Surya Mirga. Twenty-six. Victor of the 112th. Mentor. âThe thief, as will become apparent, was a special type of thief. This thief was an artist of theft. Other thieves merely stole everything that was not nailed down, but this thief stole the nails as well.â
âI know,â Moxie spoke back, arms crossing to mirror Suryaâs stance. She hated the concept of Surya every being supposedly correct about anything but she was in this case; there was truly nothing they could do other than wait. Waiting made Moxie feel powerless, like most other things in Panem. âI â just feel â I feel awful,â Moxie admitted, feeling as if she were in any way to blame.
Surya rolled her eyes. âIâm sure youâre the only one who feels that way,â she muttered, bitter and cruel without hesitation until the corner of her vision felt the hot flash of a photographer. She didnât want to be this exposed right now, but itâd look unprofessional to start guzzling wine alone at this hour. She reached a hand out to get a hold of Moxieâs upper arm. âDoes your baby let you drink yet?â
âOne of âem died.â She spoke. That much she knew. Tribute stats were a great thing to have on oneâs phone when they didnât feel like actually paying attention. âThe other survived, not sure where theyâre at now though. Both of yours made it right?â
Surya clicked her tongue in a noise of disappointment, but she offered no half-hearted sympathy for the loss of District Fourâs tributes. âRhea and Avenue, yes,â she named her tributes as soon as the conversation rounded back to her personal topic of interest. âI think itâs about time for a Capitol victory. I fear they may give up on Reaping the Capitol children if no one wins soon.â It was not so simple, but she refused to stay in a losing district for too long.Â
I'm one of one
I'm number one
I'm the only one
Don't even waste your time trying to compete with me (don't do it)
No one else in this world can think like me (true)
I'm twisted (twisted)
I'll contradict it, keep him addicted
Lies on his lips, I lick it
Unique
That's what you are
Stilettos kicking vintage crystal off the bar
Category, bad bitch
I'm the bar (ooh)
Alien superstar (unique)
(Hit me with a) whip, whip
Sirena frowned, gaze casting back towards Surya. She wasnât sure what to say in response to that. âI uh⌠Not that I know of? What kind do you have?â She moved around to sit across from Surya. âIt certainly is interesting.â She spoke, eyes returning to the screen. It was definitely nothing that had been done before.Â
âI donât even know,â she muttered. It was cold, that was all that mattered as she ate another spoonful and grasped the bowl between her hands. It balanced the fever that came with alcohol. âHow did you tributes do?â She hadnât paid much attention to who died in the arena, only focused on her own tributes who lived.
âSmartâ Abel smiled, and reached out to clink his bottle against her glass before he took a sip, closing his eyes as the liquid slid down his throat with that familiar burn. He laughed then at her comment. âWhatâs got you shit faced in the middle of the day Surya?â he asked then. âThatâs usually my forteâ
Surya took another sip of her wine, swallowing down the liquid out of habit for the day than any real desire to drink more. She could already feel her sinuses inflaming, but that was a problem for tomorrow. âWhatâs got everyone acting like what happened today is normal?â she countered. Lysander wasnât the first Head Gamemaker to die, but she knew enough about him too know this wasnât planned. This wasnât some grand show to stir up Games drama, and this wasnât an act of punishment.Â
Had the Capitol tributes died within the time it had taken her to get from the lobby to the lounge? That was her first guess at what Surya was getting at anyway. Her gaze quickly darted to the nearest screen, zeroing in on the running statistics on the bottom left corner of it. But Avenue Barcroft and Rhea Cardairel were still alive, and so were Hazel and Pepper. There had not been any more deaths since the bloodbath. The Games had not stopped either, which was something a small part of her had foolishly hoped would happen since the announcement of Lysanderâs death. âWhat needs fixing?â Ash asked as she turned to the drinks cart, intent on finding something good to tide her over through the night.
