answers to, but he'd still go talk to his mentor. Plead for him not to volunteer in his place.
Ignoring the stings of pain his hands brought, he felt his way up the stairs and into the house. Shards of glass were scattered on the floor from the window in the door. He stepped over them, running out into the night.
Once he reached Jorge's, he didn't bother knocking, as usual. Thomas wasn't surprised to find him sitting at his kitchen table, drunk as ever. Empty and half filled bottles of liquor decorated the space. It was almost comforting, to see something so familiar, but nothing could console him now.
"Ah, there he is," Jorge drawled. "You've done the math, hermano? Well, good for you. And you've come to ask me to...what?" He waved the bottle in his hand, squinting at it. "Die?"
Thomas scoffed, lowering his gaze. "Yup. That's pretty much my plan," he replied dryly. Worried Jorge might actually think he was serious, he shook his head before approaching the table. "I'm here to drink."
"Oh," Jorge cackled, his grin much too wide for the news they just received. "Finally. Something I can help you with." He flinched when Thomas suddenly snatched the bottle out of his grasp, drinking it for himself. "They grow up so fast."
It only took a few gulps for Thomas to come up choking, the liquid feeling like fire inside him. He couldn't tell if he enjoyed that or not. "I know you aren't stupid," he muttered, plopping down on a chair next to him and forgetting any forms of politeness. "Can you guess why I'm here?"
"Hm," Jorge tapped his fingers against the table. "Tell me if I'm right: since last time I tried to keep you alive, you want me to save the girl this time."
"Obviously." He said, wiping his nose and tipping up the bottle again.
Jorge was quiet for a couple of seconds before he spoke. "Y'know, she came in here begging me to volunteer for you if it came down to it. And you're in here asking me for the complete opposite..."
Thomas hadn't even mentioned that he was going to volunteer for him if his name was called, but it looked like he figured that out without any issues. "You can hardly blame me," He pushed away the wave of anxiety that threatened to overtake him at the scenario of Jorge being able to take his place instead. He shifted in his chair, his grip on the bottle becoming painful. "Did she say anything else to you?"
His mentor reached for the bottle. "Can I have that back now, por favor?"
He held it closer to his chest, resisting the urge to glare at him. "No. Tell me what else she said."
"ยกAy, Dios mรญo, no!" Jorge yelled, rubbing his eyes. "She didn't say anything else. All she wants is for you to get out the damn area alive."
Thomas's gaze fell, staring at his sodden socks. "Well, one of us isn't getting what we want."
"Clearly."
The silence that followed made Thomas understand where Jorge might've been coming from. The only other two Victors in District 12 were asking him for the impossible. One way or another, they were all returning to the arena, whether as a mentor or not on their end. Nobody ever truly leaves once they first go in.
The burden on Jorge's shoulders definitely wasn't very fun.
Despair tried to cling relentlessly onto his logical reasoning, and he finally got the courage to sincerely look at his mentor in the eyes. "Jorge, you have to listen to me. Promise me something. Promise me you won't volunteer for me. Promise you'll take care of Teresa, make sure she lives." He swallowed, forcing his next words out. "Not me."
It would've been better for everyone if he died anyways. President Paige wanted him dead, that was stated before the Quarter Quell was announced. No harm in speeding up that process.
Something like misery flashed across Jorge's face, but it vanished just as quickly. "Look at us, what bonding time we're having," he pulled another bottle out from under the table, giving the top a twist. "Deciding who will go in to die at the arena." He lifted his drink, toasting to the autocracy of the Capitol.
Thomas had to admit, their conversation wasn't exactly a normal one to be having โ if you weren't a Victor. He unenthusiastically raised his own bottle. They drank, and he welcomed the burning sensation in his throat, finding the distraction to actually be relieving. He clumsily wiped his mouth, slamming the bottle down. "Promise me, Jorge."
A beat of no response. Then he sighed.
"Okay," he surprisingly agreed, nodding gravely. "Okay."
They basked in another moment of silence. "It'd be pretty bad for you if you went in the arena, wouldn't it? Knowing all the others?" Thomas asked.
"Oh, I think we can count on it being a bit unbearable wherever I am," Jorge huffed. "Or you can see me as the life of the party. Either one works."
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
The walk to his house was cold, like the rest of him. He realized, however, it was beyond a physical coldness, one that benumbed him mercilessly.
As he staggered up the steps, the front door swung open and Brenda instantly wrapped her arms around him. "I was wrong. We should've gone when you said."
"No," Thomas mumbled. He couldn't focus properly, the world around him beginning to sway. Liquor sloshed out of his bottle and down the back of Brenda's jacket, but she didn't seem to care.
"It's not too late," she whispered.
Behind her, he noticed his mother and Chuck holding each other in the doorway. If they ran, they'd die. Everyone always dies in the end, don't they? Everything was pointless. He should just accept his death, get it over with. "Yeah, it is."
His knees buckled and she held him up. The alcohol continued to conquer his mind as the glass bottle shattered on the floor. Such an appropriate way to express his lost grip on reality.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
When Thomas awoke, he rolled off the bed and rushed to the toilet right on time for the white liquor to make its reappearance. It burned, more than he expected. It also tasted twice as bad.
'I'm never drinking again.'
His whole body trembled, beads of sweat dotting his skin once he finished vomiting. Although most of the alcohol left his system, some of it lingered into his bloodstream, gifting him with a pounding headache that was almost too unbearable for him.
He cursed at the world, at President Paige, at himself while turning on the shower, standing under the warm rain and blankly staring at the walls. A whole two minutes passed until he saw that he was still in his boxers. His mother must've taken off his filthy outer clothes and tucked him in bed. He sighed, throwing the boxers into the sink and poured shampoo on his head, causing his hands to sting. He winced, seeing the stitches, small and precise, across one palm and up the side of the other hand.
He forgot that he broke the glass window last night.
Thomas furiously scrubbed himself from head to toe, abruptly throwing up again in the shower after a few seconds. Bile and fresh-smelling bubbles went down the drain. He pictured the Capitol, President Paige, when he looked at it.
Clean at last, he pulled on his robe to go back to bed. He climbed under the blankets, despising the very idea of drinking. Then, the sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted his panic. He couldn't talk to his mother and Chuck. Not yet. He wasn't prepared. He had to pull himself together, be calm and collected. Be strong, like he was when they said their good-byes the day of the reaping. He struggled into a sitting position, bracing himself for the meeting.
They appeared at the doorway, holding tea and toast, their faces doused in concern.
He opened his mouth, aiming to say something sarcastic to enlighten the mood, but involuntarily bursted into tears.
Apparently, he was terrible at being strong for the moment.
His mother sat on the side of the bed and Chuck crawled up right next to him, both of them hugging him, making quiet soothing sounds. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like a little child, being comforted in that way. It hurt all the more.
Eventually, Chuck brought in Bark, setting him on the bed as the Labrador lowered his ears. Thomas was never able to form a direct opinion on the dog; there were moments when he liked him but remembered that he was another mouth to feed. Now, all of that wasn't much of a problem. 'Might as well be nice to him. I'm not gonna see him ever again when I go into the arena.'
His mother coaxed tea and toast into him, dressed him in warm pajamas and layered additional blankets on him. He hadn't even realized he drifted off until he gained consciousness, the light in the room indicating it was late afternoon. A glass of water was put on his bedside and he greedily gulped it down. His stomach and head weren't as bad as they had been earlier, but he'd be happier if the remaining dwindling symptoms would completely disappear.
After getting into a different, fresh pair of clothes, he paused at the top of the stairs. He'd been acting like such a crybaby, it made him incredibly embarrassed. He took off when the news was first released, drank with Jorge, wept. He told himself that, provided the circumstances, it was okay to indulge a little in his human emotions for one day.
Downstairs, his mother and Chuck engulfed him in another hug. They weren't overly emotional about everything, and he knew they were holding it all in for his sake, to ease the load on his shoulders. He looked at his younger brother, pride and guilt blending into something he couldn't quite describe. Chuck wasn't the same boy he left behind on reaping day, that was for certain. He'd grown, too fast for a kid his age. The cruelty of the District, the clusters of sick people and wounded he often treated by himself if his mother's hands were too occupied. It all shaped him into what he was now.
'I wish I could've given you a better life,' Thomas managed a small smile, ruffling Chuck's curls. 'I'm sorry I couldn't do that for you. You deserved so much better than this.'
His mother ladled out a mug of broth for him, and he asked for a second mug to take to Jorge. Then he trudged across the lawn to his house. His mentor was barely waking up but he accepted the mug without muttering a peep. They sat there, the atmosphere filled with what he would've called peace, sipping their broth and watching the sun set though his living room window. He heard someone walking around upstairs and he assumed it was Hazelle, but a couple minutes later Teresa herself came marching down, tossing a cardboard box of empty liquor bottles right on the table.
"There," she declared. "It's done."
"What's done?" Thomas asked once he noticed Jorge was having difficulty focusing on what was in front of him.
"I've poured every ounce of liquor down the drain, is what." She said matter-of-factly.
Immediately, Jorge came to his senses as if a button was switched on inside of him. "You what?" He pawed through the box, denying what had already been taken care of.
"I tossed it," Teresa repeated.
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. "He'll just buy more, you know that, don't you?"
"No, he won't," She said pointedly. "I made sure of it. I told the seller I'd turn her in if she sold to either of you. I paid her off, too, just to show that I'm serious."
"I'll seriously punch you in the face, how about that?" Jorge spat.
"No you won't."
Before Jorge could react, Thomas spoke up. "What business is it of yours what he does?"
"Actually, it is completely my business. However it falls out, two of us are going to be in the arena again with the other as mentor. We can't afford any drunkards this year. Especially not you, Thomas." She retorted firmly.
"What!?" He sputtered. Maybe if he wasn't so hungover, he would've been more convincing. "I never drink, you know that. Last night's the only time I've been drunk."
"Mhm, and look where that got you," Teresa eyed him in what appeared to be disgust. "You've definitely had better days."
"Oh, shut up, no one asked you," he fired back, turning to Jorge. "Don't worry, I'll buy you more liquor."
Teresa wasn't bothered by his futile comebacks. "Well, prepare yourselves to get comfortable in the stocks, then. Let you sober up nice and snuggly in there."
Jorge kicked the chair, anger radiating off of his every muscle. Thomas groaned. "What's the point to this?" Jorge muttered.
"The point is, in case you forgot, that two of us are coming home from the Capitol. One mentor and one Victor," she took turns meeting each of their eyes. "Trina's sending me recordings of all the living Victors. We're going to watch their Games and learn everything we can about how they fight. We're going to get stronger. We're going to start acting like Careers."
Her voice contained such a heavy conviction, as if she wasn't going to accept a no from them โ which was certainly the case โ and she stomped toward the front door, her black hair bouncing with every explosive step. "And only one of us is going to be Victor again whether you two like it or not!"
Then she slammed the door.
Thomas thought the idea of pretending to be Careers was far-fetched. A child's imagination. They weren't built to be Careers. At least he wasn't. Not mentally.
"Isn't she a ray of sunshine," Jorge said through gritted teeth, sucking the dregs out of the empty bottles. "Que mocosa."
Despite their reluctance to it, they agreed to act like Careers after a few days. It was the best way to get Teresa prepared as well. Every night they watched the old recaps of the Games that the remaining Victors won. It was an odd thing that he and Teresa hadn't met any of them on the Victory Tour, besides that pompous Newt guy.
Thomas's gaze drifted away from the television he'd been watching. He wondered, for the briefest moment, how Newt reacted to the announcement of the Quell. What was he doing? Had his facade broken yet?
'How are all the other Victors taking it?'
Shaking his head clear of those questions, he glanced over his shoulder at Jorge, who was looking at the screen from behind the couch, choosing to stand since it helped him not to be so antsy, especially with the loss of alcohol in his system. "Hey," he began. "Why haven't we ever seen the rest of the Victors lately? In person?"
Jorge snorted, treating his inquiry like it was total ludicrous. "With President Paige hovering over everything you two are doing, specifically you," he pointed at Thomas. "She wouldn't dare let you guys make a connection with the others. It could bring a bigger threat of potential rebellions. Your statuses as a Victor can get...political."
'So, Newt technically wasn't allowed to see us...but he still came.' He wondered what the blond's intentions were. The timing of it all was very coincidental. Nobody could have predicted the Quarter Quell would turn out like this, and Newt never gave any hints that he knew about it. Either way, he couldn't focus on that, not when he had a plan to initiate.
The more they watched, the more Thomas realized some of their opponents were a little older than him, or just plain-old elderly. It was both grevious and reassuring. Jorge offered information about the Victors' personalities, and they gradually started to know their competition.
Every morning they did strenuous exercises to strengthen their bodies. They ran. They lifted. They stretched. Every afternoon they refined their combat skills, threw knives (Teresa's personal expertise), fought hand to hand; he also taught them to climb trees. If Districts 1, 2, and 4 were able to skillfully wield spears and swords when they showed up in the arena, what they were doing was nothing by comparison โ even if it was considered to be against the rules.
Due to all the years of abuse, Jorge's body stubbornly resisted improvement. He was still exceptionally strong, but the shortest run left him breathless and panting. For someone who always slept with a knife, he couldn't throw knives very well for the life of him. His hands shook uncontrollably, to the point of him requiring weeks just to achieve hitting the targets correctly.
Thomas and Teresa excelled, though. He felt more in charge of himself, making his body fit. It gave him something else to do other than wallow in defeat. His mother put them on a special diet to gain weight. Chuck treated their sore muscles. Jeff snuck them his father's Capitol newspapers. Even Brenda came into the picture on Sundays, teaching them all she knew about snares. Teresa had latched onto everything she was taught, impressing them by how fast she learned the basics.
One night, when she went off to talk to Jorge, he walked Brenda into town, and she seemed fairly quiet. It'd been that way since the news. "Teresa looks like she's ready." Brenda murmured.
He didn't exactly know what that comment meant. "We're teaming up in the arena again, I hope you know that," he said.
"Of course I do," she flicked a piece of her hair away from her eye. "I'm just saying...you've got someone to rely on out there, Thomas."
What hurt him the most as he looked at her wasn't the fact that she must've understood that only one person was leaving the arena as Victor, but that she had no clue about his plan to keep Teresa alive and not himself. He couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone, but he told himself that she wasn't alone. She had her family. She had Jeff. She had Teresa.
He couldn't allow another emotional moment between them, anyway. It might lead her to do something drastic. Nobody in District 12 was ready for any kind of rebellion now because of the Quarter Quell announcement.
The sooner Brenda let him go, the better. He wasn't coming back home a second time. He'd at least plan to say a few things to her after the reaping, when they were granted an hour for good-byes. To let her know how important she was to him. How happy she made him on days when he felt discouraged. How much he loved her, even if it only was in the limited way he could manage.
But like most good things in his life, that was taken from him.
The day of the reaping was hot and sultry. The population of District 12 waited, sweating and silent, in the square with machine guns trained on them and their every move. Teresa, Thomas, and Jorge walked across the middle isle, keeping their focus on Trina, who stood on the stage with a frown that was barely concealed under her forced grin.
His mother and Chuck were at the front of the crowd, allowing Thomas a glimpse of him as he passed. He saw his brown, slightly unkempt curls, and he remembered the day he volunteered for his little brother. His hair looked the same.
They made it up to the stage, and Trina, shining in a wig of metallic gold, cleared her throat. "Welcome, welcome, as we celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary and third Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. As always," she glanced at the large glass bowl on her left side, lacking her usual verve. "Ladies first."
The click of her heels echoed throughout the square as she slowly crossed to the bowl, glancing sorrowfully at Teresa before reaching in and grabbing a single slip of paper. She unraveled the seal, just as slowly making her way back to the center, and nearly whispered the name of his best friend into the mic for all of Panem to hear, for President Paige to revel in the satisfaction of sending her to her demise for simply being with Thomas.
"The female tribute from District 12: Teresa Agnes."
Even though he knew it was coming, even though he assumed he'd be prepared for this very moment, Thomas still felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It took everything in him to remained composed, or as composed as one could get in this predicament, when he saw a tear roll off Teresa's cheek.
Trina's mournful frown could no longer be hidden as Teresa stood beside her. Their escort must've realized they were still on camera, however, and visibly forced a smile on her lips. "Wonderful," she cleared her throat again. "And now for the men."
He wasn't a fool. He noticed the subtle glance Teresa shot at Jorge. He couldn't quite make out what the look meant, but he had a pretty good guess.
Trina reiterated the process of grabbing a paper from the glass bowl on her right side, then returned to the middle of the stage. "The male tribute from District 12," she blinked helplessly at the paper once she read who it was. "Jorge Abernathy."
The world around Thomas seemed to fade into white as he stared at Chuck, his body going numb, being brought back to the day terror paralyzed him at the sight of his little brother tucking in his shirt while he stepped out of the crowd, his fingers quivering even from where Thomas stood.
It was happening all over again. Someone he cared about was being put on the line, and he couldn't sit by to watch them die.
Thomas turned to face Trina and repeated the same words he screamed at the last reaping: "I volunteer as tribute."
Immediately, his arm was harshly tugged from behind him. It was Jorge. "I can't let you do that." He hissed.
"You can't stop me," Thomas muttered, aiming to free his arm.
"Thomasโ"
"Let go." He warned, glaring at his mentor in a silent demand to do as he said. 'Remember what we talked about.' He silently urged. 'You can't fight this.'
The only reason Jorge released him was probably because of the cameras, but he did so with a disappointed scowl. Thomas wordlessly took his place next to his escort's right side, trying not to let his hands shake.
Trina looked devastated. Teresa's eyes were filled with dread before turning her head away from him, not caring to wipe her tears while very much in the public view. She would've hated crying in front of an audience, but the reaping of the Quarter Quell was the first exception.
After Trina found her voice, she continued speaking with a faltering beam. "Very well," she said. "The tributes from District 12. Thomas Everdeen and...Teresa Agnes." Her hands rested on their shoulders for a moment before she removed them, not knowing how else to go on or what to do with herself.
'I'm going to die,' he thought to himself. 'I'm going to die and nobody can save me this time.'
Something in the crowd caught his attention.
Thomas froze. It was his mother. She raised her left hand, holding up her three middle fingers and extending them out to him. Chuck followed, shooting his arm straight up in the air to salute him and Teresa.
So did Brenda.
Then another. And another. And the whole square held the three fingers toward them, saying their last good-byes with honor.
He almost felt as vulnerable as he was the first time he volunteered. But their bold gesture provided him the extra push he needed. He couldn't have been more grateful for his District. If he was going to die, he wouldn't do so weeping.
Thomas slowly lifted his hand, raising up the three fingers with them.
Teresa copied their actions, her posture straightening with fiery determination.
Footsteps came from behind them, and his arm was pulled back. It was Leavitt. More Peacekeepers arrived, marching through the doors of the Justice Building to grab Teresa as well.
"But, butโ" Trina attempted to intervene with only her words. It didn't work.
"Thomas!"
The sound of his name from his brother's lips snapped him out of his daze. He started to thrash against Leavitt's grip, trying to push past him. "Wait! I get to say goodbye!"
"New plan," the Head Peacekeeper grunted. "You're headed straight for the train station."
"Thomas!" Chuck cried again, another Peacekeeper blocking his way to get to him.
"No! I get to say goodbye!" Thomas yelled, tears blinding his vision as he continued to fight. 'At least let me talk to him one last time! Don't take him away from me like this!'
He managed to see a camera somewhere in the square, and he silently โ desperately โ pleaded for President Paige to just let him have this one thing, to let him hug Chuck.
Thomas's answer came in the form of him being hauled into the Justice Building, watching his mother caress his brother's hair.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
"Dad, why do we have to be so scared of the Capitol?"
Thomas's question seemed to momentarily shock his father, but he recovered quickly. "Oh, son," he knelt in front of him, gently clasping his calloused hands on top of his smooth ones. A soft breeze rustled in the trees around them as he responded. "You don't have to be. Nobody is forcing you to be scared of them."
"But mom always says we can't disobey them. She didn't even let you sing that one song to me," he smiled a little as he mentioned the incident with his mom, but he wasn't at all joking.