Surya let her spoon clatter along the side of the dish, slipping into the quickly melting ice cream. âDo you think that anything that happened today was normal?â she inquired. âOr is this not your first trip to the bar today?â
The way Moxie took how Surya treated her normally was in stride; not allowing the tormenting to eat away at her because if she were the better person, Surya wouldnât get a rise out of her. Moxie couldnât contain herself this time, as she finally allowed herself to snap at Surya in a hushed voice, âNo, of course Iâm not, whatâs wrong with you?â Moxie huffed and allowed her face to fall, ignoring the potential tremble threatening to shake at her lower lip. No. She was not going to cry in front of this woman. âI have friends who are on the Gamemaker team, the same as everyone else here,â Moxie defended, her brow knitting together, âSo, excuse me for wanting to know if something happened to them.â
Surya was so deep in her own mind and heart she was visibly taken aback by Moxieâs response. She hadnât really thought much about any other people involved in this, but Lysander hadnât been the only one there. It only made her single statement to the press more powerful, she imagined. âWe arenât going to know,â Surya muttered, tempted to cross her arms, but she saw the crowds gathering in the lobby. She had to watch her body language, so she clasped her hands behind her back. The dress she was wearing had a deep V at the back, exposing the smooth skin expertly mended by a Capitol doctor. No one ever really knew what happened behind closed doors and blank screens in the Capitol. âBut weâll be told soon, probably.â
Sirena entered the room, intent on peaking in on the games. She hadnât kept up well, nor had she really gotten to know her tributes, the least she could do was check on the one tribute she had left. Her eyes flickered to Surya as the other spoke. âNow, I just donât believe that.â She replied, eyes moving back to the screen. âMaybe youâve just got the wrong kind.â
âIs there a kind that brings the Head Gamemaker back to life?â she inquired, blinking as she tried to focus on whoâd walked into the room. She hated how pathetic she sounded, like sheâd lost a knight in shining armor. Sheâd lost a man whose fatherâs name she didnât remember, especially not after this much wine. âQuite the year to send the arena into space.â
Abel had just dropped Emme off at her motherâs, so now it was time for a drink, and he didnât even bother being subtle about it, carrying the large bottle of whiskey into the tower without apology. It was launch day after all, nobody could judge, could they?
âWhat needs fixing?â He asked, plopping himself down beside Surya and twisting the cap. âBecause this stuff is like super glueâ
Surya looked at Abel, her eyelids feeling heavy between the alcohol and sugar crashing together at once. She balanced the bowl of ice cream on her knee and reached out to grab the glass of wine sheâd nearly forgotten about on the floor next to her. âIâll stick to wine. Better not to mix at this point,â she admitted. It was already going to be a difficult morning, no need to make it worse with harder alcohol now. She turned her gaze to the television, squinting a little as she tried to focus on the pixels and comprehend what was happening on screen. âI think the TV needs to be fixed.â
Rhea and Avenue made it. At least they made it. At least there was a chance of something good in the future, if only one of them could live. A co-mentor was a built-in friend, until that ended. She could use a friend, but in oneâs absence, a bottle of wine would do. And then some. Lunch and dinner had gone by, and the only thing she found appetizing was a large bowl of ice cream, to counter the slight fever of drunkenness. âIâve discovered something very sad,â she announced when she heard someone else enter the lounge where she was curled up on a plush chair. âThere are some things ice cream cannot fix.â
This is what Moxie had meant about the Games beginning to overreach, and she wasnât sure if she could do this anymore. Her body held frozen, a hand instinctively clutched at the infant swaddled across her chest as she was unable to tear her eyes away from the carnage. She began to count softly to herself, if not for her own benefit â her eyes felt too wide, as she desperately scanned the screen to see if it was anyone she had known. Words like rebellion and uprising flit briefly through her mind when she hits âfifty-fiveâ on her count and the stream cuts outs.
The silence that encapsulates the room feels deafening, and she canât stand it, breaking the silence voice feeling shriller than she wouldâve preferred but asking the important question, âDo we know who was there?â She thinks through who could even potentially be there; Chip. Addy worked for Lysander. Slate, Slate was his assistant â would he haveâŚ?
Surya retreated back inside quickly. Her declaration, brief and heartfelt, could have been too easily muddled by too much talk. She left it at that, and made sure to flick the swinging door of the lobby shut behind her when a photographer tried to chase after her for more comment.Â
A friend had already died; she couldnât have her two tributes dying, too. More people were moving now, gathering and rushing, as if there was really anything to do. The sound of Moxieâs voice was grating and comforting at once. There was perhaps no better comparison for Surya than a pumice stone. A pumice stone Surya was desperate to snap at, if only because it was a safe space to do so. âAre you enjoying the show?â
Surya saw the text as it flashed across her phone screen, but she paid little notice to it at first. She was in the homestretch, gathering as many sponsors as she could to the same viewing room so she could loudly proclaim a path to victory when her tributes got out of the bloodbath alive. Despite the girlsâ skills, she believed they would get out of the launch alive. Avenue knew the odds too much; Rhea knew the cameras too well, even if she didnât get all the psychology and mechanics of it. She knew how to garner attention. Surya appreciated it.