"Oh," his dad laughed. "The Hanging Tree, eh?" He patted Thomas's shoulder. "I remember. She gave me a good beating for that, that's for sure..."
The beating he spoke of was, to put it in fewer words, a scolding stemmed from worry.
"Mom is scared of them," Thomas murmured, lowering his head.
His dad hummed, studying the birds gliding above the canopy of branches. "As are a lot of other people in the Districts," he met his gaze intently, a warmth burning through in his eyes like no other, a warmth that Thomas had yet to discover in another person. "But they're not any less human. It shows they are."
Thomas tilited his head, confused. "They're what?"
"Human," he replied. "Fear can either build you or break you, son. It's up to you to choose." He stood, the sunlight peeking through the leaves to illuminate half of his face. "Many of us feel as though we don't have that choice, but we do. It's the one thing the Capitol can't take away from us."
Thomas followed his dad as he grabbed his bow from the inside of a hollow log. "Don't forget that, Thomas."
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
He stared at the woods blurring the last glimpse of his home, idly rubbing his thumb over his now calloused palm, wishing he had his father's jacket. His father's strength. He could only pretend to be fine for so long, but he knew he couldn't be carried all the time by other people. He had to tread his own path, no matter how many obstacles it contained.
"We'll write them letters, Tom," Teresa's quiet voice broke through his clouded mind, and he took notice of her downcast appearance. Even she wasn't completely 'alright.' He hadn't considered it until that minute, but she didn't get to say goodbye to her family either. He felt despicable.
"Teresa, I'm sorry you didn't get toโ"
"Stop," she whispered, her voice becoming strained. "Don't...don't say anything. It's fine."
'No, it's absolutely not.' He restrained himself from saying it. Instead, he nodded, understanding that what she needed was for him to just listen. "Okay."
She took a deep breath in, and he ignored the tear she hastily wiped away. "It's better that way, writing to them. It gives them a piece of us to hold on to. Jorge will deliver them for us if...if they need to be delivered."
Thomas nodded and, not having the energy to talk to anyone anymore, went to his room. He sat on the bed, knowing he'd never write those letters. It was pointless for him, since he had no clue where to start. How do you write to someone knowing you were on your way to death? How would they take it? No, he wouldn't try reaching out to them again. That would only hurt him more, and he didn't need that. Not when he was being sent into the arena. Plus, sending a bland paper with a wooden box holding his cold, stiff body wasn't ideal to him.
Too miserable to cry, all he wanted to do was curl up on the bed and wait there until he could die. But he couldn't. Not with his mission. 'I have to keep Teresa alive.' Despite how unlikely it seemed in the face of the Capitol's wrath, he needed to be at the top his game to carry it out. Mourning the people he loved would prevent him from doing that.
'Let them go.'
He held his hands over his head, urging himself to forget Chuck's grin, his voice as he left the reaping, his hugs.
'Say good-bye and forget them.'
He grabbed the cages which stored the precious memories of his family and released them, letting them soar off like birds taking flight for the first time. Each and every single one; his mother caressing his cheek, his brother laughing at his jokes, Brenda hunting with him in the woods, George lighting up upon Thomas's arrival, bonding with Jeff.
Thomas freed all of them until he sure was there wasn't anything left. He shut the doors, locking it with a key he tossed so he wouldn't go searching for it again.
By the time Trina knocked on his door to call him to dinner, he was empty. But the lightness wasn't entirely unwelcomed.
The meal was subdued, which was to be expected. Gentle clinks of their utensils somewhat filled the permeating silence, as well as the removal of old dishes and the presentations of new ones. A cold soup of pureed vegetables. Fish cakes with creamy lime paste. Wild rice. Chocolate custard dotted with cherries.
"I've had a thought," Trina eventually said, her hesitancy being shoved aside.
"Oh, really? Shocker." Jorge grumbled.
Trina gracefully ignored him. "Thomas has his gold mockingjay pin. I've got my gold hair," she smiled, a genuine one, as she gestured between Jorge and Teresa. "I'm going to get you two something gold."
Seeing that Teresa wasn't responding, Jorge rubbed his eyes, probably fighting off an irritated remark. "Why is that?" He wasn't drinking but anyone could tell he wanted to. Trina had the Avoxes take her own wine away once she saw the effort he was making. If the roles were switched and he was a tribute, he'd drink to his heart's content since he'd owe Teresa nothing. It would require everything he had to keep her alive in an arena filled with his old friends, and he'd probably fail.
"A token!" Trina said. "Show them we are a team. And they can't just..." she started to choke up, struggling to finish her sentence.
Evidently, she didn't know that Thomas's mockingjay pin was a symbol used by the rebels. In the Capitol, though, the mockingjay was still a fun reminder of an especially exciting Hunger Games. He knew she was trying, and that's what made him hold her hand from his seat next to her. "Thank you," he returned her smile as best as he could.
Teresa finally pitched in after him. "I think that's a good idea."
Jorge grunted his approval.
Trina breathed a sigh of relief, nodding at them both. "Shall we watch the recap of the reapings?"
Nobody wanted to, but they did nonetheless. They gathered in a compartment with the television to see who their competition would be in the arena. They were all settled down when the anthem began to play and the annual recap of the reaping ceremonies in the twelve Districts commenced.
In the history of the Games, there had been seventy-five Victors. Fifty-nine were still alive. He recognized many of them, either from seeing them as tributes or mentors at previous Games or from their recent viewing of the Victors' tapes. The reapings themselves go by fairly quickly. Teresa studiously examined each one, in her own world. Jorge watched, his face devoid of emotion, as friends of his stepped up to take the stage.
Only a few stuck in Thomas's head. The peculiar brother and sister from District 1, whose names were even stranger. Something along the lines of the Toad and Misty. He assumed the 'Toad' was a nickname of sorts. Newt, of course, in his excellent blond hair, followed by an eighty-year-old woman who needed assistance from the 69th Victor to walk to the stage. Then there was Minho Mason, who won at the age of fifteen a few years back by pretending to be a weakling. The woman from 8 who Trina called Wright, had to detach herself from the three kids who ran up to cling to her, wailing loud enough for the cameras. Chaff, a man from 11 who was a good friend of Jorge's.
District 12 was last. Teresa was called. Then Jorge. And Thomas volunteered. They were mute when the recap ended. Jorge left the compartment without a word, and Trina, after making some unconnected comments about the tributes, excused herself.
"Why don't you get some sleep, Thomas?" Teresa said, rubbing her eyes.
"I don't think I can," he muttered.
She gave him a look. "Well, go try."
He reluctantly stood once her stern expression didn't waver, not in the mood to argue with her. "What're you gonna do? You can't tell me to sleep and just let you stay awake the whole night."
Teresa's eyes trailed back to the television. "I'll go to bed soon. Don't worry," He wasn't a fan of her answer, and she must've known it. "I swear." She drawled.
Thomas didn't want to let her off so easy, but he knew she could be stubborn like him. Sighing, he stepped toward her and held his pinky finger out; his attempt at enlightening the atmosphere.
She blinked at him. "Really?"
"C'mon. Just do it. You swore."
Her lips twitched in a smile she clearly stifled. Her pinky interlocked with his. "Alright, geez."
He nodded, a few seconds going by until he let go. "Goodnight."
"Night."
The moment he returned to his room, he almost stumbled from the sheer impact of what he had done in there a mere hour or two ago. He put his family behind him, moving forward without them in mind. 'Don't think about them.' He dragged his feet to the bed, burying his face in his hands. 'Focus.' He forced himself to acknowledge that there was no hope in returning home. He couldn't keep doing this, either. He couldn't keep taking one step forward and then backward because he missed the people he loved.
This would be the last time he faltered.
He reminded himself that the other Victors had family, too. Or, if not that, then friends. The woman from 8 had children cleaving to her from the get-go. He wasn't the only one being ripped away from his District again.
Thomas stared at his hands, which had gotten rough from the years spent hunting in the forest. Hands that, maybe, if the Capitol hadn't been so greedy, might've gotten saved from the countless scars he received trying to perfect his bow in order to get his family something to eat.
"Fear can either build you or break you, son. It's up to you to choose. Many of us feel as though we don't have that choice, but we do. It's the one thing the Capitol can't take away from us."
The words of his father circled his mind and he clung to them like the kids did for Wright. The Capitol would continue to take and take. Nothing would change that. But, no matter how much power they had, they couldn't steal his ability to decide, to choose not to be scared of them. It was a difficult thing to do, with so many threats hanging over his head. Remembering there was nothing left to lose, however, hardened his resolve.
He knew the truth of the Capitol, who they were. Who President Paige was. They could dress it up all they wanted, but he knew who they were underneath the bright colors they displayed for Panem. Paige was raised high on her pedestal of power, but he'd make her see the anger he was harboring. The rage hundreds of tributes before him felt. He'll die like the rest of them have, but he'd ensure she wouldn't be able to forget him.
He'd make sure the name Thomas Everdeen would haunt her for the rest of her pathetic life for taking him away from his family.
LMAAOA I CAN FEEL THE EXCITEMENT OF THAT FROM HERE!!! I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!! GAAGHGF THAT IS SUCH A WONDERFUL FEELING!!! I KNOW WHATEVER YOU RELEASE IS GONNA BE SPECTACULAR
Chat I think Olivia Rodrigo watched tmr because I'm listening to the cure for the first time rn and I am getting WAY too emotional over this. I'm adding this to my newtmas Playlist shut up
โ "Come back down to my knees, gotta get back, gotta get free. Come back down to my knees, be like them, lean back, and breathe."
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
Next chapter
๐ช๐๐๐๐๐๐ 5.5: The role of a Victor means nothing. This belief is set in stone for Newt as he realizes he is being forced into the arena again.
a/n: I thought it'd be fun (devastating) to share a brief pov from Newt about being called back to the arena. So, it's a "special" chapter, not completely necessary to read. That, and it may or may not be relevant to the plot....that's all. (This one's also a little shorter, buuut who's keeping track? P.S. if you've read the Crank Palace you'll know who his mentor is..)
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of Victors."
The words of lovely President Paige rang inside Newt's brain, searching to land in a place where he would be able to comprehend what she said. He stood, gripping the remote to the television, remaining utterly still. A cold wind of terror passed through him, leaving his skin prickling with frigid tension.
'The male and female tributes,' His mind turned that over, inspecting it from different angles to understand what it meant. What abominable acts it would demand. What he would be put into again.
And it clicked.
His brown eyes locked on the screen, immovable as steel, refusing to look away from the woman sentencing him to his demise for the second time.
He smiled.
Then he let out a breath of laughter in disbelief. He was being sent into the Hunger Games. The promise of his 'freedom' was spat upon and completely disregarded. Not that he had much of it anyway.
It took him a minute, maybe longer, he had no clue, for him to even glance away from the television. His gaze went to his hands, and he blinked slowly, somewhat in a haze. His fingers were trembling, but stiffly clutching the remote, turning his knuckles white.
He stared, and he stared. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, despite his meager efforts to try and stop them from doing so.
It didn't matter. None of it did.
None of it ever mattered.
He didn't matter, not truly. Not to the Capitol, most certainly not to President Paige. Not to any of his clients. Not even to his friends, which he would probably soon find out. They could easily turn on him the moment they enter the arena. Kill him to get rid of one more burden.
Oh, the irony of it all.
He is promised freedom from the Hunger Games, then forced into a life he had no desire to take part in, and once more condemned to the very place where he tried to end it all. He never had freedom to begin with. No one did. Not if they were District.
His thoughts drifted to his sister, who was definitely watching the broadcast in the square. She had gone out to buy a few things. What were they again? He forgot. President Paige's words seared into his very being. He couldn't focus on anything else.
Was it not enough? Was everything he did, everything he put up with, was it not enough? His hand tightened around the remote until he couldn't contain his wrath. He hurled it at a glass vase on a nearby table, furious at the world, at the Capitol.
The vase shattered, scattering perfect glass over the entire table and the corner it was in. His breaths came in heavy, short intakes of air, and he swore he saw red. The Capitol viewed them as the scum of the earth, when in reality, they were the ones who fitted such a category. They evidently proved their incapability of keeping their word. They thought it good to toss their Victors back into the playground of death for their amusement, for their entertainment, for something to watch.
They just couldn't find something else to cure their boredom.
His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand as he glared at the broken pieces of the decoration on the floor. Perhaps it wasn't only for their boredom. Perhaps the Capitol trained its citizens to thirst for blood, always making them drawn to the cruel and gruesome reality of the Districts, dressing it up to appear appetizing.
'They don't give a damn about us.'
They'd gladly sacrifice him for more people to watch the Games โ as if that needed to happen.
He took a deep breath in, suppressing the urge to cause all kinds of havoc. They wanted him dead, so he hated them. It was that simple. He never should've trusted their oath. The people in the Districts weren't worth their honesty. They weren't worth freedom or justice.
They were District.
That in itself was enough reason for the Capitol to abandon them to complete brutality.
Newt forcefully brought his gaze to the television, not hearing nor caring for anything the President was saying. He felt nothing but pure disdain for her. But he couldn't focus on that now. His sister was bound to burst through the door at any moment. He couldn't be like this.
He had to be strong for her. For both of them.
He started pacing, thinking of the other tributes and who may be of help to him. Right when he remembered who was on his side in the whole ordeal, the sound of rushed footsteps outside reached his ears.
His sister practically threw the door open, heaving at the entrance. Neither of them moved, staring at one another in total silence, except for the distant sound of the sea's waves. Then, she began to crumble. Tears welled her eyes, and she sobbed out his name. "Newt.."
He quickly ran toward her, barely catching her before she fell on the floor in distress. "Hey, hey, hey," He murmured. "It's fine. It's okay, Lizzy. I'm right here."
Her arms shakily wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like that would save his life. "I...I'm so sorry," She whispered, her tears dampening his black shirt.
"Don't be sorry," He said firmly. "It's not your fault those bloody bastards are putting me in there."
Her body wracked with more sobs. "Newt, this isn't fair!"
He caressed the back of her hair, smoothing out the blond strands with quivering fingers. "I know," He mumbled, his voice cracking. "I know."
He gently rocked them, just how his mum had done for them when they were scared. He wished she was there now. She was much better at comforting than he was, in his opinion. His father, too. He was the solid rock Newt thought could never be shaken.
How wrong his younger self was, to believe such a thing.
They were human, too. Just as vulnerable to the Capitol like the rest of them.
Elizabeth slowly pulled away from him, her cheeks stained with fresh streams of tears. "You can't go back in there...you can't," She shook her head. "Why are they doing this?"
He copied her actions, weakly shaking his head, too. "They've gotten bored?" He scoffed, President Paige's declaration resurfacing in his mind. "Or, as the lady herself says, it's a reminder that none of us can touch them."
His sister gave him a scolding look, although it wasn't as heated due to her visible despair. "This is serious, Newt."
"You don't think I know that?"
Silence lingered in the air again. Newt's jaw tightened with anger and dejection while he avoided her eyes. "I'm sorry," He sighed.
Elizabeth didn't respond. Instead, she gingerly lifted her hand to his face, holding his cheek with such care that the tension he'd been carrying broke. He felt tears brimming his own eyes, and he couldn't fight them. Not this time. He allowed her to pull him closer, resting his forehead on her shoulder as she enclosed her arms around him.
Funny, for an older brother, he should've been the one keeping himself together. She was only a year younger, but still.
Nonetheless, he felt, for a moment, that he was safe. Safe in his home in the Victor's Village, with the one person that kept him going. Safe by the wayside. Safe from the Capitol.
But then that train of thought abruptly ended. No amount of comfort would change the fact that he was returning to the Games. He couldn't run from it. He couldnt hide.
His mouth was squeezed shut to prevent any wretched sobs from escaping him, and he struggled to stay quiet as he tried to blink away the rest of his tears. "I hate them," He said bitterly. "I hate them. They're monsters, Lizzy."
Elizabeth placed a soft kiss on the top of his head. She still didn't say anything, but he knew she agreed. He knew she couldn't say anything, not a lot, at least. Not after the announcement of the Quarter Quell.
His hatred and rage grew, climbing higher and higher until he was glaring at the wall. They were taking him away from his sister, again, and they didn't have a single problem with it.
Well, they were wrong if they thought he'd stay low and not hit back twice as hard.
He could only do so much, being from the Districts, but he was already popular among the Capitol fans. He knew people. He wasn't a stranger in Panem.
He slowly removed himself from Elizabeth's arms, ridding himself of his anguish. "Hey. You remember that party I was invited to?" He paused. "I think I'm gonna go."
. . . . ๐๐น๐บ . . . .
Newt had learned the art of dodging hands when he was in a hurry. People always reached out for him as if he was an angel walking in their midst. Like he wasn't human.
His eyes were set forward, determined to find the man that was supposedly on his side. The party itself, which was held at the Heavensbee mansion, wasn't different from the other ones he attended. Everyone still wore ridiculous clothing. Everyone still gaped at him. Some of them still wore shocked expressions upon seeing him, not anticipating for him to show up a day after the Quarter Quell announcement.
He smiled and easily stepped away from a woman who grabbed his loose white sleeve to greet him. "I'll be right back, love, alright?" That did the trick, as it always did, and she giddily let him go. He continued his stride to the farther side of the room, catching sight of a luxurious banquette couch slightly hidden in a cluster of full plants.
He walked straight over to it.
At closer inspection, he noted the rich velvet material of the banquette. Only a few people sat in the booth, a small wooden table resting in the middle for their drinks or other accessories. He put on one of his charming grins, holding his hands behind his back as he approached the nook. And he guessed correctly.
The person he needed to talk to was sitting right there. Smiling good-naturedly.
"Newt," He greeted, nodding politely in greeting.
"Vince," He returned casually, quietly acknowledging the others at the booth, who he assumed to be the camera crew. "You've been doing well, I presume?"
"Ah, yes. I've never been better." Vince replied, staring at him over the brim of his wine glass.
Newt's expression didn't waver. His smile didn't falter. He was perfect, as usual, for his outwardly appearance. He had to be. But for a split moment, for just a fleeting second, his brows twitched as he forced himself to stay composed.
He couldn't break.
He couldn't snap, no matter how much Vince's reply inflamed him.
Newt cleared his throat, straightening his posture. "I'm delighted to hear that. But, if I recall, it was you who invited me here today." He bowed his head a little, providing another charismatic grin. "And I'd be more than happy to shoot an interview with you. I'm sure the Capitol is dying to know what I think right now."
Vince's demeanor wasn't fazed, but something darker flashed in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by his easygoing nature. Or, his easygoing nature he excellently performed in public. "Of course. It'd be my honor," He rose from his spot on the couch, sliding past one of the crew members. "I'll handle this one," He told them in a relaxed tone. "We can get the whole team on when he'll speak with the other attendees here. I'm sure he wants a minute or two to...really take this in."
He paused beside the Victor, lifting a camera as big as his head on his shoulders. "It'll be good to watch later on, right?" He asked his team. They all nodded and hummed in agreement, clueless to his real intentions.
Vince brought him through the sea of people, most of whom brushed their hands against Newt's arm or waist as he passed. He smiled graciously, feigning sincerity, as if he had to thank them for their unwelcomed touches. They saw him as a sacred treasure, yet didn't care one bit that he was being sent into the Games. If they got what they desired from him, they'd even place bets on his likelihood of winning.
Ignoring the faint discomfort his limp was starting to bring him, he followed Vince down a long, deserted, arched hallway lined with life-sized paintings of haughty people in fine, old-fashioned clothes. Heavensbees, the lot of them were.
They passed multiple doorways, some locked shut while others were sprung wide open, showcasing elegant furniture and dazzling crystal lights above.
At last, they veered into a room filled with towering shelves of books. Thousands and thousands of volumes, floor to ceiling. Newt wasn't all that impressed. He'd been to many superb places during his time as a Victor. None of which were an enjoyable experience. "Alright, tell me what's going on." He demanded, closing the door behind him.
Vince sighed, lowering his camera on a desk. "Newt, the first thing you need to know is that I had...no idea this was going to happen."
Newt scoffed, burying his hands in his pockets. "And I'm just supposed to believe that? After my mysteriously timed invitation to this party?"