The press conference was a big part of the Hunger Games news recently, of course. A special little presentation, one that required Lysanderâs attention to prepare for rather than requiring his attention in her bed the night before launch. She slept soundly, nonetheless. Woke nervously, knowing that at the breakfast table that morning she would not see Rhea or Avenue. All she could depart to them was done with, so all she had to do now was garner them attention outside the arena. She had a plate of fruit and a coffee with too much sugar, and went to the lobby.Â
Half the discussion was about the press conference, half about the arena. She understood why this televised presentation was so important, to welcome a new district. But she hardly thought it worthy of as much discussion as the launch itself.Â
She ordered a mimosa at the bar and asked for it to be delivered to a specific viewing room.Â
She received a text she only glanced at. She assumed, half-reading, that it was only a little joke from Lysander telling her not to read too much into the arena.Â
He was on screen. She didnât look at his text again, instead sitting with her messages open, more focused on what part of his speech she might turn into a cheeky joke for him to come home to.
Lysanderâs voice cut out. The screen went black. But several people in the room were on their phones or tablets, watching a secondary, unedited stream from the Capitol Gazette. She recognized the sight immediately.Â
Smoke. Her first love.
Once upon a time, she wished she could twist and float through the air like smoke, creating images and mirages that fulfilled the dreams of those watching. Sometimes, she thought she met that goal. But today, the smoke was evil. It filled her throat and mouth with acid. It burned her from the inside out. It was a cruel smoke, the kind she pretended didnât exist. It didnât drift off chimneys or cigarettes; it came from something more vile.
Before it cleared, she knew what was beneath it.Â
Take it as a love declaration if you want.
It was all she wanted, to be loved. To be noticed beneath the jewels and makeup and fashion, to be held like she was a child with nothing to offer but loved nonetheless. Maybe itâd been possible, with Lysander, to be so vulnerable. But that possibility was gone in a moment as unlikely as itâd been presented.Â
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone was staring at the tiny screens with the Gazette stream, until that went black, too. Several seconds had gone by. Several more seconds than it took for Surya to process the truth. She was tempted to remain calm, to remain nonchalant and joyous. Sheâd once been known as a joyous girl.
But she wasnât a girl.Â
With a sudden motion, she let loose of the wine glass in her hand. It dropped to the ground, shattering. It gave everyone a reason to gasp, to exhale. Surya didnât say anything as she walked out of the room, walked first toward the elevator and then toward the lobby doors. There was a flurry of activity, yet not enough, in her opinion. If the world would not stand still for this atrocity, it might as well go into hyperactivity.
Her palm hit the glass door hard, just as someone was walking into the building with enough force to shake the frame of the doors. She glanced to her left, and saw a familiar face. A coward dressed up in Gamemakerâs skin. Easily distracted by the camera lights suddenly on her, the influx of questions.... all came before the man was probably medically declared dead.
A lifetime flashed before her. Poverty, victory, joy. Suffering, punishment, depression. The skin and muscle on her back rippled with a phantom ache at the memory of her selfish disobedience years before.Â
Her eyes shifted, focusing in on a lens that she could see turning, shifting, zooming in on her.
You belong in the roaring '20s. Imagine yourself as a character in The Great Gatsby, rocking flapper clothing, listening to jazz, and drinking martinis without a care in the world. Sounds about right, doesn't it?
Dreamy, confusing and vague. No one knows you, no one, not even you. It must be difficult for you when you're so elusive - as if no one is able to understand you. But we've all been there and what helps is accepting yourself as you are, rather than molding into the shape of others' desires. You are an old soul, sources often call you different names, some which aren't as complimentary but nevertheless you persist and don't give up. You may have sunk a few ships here and there but who doesn't make mistakes (and truly it was their fault for sailing during such circumstances, good for you)
âSurya! I wouldnât have expected you out here so⌠early.â Albany stood up and brushed his hands off on the sides of his pants, leaving a satisfying streak of dirt on his thighs. It was unusual to see the Capitol Mentor out and about - and certainly without either a gaggle of paparazzi behind her or a large pair of sunglasses on her face.
Benny looked down at the roses at his feet. âNo, not yet. These are still barely budding. They alter them, you know. These roses will be nearly as tall as me when they reach maturity. Genus rosa catonius, I think. Unless they changed out the roses from last year.âÂ
He plucked an unopened flower from its stem and rolled it between his fingers before offering it out to her. âThe flowers will be huge, you know. Two, three feet in diameter. But in this state, they make a mighty fine tea - great for hangovers.âÂ
âIâm an early bird,â she quipped before taking a long sip of her bone-chillingly cold iced tea. Just as she needed. She didnât have a fever that registered on a thermometer, but she still felt too hot after a night of too much liquor. As Albany explained the modifications of the roses, she nodded slowly, trying to understand. She didnât know how these scientific modifications worked, but if they made something more aesthetically pleasing, she wasnât going to question too much. She reached out and took the closed flower, looking at it with only mild interest right now in her hazy state. âGood to know. Do you make a lot of teas at home?â