"Yes," He retorted. "Had I known Paige was going to carry it out like this...I..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"You'd what?" Newt questioned. "Try to stop it? That's a load ofโ"
"I would've tried convincing her to do otherwise, yes! I would've advised her to think this through. Too many people are invested in you Victors," He began pacing in front of the fireplace. "None of this was planned."
Newt gazed at the polished wooden floor, emptiness draping over him like a cold blanket. "You're a bloody fool if you thought you could change President Paige's mind." He muttered.
"You may be right on that one. But," Vince stopped pacing, looking directly at him as he continued. "What if we didn't have to change it? There's also the option of maneuvering around it."
"That's the same thing." He spat.
"It isn't. Not when you've been in my field for as long as I have."
Vince had always been someone Newt was aware of, sort of as a back-burner individual. Before he became Head Gamemaker, he was there when Newt won his Games, constantly doing something or the other with cameras and recording interviews for the tributes. He somehow climbed the ranks to the position he had now.
"Whatever you're planning, it won't work, Vince." Newt said gruffly.
The Head Gamemaker looked at the surrounding shelves for a moment. "Despite your gloomy mindset, I do have a strategy. It involves all of the Victors."
That made Newt pause, processing his statement. "Pardon? Did you just say the Victors?" He asked incredulously.
"Well, those who know who we are. Or, who I am. Those who are...willing." He said, completely obscure.
"Okay," Newt stomped toward him, meeting him face to face. "Enough of this cryptic language you've got going on. Tell me what you're talking about."
Vince merely stared at him, seconds ticking by until he gestured at one of the chairs next to the desk. "Take a seat. We only have a couple minutes."
. . . . ๐๐๐น๐บ . . . .
One thing Newt enjoyed concerning his District was the salt. Not the kind he ate, but the kind that subtly floated throughout the air, gracing him with an invisible brush of the ocean. He tasted it now as he approached his house in the dead of night, more than glad to have left the Capitol and back to something familiar. The lampposts lining the Victor's Village's homes and the resplendent moon was the only light he had as a guide to not trip over his feet.
He stopped in front of the door, looking at his shadow like it would give him answers for everything, solve all of his problems.
He snorted.
That wasn't happening anytime soon.
He stayed still, inhaling the cool night air, feeling utterly alone in the world under the wide sky of Panem, the lamppost saving him from standing there in the total darkness of his thoughts.
Taking a deep breath in, Newt cautiously opened the door, careful not to be too loud. He didn't want to wake Lizzyโ
Something fell, thumping against the floor. He stiffened and hastily flung his arm to the side of the wall closest to him, searching for the light-switch and flipping it on to see what the noise was.
He furrowed his brows. It was his sister.
She collapsed off the couch in the living room, her hair disheveled and her shirt wrinkled. For some reason, Newt assumed the worst. The worst he had gone through. "Elizabeth?" He immediately sprinted to where she crouched, tripping a bit as he knelt on the floor. There were times when he didn't like his limp, and there were times when he really didn't like his limp. "Elizabeth, are you okay? What's wrong?"
She stuttered, and he barely noticed her eyes, bloodshot and puffy. "I-It's nothing, I'm sorry. You shouldโ" She roughly wiped her nose. "You should go to bed. You've had a long day."
"By the looks of it, so did you," He murmured.
Elizabeth snorted, but was overcome with another frown. "...I talked to Keisha today," She whispered.
Newt's chest physically hurt, her words stabbing him with unbearable sorrow. His mentor. The only other person who genuinely cared for him. He'd been trying not to think of her, but now reality confronted him through his sister. "Oh..." He didn't know what else to say, desperately attempting to control his fragmented composure.
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth repeated. "I've been trying to do what you've told me, to be strong and all that, butโ" She couldn't finish, choking on the dread that had been suffocating her ever since she learned her brother would be liable to death again.
He pulled her into his arms, letting her cry on his shoulder. "It's alright. I understand." He felt horrible for telling his sister such things, but in the long run, it was true. The Capitol would continue to take and take, leaving nothing but a ruined, broken human being behind. That is, if they're still alive.
Newt didn't want her to fall subject to the fate bestowed on him. He'd do everything in his small power to protect her.
Ah, but how would he reveal the plan to her, with her like this? He had a little time, but that was so fleeting. Anyway, she wouldn't know the full details of it. Only pieces.
Minutes bled into an hour of the two siblings simply talking to one another, reassuring themselves to the best of their abilities under the looming shadow of apprehension. Until Elizabeth changed the topic.
"Hey," She said softly, hesitantly. "You didn't have any...clients before you came back, right..?"
He stiffened, and she noticed. He diverted his eyes, running his hand through his hair, tangling the once smoothly combed blond locks. "No...no, I didn't have anyone. I was too busy doing...interviews. Plus, it's only been a day after the announcement. People are still shocked."
At least, he told himself, he wasn't lying this time. It was true; nobody was in the mood to pay for the pleasure of his company when they were partly drowning in heartache for their favorable Victor. 'That'll soon pass,' He sighed, ignoring that thought for the present. He needed to use what time he had to prepare Elizabeth, however vague it may be.
Plus, he was persistent in trying to keep her in the dark about the things that happen to him in the Capitol. That was an extra burden she had no right to carry. It was his, and his alone.
She looked skeptical at his answer, but let him off the hook. Kind of. "You know you can tell me anythingโ"
Newt cut her off, hugging her tightly. "I know, Lizzy. I'm fine. It's okay."
His response did the opposite of what he was aiming for; she quietly began crying again, and he had a feeling she didn't mean to do so.
He patted her back, neither of them acknowledging what was in store for him in a few months. Nevertheless, her despair fortified his obduracy against the Capitol. Their vows of granting Victors a life free from troubles was the selling lie for Careers to make it their goal to kill other children for their viewing pleasure. Even those who couldn't train for murder, they dangled the prize of a superior life in front of them โ if they even survived the arena โ daring them to challenge the dictatorship of the Games. And he was sick of it.
But perhaps things would be different now. Perhaps, after years and years of failure from previous rebels before him, the odds might finally give them a chance at succeeding. At truly winning. They better. If he was potentially enlisting his sister to danger, they had to succeed.
It was only then that he realized the television was on, the volume turned down so low he assumed it was on mute. It was the reading of the card, showing Paige elegantly declaring war on the Victors whom she was quick to congratulate and parade for all of Panem. How quickly she turned on them and handed them over to torture for a second time. Not that they ever trusted her. He surely didn't.
What was a little more torture, anyway? He'd been caged by it the second he left the arena, and she willingly delivered him to a life of shame and increasing pain. Everything was a show to their President, everyone was on a stage she created. He might as well have a bit of his own fun while on it.
Minho sure would.
Newt's thoughts strayed to the one who would play a vital role in all of it, the one who people in the Districts clung to as their symbol of hope. He almost considered it funny. The person he used snarky humor with on the occasions when they met was the very one they needed for the spark of rebellion to fuse into a wildfire.
It better work. If it didn't, the first person Paige would target was Elizabeth. He held this symbol of hope to high standards, although the symbol himself didn't know that.
Newt wouldn't let this fail. If giving up his life was required in the steps toward a revolution, then he was ready to fulfill that requirement.
All that was left was for the symbol of hope to bear the weight of being a carrier of the flame.
'Well then,' His lips pressed into a thin, rigid line. 'Let's see what you're made of, Mockingjay.'
Rules: Make a poll with seven of your all-time favorite characters from seven different fandoms, and then tag seven people to do the same. See which character is everyoneโs favorite.
thank you for the tag @sapphicseymour! <3
Which of these seven fictional characters is your favourite?
"Lord, I'm one. Lord, I'm two. Lord, I'm three. Lord, I'm four. Lord, I'm five hundred miles from my home." Except it's just Newt's thoughts a couple minutes before his death
โ "They say these are the golden years but I wish I could dissappear, Ego crush is so severe, God, it's brutal out here!"
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐ช๐๐๐๐๐๐ 5: Chaos runs rampant in Thomas' mind as he crumbles with guilt for Brenda and everything she stood for. Still, it plants a fiery flame in him that he won't extinguish any longer.
A/n: no I don't think you understand how bad I felt for Brenda guys, THIS PAINED ME. But, y'know, there is also a little Brendmas in this one ig (is that their ship name??) But again, its all for the plot ;), it's Thomas, guys, it takes him a min to really think things through lol
Oh boy, here we go. (Also, the next chapter will be a little special...sort of an 'extra' one, if you will.)
"Brenda!" Her name tore from Thomas's throat in a panicked cry as he hurtled forward to the middle of the square. Adrenaline and fear clouded every instinct of his, making him see nothing else but his friend laying there, unconscious and vulnerable.
He threw himself in front of her, putting him directly between her back and the whip, hastily flinging out his arms to protect her broken body. It left nothing to deflect the lash, but he didn't waver from his spot, despite how terrified he was. In turn, he took the full force of it across the left side of his face, staggering back from the blinding pain.
Flashes of light consumed his vision as he fell to his knees. Having never been hit by a whip before, he didn't know how to react at first; the only thing he could feel was the explosive stinging and welt rising up, the swelling of his eye pairing nicely with it. He was too shocked to move for a moment until he realized the stones beneath him were wet with Brenda's blood, the air heavy with its scent. "Stop it! You'll kill her!" He screamed.
Thomas took a glance at his assailant's face. Stony, with deep lines, and a stern mouth. Bald, except for the gray beard shaved almost to nonexistence, eyes dark and menacing. The man's arm lifted again, aiming right at Thomas's face.
His hand darted to his shoulder, clawing for an arrow, but, much to his dismay, his weapons were stashed in the woods. He closed his good eye and braced for impact.
"Hold it!" A rough voice barked. Jorge appeared, running out from the crowd and pulling Thomas to his feet. "Oh, excelente." His hand locked under his chin, lifting it for everyone to see. "He's got a photo shoot next week with Teresa for the wedding. What am I supposed to tell his stylists?"
A flicker of recognition crossed the man's expression, but he didn't look too flustered. "He interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal."
His voice was unsettling; an unkind, commanding lilt that made Thomas's skin crawl. Where did he come from? District 11? 3? Or the very Capitol itself?
"I don't care if he blew up the blasted Justice Building! Look at his cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?" Jorge snarled.
The man's voice remained as cold as ever, but a hint of doubt was detectable. "That's not my problem."
"No?" Jorge asked in a tone that dared for the stranger to challenge him. "Well, it's about to be, amigo. The first call I make when I get home is to the Capitol. Find out who authorized you to mess up my Victor's face!"
"She was poaching. What business it is of his, anyway?" The man snapped.
"She's his cousin," Teresa stepped in, holding onto Thomas's other arm. "And, in case you forgot or didn't know, I'm his fiancรฉ. So I suggest you back off." It may not have been a smart move to outrightly threaten a Head Peacekeeper, but she did nonetheless. In fact, it wasn't a good move for any of them to be doing this. But maybe they were the only ones who could even come close to standing up to the authority. There would surely be consequences later, but none of that mattered. Not right now.
The new Head Peacekeeper glanced over his shoulder at his backup squad. Thomas saw a few familiar faces, old friends from the Hob. By the look on their faces, they weren't enjoying the show. One of them, a woman named Marion who was a regular at the Hob, rigidly stepped forward. "I believe, for a first offense, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad."
"Is that the standard protocol here?" The Head Peacekeeper asked.
"Yes, sir," Marion confirmed, several others nodding in agreement.
The man didn't respond right away, thinking of what to say. "Very well." He muttered. "Get your cousin out of here, then, boy. And if she comes to, remind her that the next time she poaches off the Capitol's land, I'll assemble that firing squad personally." He wiped his hand along the length of the whip, splattering them with blood. Brenda's blood. Then he coiled it into quick, neat loops and walked off.
The other Peacekeepers followed after him in an awkward formation, and Thomas rushed to his friend's side. "Brenda," His hands fumbled at the knots binding her wrists. Someone passed them a knife and Teresa cut the ropes. Brenda collapsed to the ground.
"We gotta get her to your mother." Jorge instructed Thomas.
There wasn't any stretcher, but the old woman at the clothing stall sold them the board that served as her countertop. Most of the square had already been emptied, fear taking over the compassion of the crowd, which was understandable.
Once they laid Brenda facedown on the board, and after Thomas grabbed her jacket, Teresa, Jorge, and a few other brave souls began carrying her to the Victor's Village. "Get some snow on that," Jorge ordered.
Thomas didn't know his mentor was talking to him at first, but one sharp look from him indicated he was. Scooping up a handful of snow, he pressed it against his cheek, numbing the pain slightly. His left eye was tearing heavily, but he forced himself to follow the others in the dimming light. His injuries were nothing compared to Brenda's.
As they walked, the ones helping them put the whole story together. Brenda had likely gone to their previous Head Peacekeeper's house, since she'd done that a hundred times, knowing he always paid well for a wild turkey. Instead she found the new Head Peacekeeper, a man they heard someone call Romulus Leavitt. He put Brenda under immediate arrest and, of course, since she was standing there holding a dead turkey, there was little she could say in her own defense. Word of her predicament spread quickly, and she was brought to the square, forced to plead guilty for her crimes, and sentenced to a whipping to be carried out promptly.
By the time Thomas showed up, she'd been lashed at least thirty times. She passed out at around twenty.
Snow began to fall, making visibility more difficult than it already was. He stumbled on the path to his house behind the others, using his ears more than his eyes at that point. At last, a golden light colored the snow as the door opened. His mother, who was, without a doubt, waiting for him after a long day of unexplained absence, took in the scene at her doorstep.
"New Head," Jorge said, earning a curt nod from her as though that explained everything.
Then, all Thomas could do was watch as his mother switched into an entirely different person. From calling him to kill a cockroach, to a woman as steady and immovable as a rock. When a sick or dying person was brought to her, he could see who she truly was at heart. In seconds, the long kitchen table was cleared, a sterile white cloth spread across it, and Brenda hoisted onto it. His mother poured water from a kettle into a basin while ordering Chuck to pull a series of her remedies from the medicine cabinet. Dried herbs, tinctures, and store-bought bottles.
She did magic, adding drops of this and that into the basin, possessed with utter clarity in her work. Soaking a cloth in the hot liquid, she gave Chuck instructions to prepare a second brew.
His mom glanced over at him. "Did it cut your eye?"
"No, it's just swelled shut," Thomas instantly mumbled, his heart still pounding a hundred beats per minute. It felt like he wasn't even there, not all the way at least. Half of him still remained at the whipping post.
"Get more snow on it," She told him. Clearly, her top priority wasn't him at the moment, and he didn't have a single problem with that.
"Can you save her?" He choked out. His mother didn't say anything, too busy wringing the cloth and holding it in the air to cool somewhat.
"Don't worry," Jorge laid a hand on his shoulder. "Used to be a lot of whipping. Men and women. She's the one we took them to."
With a feather-light touch, she started to clean the mutilated flesh on Brenda's back. He felt sick to his stomach, nauseous, and completely useless as the last bits of snow dripping from his glove fell into a puddle on the floor. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
'Focus.'
All he could see was his friend's ruined back. He couldn't see anything else.
'Focus.'
What was he supposed to focus on?
'Breatheโ'
Teresa came and put him in a chair, holding a cloth filled with fresh snow to his cheek. "You're okay, just keep breathing. It's going to be okay, Tom."
Hazelle arrived, breathless and anxious, fresh snow in her hair. Without saying a word, she sat on a stool next to the table, taking Brenda's hands and holding it against her lips. His mother didn't so much as glance at her, engrossed in a way that only happened when a sick or injured patient was set before her. Only Chuck could occasionally enter that zone with her.
Despite her expert hands, it took a long time to clean the wounds, arrange what shredded skin could be saved, apply a salve and a light bandage. As the blood cleared, Thomas could see where every stroke of the lash landed and felt it right in the cut on his own face. He did the math in his head; multiplying that once, twice, thirty times and only hoped that Brenda would stay unconscious.
Apparently, that was too much to ask for.
While the final bandages were placed, a groan escaped her lips. Hazelle caressed her hair and whispered something as his mother and Chuck went through their small store of painkillers, the kind normally accessible to doctors. They were hard to come by, offensively expensive, and constantly in demand. His mother had to save the strongest for the worst pain.
But for him, none of it would be there if he were in her shoes. He couldn't endure watching other people suffer. It broke and ruined him in a way that took far too long to recover from. Those painkillers would be gone in a day.
His mother aimed to preserve them for those who were actually in the process of dying, to ease them out of the world. Since Brenda was regaining consciousness, she decided on an herbal concoction she could take by mouth. "That won't be enough," Thomas snapped. They stared at him. "That won't be enough, I know how it feels. That will barely knock out a stupid headache."
"We'll continue it with sleep syrup, Thomas, and she'll manage it. The herbs are more for the inflammationโ" His mother stated calmly.
"Just give her the medicine!" He yelled at her. "Give it to her! Who are you to decide how much pain she can stand!?"
Brenda, at his raised voice, tried to hold out her hand to him. The movement caused fresh blood to stain her bandages and an agonized sound to come from her mouth.
"Take him out," His mother said in a leveled tone. Jorge and Teresa were quick to obey, dragging Thomas from the room while he shouted obscenities at her, kicking blindly to free himself from their grip. They pinned him down on a bed in one of the extra bedrooms as he thrashed under them.
"You don't know what she's feeling! Damn it!" He practically shrieked. He kept doing so until he had to stop fighting, the energy draining out of him. He laid there, crying, tears trying to squeeze past the slit of his eye.
He heard Teresa whisper to Jorge about President Paige, about the uprising in District 8. "He wants us all to run," She said, but their mentor didn't offer any words of encouragement to the matter. In fact, he didn't say one thing concerning the plan.
After a while, Thomas's mother came in and treated his face. She held his hand, caressing his arm, but he stayed silent. Jorge took it upon himself to fill her in on what happened with Brenda.
"So it's starting again?" His mom murmured. "Like before?"
"By the looks of it," Jorge sighed.
Thomas didn't know exactly what they meant by things starting again, but he was too angry and hurting to care. He had the idea that worse times were returning, and when he heard the doorbell ring, his whole body froze. Then he shot straight out of bed, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that brought to his eye.
In the dead of night, there could only be one possible answer as to who was at the door: Peacekeepers.
"They can't have her," He whispered helplessly.
"Might be you they're after," Jorge reminded him.
"Or you," He said.
"Not my house, hermano," Jorge pointed out. "But I'll get the door."
"No, I'll get it," Thomas's mother spoke with a hushed voice, leaving the room to head to the front door. They all ended up following her. Down the hallway to the insistent ringing of the bell. When she opened it, there was no squad of Peacekeepers, but a single, snow-caked figure.
Jeff.
He held out a small, damp cardboard box to Thomas. "Use these for your friend," He told him as he took off the lid. Half a dozen vials of clear liquid were inside. "They're my mother's. She said I could take them. Use them, please." He ran back into the storm before any of them could respond.
"Crazy kid," Jorge muttered as they followed Thomas's mother into the kitchen.
Whatever she had given Brenda, he was right. It wasn't enough. His friend's teeth were gritted and her flesh glistened with sweat. His mom filled a syringe with the clear liquid from one of the vials and shot it into her arm. Almost immediately, her face began to relax.
"What is that stuff?" Teresa asked in awe.
"It's from the Capitol. It's called morphling," His mother informed her.
"I didn't even know Jeff knew Brenda," Teresa murmured.
"We used to sell him strawberries," Thomas said. Before he and Jeff became official friends, that was basically how they interacted with each other. Brenda must've been a sort of friend or companion to him as well, then.
"Ah, how sweet." Jorge hummed. Thomas narrowed his eyes at him.
Brenda drifted off to sleep on the painkiller, and everyone deflated in relief. Chuck made them eat some stew and bread, staying particularly close to his brother for comfort. A room was offered to Hazelle, but she had to go home for George. Jorge and Teresa were both willing and ready to stay, but his mother sent them home to bed as well. She knew it'd be pointless to try to get her eldest son to rest, so she left him to tend Brenda while she led Chuck to his room.
Now alone with her in the kitchen, he sat on Hazelle's stool, holding her hand. Minutes passed until he found himself lifting his fingers to her face. He never had cause to touch her like that before, but he couldn't stop thinking about how he had almost lost her. She could've died. The thought shook him, and he let out a trembling breath. He brushed some of her dark hair away from her cheek, his fingers quivering from the fear of accidentally hurting her.
He thought of the first time he met her in the woods. She was much shorter then, obviously, as an 11 year old. She accused him of stealing from her traps. Even then, she was an expert at setting snares. They made quite the duo; fatherless, terrified, yet fervently committed to keeping their families alive. They wouldn't let each other go after that day.
He remembered when he taught her how to swim, the time he twisted his knee and she helped him home. Mutually counting on one another.
Thomas stilled as he put himself in her position. He imagined watching Brenda being sentenced to the Games, having her ripped out of his life, becoming some strange boy's lover to stay alive, and then finally coming home with him. Living next to him. Promising to marry him.
Yeah, that rubbed Thomas the wrong way.
Overwhelming guilt stormed inside his heart, and he struggled to breathe because of it for a moment. Why did it require for her to get whipped, nearing death's door, for him to see any of this?
'I am a coward. I'm selfish.' He was the kind of boy to run in order to save his own life and abandon those who couldn't follow to suffer and die. He was terrible. It was a perfect explanation for why he won the Games at all โ no decent person ever did. Saving Teresa didn't even seem enough. Not if he hadn't studied his real intentions for saving their lives in the arena.
The berries. Those berries contained everything he was, who he was. If he held them out to save Teresa because he knew he'd be shunned if he came back without her, then he was despicable. If he held them out because he sincerely cared for her and wanted her to live above all else, then he was still self-centered, maybe forgivable. But if he held them out to defy the Capitol, he was someone of worth.
What to choose, what to choose.
The longer he thought about it, the more he started to lean toward the possibility of the people in the Districts being right. What if he really did perform an act of rebellion with the poisonous fruit, despite it being an unconscious one? Because a part of him knew, deep down, that it wouldn't be enough to run away with everyone he cared for. It wouldn't fix anything, would it? It wouldn't stop people from being hurt the way Brenda was.
His life in District 12 really wasn't all that different from being in the arena itself. There comes a point where you have to stop running away and turn to face whoever sought your life, to end it. The most challenging thing was to find the courage to do it.
His eyes stayed glued on Brenda, and he almost chuckled. It wasn't too challenging for her. She was born a rebel. He was the one tucking his tail and trying to make a run for it.
"I'm so sorry," He whispered, leaning forward and kissing her forehead as tears flooded his vision.
Her eyelashes fluttered, looking at him through a haze of opiates. "Hey, Thomas."
"Hey, Brenda," He smiled faintly, his hand hovering over her cheek.
"Thought you'd be gone by now," She said.
It was simple. It took him a while to realize it, but it wasn't that complicated. Thomas could die like scurrying prey in the woods or he could choose to die beside Brenda.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and cause all kinds of trouble."
The corners of her lips subtly moved upward. "Me, too,"
And then the drugs pulled her back under.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
Thomas awoke to someone shaking his shoulder. He sat up, lifting his face off the table. His cheek throbbed painfully where Leavitt hit him. Brenda was dead to the world, but her fingers we're locked around his. The smell of fresh bread made him turn to find Teresa looking down at him sympathetically.
"Go on up to bed, Thomas. I'll look after her now."
"Teresa," He blinked away the remnant of his grogginess. "About what I said yesterday, about runningโ"
"I know," She smiled, giving a light shake of her head. "There's nothing to explain."
He saw the loaves of bread on the counter in the pale, snowy morning light. For some reason, that made him want to do everything but rest. "No, I'll...get more snow." He rose from the stool, brushing past her to get his boots on. She didn't argue, but he heard her sigh. Nobody could tell him to do anything when he was truly bent on carrying out his own will. She probably didn't have the strength to convince him to do otherwise.
Once he retrieved a bowl, he carefully walked out the door, making sure he went at a slow pace so he wouldn't trip. The cold air washed over him and his wound as he knelt on the ground, scooping the snow into the container. The gentle whirring of the frosty wind was the only thing that prevented total silence from permeating his surroundings. It made him acknowledge what his new life would entail.
Less than a day ago, he was fully prepared to escape into the woods with his friends and family in midwinter, bearing the high possibility of the Capitol pursuing them. Now, he was committing to something even more riskier. Fighting the Capitol would bring unhesitant retaliation. He could be arrested any moment. Or have a bullet through his skull, if he was lucky to go that quickly.
The Capitol was very creative when it came to deciding the deaths of human beings. There was no telling what he could face.
He imagined those things and became terrified, but he reminded himself of the elephant in the room: They've always had a grip on him in the back of his mind. He was a tribute in the Games. The President plainly threatened him. He took a lash to his cheek. So far, the odds weren't in his favor.
The sound of the door opening caused him to flinch, but he relaxed at the sight of his younger brother exiting the house. "What're you doing out here, buddy?" Thomas asked, clearing his throat in an attempt to clear his anxious thoughts.
Chuck huffed. "I think I'm the one who should be saying that," He knelt next to him, adjusting his orange scarf. "You really should be laying down. Teresa told me you didn't listen to her."
"Oh, but she isn't mom," Thomas drawled. "I'll be okay. If Brenda is fine, then I'll definitely survive this."
"...How's your eye?" Chuck tilited his head to get a better view of it, his voice soft.
He lowered his gaze, his hands tightening around the bowl. "It's not my eye that's bothering me," Suddenly, everything he was thinking about weighed him down. The hard part of choosing to fight against the Capitol was putting his family and friends into danger. They'd have to share his fate. Chuck. His little brother.
His breath hitched. "How can we live like this? How can anybody live like this?"
He expected for his brother to question him, ask him why he'd say that, or perhaps make a joke to enlighten the mood. But Chuck had a way of catching him off guard sometimes. "It's not living," He murmured. "But...since the last Games, something's different. I can see it."
Thomas was speechless. Thankfully, he managed to find his voice after his pause. "What can you see?"
Chuck looked him in the eye. "Hope,"
Just then, an understanding claimed his mind. He was so worried about Chuck being hurt by the Capitol that he didn't acknowledge the facts. They already have. They've killed his father in the mines. They've sat by as he almost starved to death. They've chosen him as a tribute, then forced him to watch his brother volunteer and fight to the death in the Games. He's been hurt far worse than many had at the age of thirteen.
"You know everything I do circles back to you and mom," Thomas said.
"Mhm. But you don't have to protect us, y'know," Chuck quipped, then he became serious again. "We're with you."
Yes. That is the thing to remember when dread tried to swallow him up. What he was set out to do, whatever this path brought him, it was for his family. He still may not have known what to do exactly, but deciding not to run away was a good first step.
Thomas set the bowl down and pulled his brother into his arms, hugging him securely. "I love you."
"Love you, too," Chuck's muffled reply came under his scarf. Flecks of snow dotted his curly brown hair, tickling Thomas's nose.
He couldn't save Alby, he couldn't save any of the younger kids from the arena, but he'd give his life to ensure Chuck at least wouldn't have to go through such agony.
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
Downstairs, Thomas found his mother and Chuck tending to a subdued Brenda. After he gathered enough snow, he went inside and reluctantly got some sleep. That morning, in the shower, his brain wasn't assembling lists of supplies for the wild, but trying to figure out how the people organized the uprising in District 8.
"Can't you give her another shot?" He fought to keep his voice calm, noticing the look on Brenda's face. The medicine must've been wearing off.
"I will, if it's needed. We thought we'd try the snow coat first," His mother said, removing the bandages. She laid a clean cloth across the angry flesh and nodded to Chuck.
Stirring what appeared to be a bowl of snow in the same large bowl he used, Chuck went over to their mom. There was a tinted light green color inside of it this time, giving off a sweet, clean scent. Chuck carefully began to ladle it onto the cloth, and Brenda's eyes flickered open, confused, but then she let out a sound of relief.
"We're lucky we have the snow," His mother sighed.
Thomas didn't want to think about what it must've been like to recover from a whipping in midsummer. "What did you do in warm months?"
A crease appeared between his mother's brows as she frowned. "Tried to keep the flies away, mostly."
'Yup, shouldn't have asked.' His stomach turned at the thought. Meanwhile, she filled a handkerchief with the snow-coat mixture and held it to the weal on his cheek. Immediately, the pain receded. "Oh, man. That's great. Why didn't you put this on her last night?"
"I needed the wound to set first," Her thumb gently brushed his cheek, examining his injury.
He stared at his mother, feeling remorse crush him from head to toe. She helped his close friend, treated him kindly, but he yelled awful things to her. "I'm sorry. About screaming at you yesterday."
She smiled, just a bit. "I've heard worse. You've seen how people are, when someone they love is in pain."
Someone they loved. Thomas lowered his eyes. Of course he loved Brenda. But what kind of love was it? He didn't have a direct answer, and that bothered him. He did kiss her last night, but it was only on her forehead. Emotions were running high. Maybe she didn't even remember it. Maybe it was better that way.
He batted those thoughts away. He couldn't be worrying about kisses when he had a rebellion to incite. "Where's Teresa?" He asked to distract himself.
"Oh, she went home when we heard you stirring. Didn't want to leave her house unattended during the storm," His mother said, ruffling Chuck's hair as he passed by to hold Bark.
A blizzard hit while he rested, which he was grateful for. It meant no Peacekeepers would come knocking on their door. It also gave him time to think. "Did she get back alright?" The downsides of a blizzard in District 12 was that anyone could get lost in a matter of yards and wander off course very quickly.
"Why don't you call her and check?" Chuck asked, hefting Bark in his arms as the Labrador panted happily.
Thomas nodded, going to the study room. He avoided it as much as possible ever since his meeting with President Paige, but he focused on the task at hand. He dialed Teresa's number, and after a few rings, she answered. "Hey, I just wanted to make sure you got home," He said.
He was met with silence on the other line for a couple seconds before she chortled. "Thomas, I live three houses away from you."
"I know," He muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But with the weather and allโ"
"Okay, yes, I'm fine. Thank you for checking," Teresa groaned exaggeratedly. Then she was quiet for a moment. "How's Brenda?"
"All right. My mom and Chuck are giving her a snow coat now," He glanced at the window, watching the roaring winds outside.
"And your face?"
He rolled his eyes. He hoped she wouldn't ask, but he couldn't get away with a lot of things when it came to Teresa. "I've got some, too. Have you seen Jorge?"
"Mhm," She sounded like she was chewing on something now. "I checked on him. Dead drunk. But I built up his fire and left him some bread."
"I wanted to talk toโ" He cut himself off, remembering that the phone was definitely tapped. "To both of you." He finished.
"Probably have to wait till' after the weather calms down," Her tone was equivalent to a shrug. "Nothing much will happen before that, anyway."
"No, nothing much," He agreed.
She was right, as always. The storm took two days to blow itself out, gifting them drifts higher than his own head. Another day before the path was cleared from the Victor's Village to the square. During that time, he helped in tending to Brenda, applying snow coats to his cheek, all while keeping in mind everything he could about the uprising in District 8. The swelling in his face went down, leaving him an itchy, healing wound and a black eye. Wonderful.
The first chance he got, he called Teresa to see if she wanted to go into town with him. She did, and they set out to rouse Jorge and drag him along. He complained, but not heavily. They waited to talk until the village was well behind them, knowing it was absolutely not safe to discuss anything there.
Jorge yawned, breaking the silence. "So we're all heading off into the great unknown, are we?"
"No," Thomas said, looking away from the ten-foot walls of snow on either side of the path. "Not anymore."
"Worked through the flaws in that plan, did you, hermano?" He asked, amused. "Any new ideas?"
A beat passed before Thomas spoke. "I want to start an uprising."
Jorge instantly laughed. It didn't even sound like a mean one, which was a little unnerving. "Well, I want a drink. You let me know how that works out for you, though."
"Then what's your plan?" He snapped.
"My plan," Jorge looked at Thomas with a raised brow. "Is to make sure everything is just perfect for your wedding. I called and rescheduled the photo shoot without giving too many details."
"You don't even have a phone," Thomas muttered, irritated.
"Trina fixed that. Do you know she asked me if I'd like to give Teresa away? I told her the sooner the better."
Teresa did a double-take. "Whatโ"
"Jorge." He pleaded, not in the mood for jokes.
"Thomas." His mentor mimicked. "It won't work."
They clamped their mouths shut as a team of men with shovels walked by. When they were out of earshot, the square was too close to continue the conversation. They stepped into it and came to a stop simultaneously. Once in a blue moon, Teresa was wrong. And she was this time.
Their assumption that nothing would happen in a blizzard fell flat. The square was transformed. A huge banner with the seal of Panem hung off the roof of the Justice Building. Peacekeepers, in pristine white uniforms, marched on the freshly swept cobblestones. On the rooftops, more of them occupied nests of machine guns. The line of new constructions is what scared him the most: an official whipping post, several stockades, and gallows.
"Leavitt's a quick worker," Jorge mused.
Some streets away from the square, he saw a blaze flare up. None of them had to say where it was. The only place that could be was the Hob.
"Jorge," The familiar feeling of his throat closing in on him happened again as Thomas clenched his hands. "You don't think everyone was still inโ"
"Nah, they're smarter than that. You'd be, too, if you'd been around longer," He said coolly. "Well, I better go see how much rubbing alcohol the apothecary can spare."
He trudged off across the square as Thomas glanced at Teresa. "What's he want that for?" But then, he realized why the second after he spoke the question aloud. "Oh no. No. We can't let him drink it. He'll kill himself, or at the very least go blind. I've got some white liquor put away at home."
"Me, too. Maybe that'll hold him until we can find more," Teresa kicked a stray piece of snow next to her boot. "I need to check on my family."
"I have to go see Hazelle." He grew worried. Brenda's mom should've been on his doorstep the minute the snow had cleared. There still wasn't any sign of her.
"I'll come, too, then. Drop by the bakery on my way home," Teresa nodded in the direction of Hazelle's home, walking a step or two ahead of him. The streets were almost deserted, which technically wasn't unusual at that time of day if people were in the mines or kids at school. But none of them were. He caught glimpses of faces peeking at them out of doorways, through cracks in shutters.
Thomas felt like a monster because of it. Who was he to want to start an uprising? A major flaw stood in the plan that he and Brenda were too blind to see. An uprising meant breaking the law, thwarting authority. Yes, the two of them had done it their whole lives, with poaching, trading on the black market, mocking the Capitol in the woods. But for many of the people in District 12, just going to the Hob would be too risky. And he expected them to assemble in the square with...what? Bricks and torches? The mere sight of him and Teresa made people pull their children away from the windows and hastily draw the curtains.
He kept his gaze on their boots, not wanting to appear threatening.
They found Hazelle in her house, nursing a very sick George. Thomas recognized the measles spots. "I couldn't leave him," She nearly mumbled. "I knew Brenda would be in the best possible hands."
"Of course," Thomas reassured. "She's much better, too. My mom said she'll be fully healed in a couple of weeks."
"That's good," Hazelle glanced nervously at her empty washtub. "What with the Hob going out of business and the mines being closed down, she won't have to be in a hurry to get better."
"The mines shut down?" Teresa asked, frowning with worry.
"Sure did. Word is they're closed until further notice."
Thomas looked to her empty washtub. "You closed down, too?" Her work of getting laundry from some of the merchants in town was another reason why Brenda's family was able to stay afloat. Well, before he started giving to them after he won the Games.
"Not officially," Hazelle said. "But everyone's afraid to use me now."
"Maybe it's the snow," Teresa pitched in.
"No, I made a quick round this morning. Nothing to wash, apparently." She sighed.
George wrapped his arms around Hazelle. "We'll be okay, ma."
That's all it took for Thomas to grab a handful of money from his pocket and put it on the table. "My mom will send something for George."
. . . . ๐ฟ . . . .
The door exploded open, Chuck bursting through it with a grin so wide it looked painful. "The teacher's announced a mandatory programming! I bet it's gonna be your guy's photo shoot!" He said in a sing-song voice.
Thomas's hand lingered in the air as Bark left him for his real owner, his tail wagging enthusiastically. "It can't be. They only did the pictures yesterday."
Chuck shrugged. "Welp, that's what I heard."
Four long weeks had gone by. When Thomas thought the days couldn't get any worse, they did. The mines remained shut for two weeks, and by that time half of District 12 was starving. Tesserae sign-ups went through the charts, but even then the kids didn't always receive their grain. When the mines did reopen, wages were cut, hours extended, and miners were sent into horrendously dangerous work sites. The installations in the square had to be one of his nightmares coming true; people were dragged in and punished for offenses so overlooked that they'd forgotten they were illegal.
Brenda went home without anymore talk of rebellion between them. But he predicted that everything she saw, the punishment she endured being inflicted upon others, would only strengthen her resolve to fight back.
The one not-so-dreary thing that occurred was having Hazelle become Jorge's housekeeper for extra income. It was strange to go inside his mentor's house and find it clean, food warming on the stove. It actually felt like a home instead of a giant stash of garbage and bottles of liquor โ which he was running out on, despite his and Teresa's rations.
That, and everyone avoided him in public lately.
The tortuous day he experienced yesterday, however, was so obnoxiously unpleasant that he had to remind himself of the horrible punishments other people were going through. His punishment involved Trina ordering everybody around for the wedding photo shoot. Mary dressing him in multiple suits that 'President Paige picked out herself.' He hated them all the more. Poor Teresa had to try on six different gowns โ also handpicked from the President โ each one requiring its own headpiece, shoes, jewelery, hair, and makeup.
He was yet again thankful that he didn't have to be in her specific position.
Sure enough, when they gathered around the television at seven-thirty, he realized Chuck was right. Marcus Flickerman, speaking before a standing-room-only crowd in front of the Training Center, talked to a cluster of appreciative citizens about his and Teresa's upcoming marriage. He introduced Mary and Mark, who were now beyond renown for their fashion designs, and after a minute of chitchat, their attention was directed to a giant screen.
Apparently, in the Capitol, there were opportunities to vote for their favorites at each stage. Favorite suit, favorite dress, favorite accessories, favorite hairstyle, everything Mary and Mark poured their souls into. People screamed and cheered for the ones they liked, booed for the ones they didn't. Marcus announced that interested parties had to cast their final vote by noon on the following day.
"Let's get Thomas Everdeen and Teresa Agnes to their wedding in style!" He hollered to the onlookers. Thomas rolled his eyes, getting ready to shut off the television, but Marcus began telling the others to stay tuned for the other big event of the evening. "That's right," He grinned. "This year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"
"What will they do..?" Chuck asked, nudging Bark away as he kept licking his face. "It isn't for months yet."
They turned to their mother, whose expression was indecipherable. "It must be the reading of the card."
The anthem played, and his throat tightened with revulsion as President Paige took the stage. She held a simple wooden box, most likely containing the very thing his mother mentioned. The anthem ended, and Paige began to speak, to remind them all of the Dark Days from which the Hunger Games were created. When the laws for the Games were laid out, they dictated that every twenty-five years the anniversary would be marked by a Quarter Quell. It would call for a glorified version of the Games to make fresh the memory of those killed by the Districts' rebellion.
President Paige continued to tell them what happened in the previous Quarter Quells. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every District was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
Thomas could feel the burden of such a horrid decision even sitting comfortably in his home. Picking the kids who had to go. It sounded devastating, being turned in by one's own neighbors, friends.
"On the fiftieth anniversary," Paige said solemnly. "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every District was required to send twice as many tributes."
A field of forty-seven kids killing each other rather than the standard twenty-three. Worse odds, and much less hope and a lot more terror. That was the year Jorge won.
"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," Their President declared. She opened the lid of the box, revealing tidy rows of yellowed envelopes. Clearly, whoever devised the Quarter Quell system had prepared for centuries of Hunger Games. Paige removed an envelope marked with a 75. She ran her finger under the flap and pulled out a small square of paper.
Without hesitation, she read, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of Victors."
His mother gave a sharp cry, as though in pain. "No!"
The color drained out of his brother's face. "What does she mean..?"
Thomas, however, felt like the people in the crowd on television, watching something that he didn't understand. What did she mean? Existing pool of...what? Victors?
'Focus.'
Victors. Those were people who already won the Games.
'Focus.'
It meant they never had to go through that torment again.
'Focus.'
Then, Thomas understood. Why his mother was weeping. What it all meant. For him, at least.
