CHAPTER EIGHT;
sharp objects

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( warning: depictions of drug abuse, addiction )

     It takes at least ten minutes of relentless persuasion, but much to Vesper's joy, Hermia finally gives in and releases her for the evening walk she's been desperate to take for days. There are, however, a strict set of conditions that follow with it — do not leave the perimeters (if only...), do not stay out for more than half an hour, and do not provoke any of the crowds.

     Some of the other advice seems standard, but the crowds... that's something rather new. "What is it," Vesper had joked, "feeding time at the zoo?" — Hermia hadn't found that funny.

     Turns out you can't please everyone.

     Back home, Vesper would take a walk every evening where she could, and on the same route. Stray too far and there could be trouble. Vagary was no place to be wandering around at night, especially if you weren't from around there. Being street smart is simply common sense to anyone who's lived there. She owes her nighttime alertness to her father's advice — when they first moved from the quiet, barren lands near the tracks to the polluted metropolis, it had all felt so foreign to the curious eight year-old. Her father was completely calm, but alert, as he told her what has stuck in her mind ever since:

     Don't walk where the streetlights don't shine. Don't look people in the eye. And most importantly, do not look scared.

     She wasn't allowed to drift out of his sight. "But if you do, hold on to me and don't let go." And when she would latch onto the strap of his satchel, he would add, "No, Vesper, I need to feel you. I need to know you are there." So she would grab the end of his shirt, ball it into her fist so tight her knuckles would whiten sometimes, and she would feel safer than ever knowing that she couldn't let go.

     But this is not Vagary. This is the Capitol.

     And Vesper can't quite figure out whether it's safer or worse than back home. It's certainly more well-lit, as once she gets past the Peacekeepers that guard the doors with unwavering discipline, she can still see the dark hue of her cedar brown ankle boots when she steps out of the building. The breeze is lighter than a feathery caress of her skin, barely rustling her hair as she shoves her hands into her pockets and starts her first lap — strictly no further than a few laps within the premises, as instructed.

     The city still bursts at the seams with painful primary colours and the bustle of life amongst the Capitol crowds. Sure, District Six might work far into the night, but she wouldn't go as far to call it "alive". Vesper can recall numerous occasions where she's spotted workers, both familiar and strangers, giving up on the commute and falling asleep on the train, a bench or simply the cold sidewalk if none of the others are free. But here... it seems the party is only just getting started. Flashes of superficial white teeth gleam from across the road, shrewd cackles and laughs piercing her ears, as they point and jab towards the giant building where, upon one of those floors, Vesper is staying.

     After her first couple of laps, as the shadows begin to shrink and the streetlights illuminate her figure, Vesper feels a pair of eyes lock onto her. Following the invasive feeling she suddenly experiences in her gut, she meets the lime green eyelashes being batted her way with a set of all-too straightened teeth curling into a Cheshire Cat smile. "Oh, goodie goodie, I've found one of them!" she squawks, ushering some more friends over, "Over here, look! Look!"

     Vesper tries picking up her pace, but it's too late by the time she bows her head. A small crowd has culminated around the corner of the building, gawking and ogling at her like some exhibit in the zoo. She's never been to one of them, only heard stories of animals locked in cages for Capitol folk to stare at for their leisure... but for what it's worth, Vesper thinks she has a good idea of what they might have been feeling then.

     "Which one is she?"

     "District Two, isn't it?"

     "No, no! She's District Six! That one with the little boy." A shrill laugh rings out once more.

     "Hey, can you give us a wave?"

     Her jaw clenched as she sucks in a strained breath. What is she, their puppet? Vesper hunches her shoulders and forces the slightest crack of a smile — it's enough to send them into a frenzy as they clap like lunatics from across the street. She doesn't release her breath until she has swooped past the Peacekeepers at the door, careened into the elevator and pressed the button in the centre to take her to the middle floor. Even the sickly vertigo that kicks in every elevator journey seems irrelevant right now.

     Maybe that was feeding time at the zoo, after all.

     I'll walk somewhere else next time, she decides bitterly. She wipes off with her wrist the thin beads of sweat on her temple and steps into Six's lavish living quarters. The isolated echo of her boots against the marble floor suggest the others have gone to sleep — it would explain the room being as dark as possible, what with the larger-than-life window almost spanning across an entire wall, where the moving picture of Capitol life unfolds below.

     Her throat has dried after the strange... no, disturbing encounter she had outside. Vesper doesn't know why it has affected her so much. She finds an empty glass by the sink from earlier and, not bothered in checking whose it was, re-fills it with the cold jug of water nearby. A couple of sips trickle down her throat like a stream in the valley, cool and refreshing. Appreciate it. This could be one of the last decent glasses of water she ever has again. No matter how many times she practised starting fires and water purification, there's always the prospect of an unforgiving arena. What if it's a barren desert, with sand as far as you can see, and sweltering heat that gets under your skin and sends your brain into haywire?

     Vesper would rather not like to tempt fate. Thinking too much about the future takes its toll on her. It's too much to comprehend — what could and might be. The same goes for the past as well, for it doesn't do much good dwelling on what has been. She would much rather spend less time thinking and more time doing. And if she must think, then let it be about what she can control.

     She swirls the remnants of the water around in her glass as she shuffles down into the corridor, where most of the doors appear shut. Light cracks through some of them, and others have only darkness. Icarus appears to be asleep (or at least trying to fall asleep). As for one of the doors at the end, it stays slightly ajar, pouring out a dimly lit slice of late night goings-on.

     It is Dale's room.

     Vesper finds herself drawn to it, charmed by the curiosity that seizes her. She makes sure to stand well out of the way of the door, so her shadow doesn't obscure the light, but enough so she can hear and spot glimpses of him through the crack...

     Dale appears to be in a trance of some sort, stumbling half-consciously to the side of his bed with a bored giddiness. He slumps himself onto the edge of the mattress, and he sighs so hard that Vesper swears she hears a compressed wheeze at the end of it. Surely he must be high on Morphling. It doesn't seem an uncommon state for him.

And then something seems to catch his eye. A photograph which she can't see, stood in a frame on his bedside table, and with trembling hands he closes his fingers around the edges to caress it clumsily. Dale frowns tenderly at it, long and in deep thought — a million thoughts seeming to flash through his mind — then with an exhausted shake of his head, he slumps the photo face-down on the table.

Underneath he pulls out a drawer and rummages haphazardly, until he pulls out a large instrument that makes Vesper's heart lurch with worry:

A syringe, gleaming silver in the light from his room.

He fumbles for a bottle of what she thinks is Morphling and attaches it to the end, and somehow in his efforts he suddenly slips; Dale's legs give way underneath him and he lands sitting on the floor with a hard thump. Nevertheless, he seems somehow unfazed. He gives the syringe a small test-squeeze and watches a minuscule droplet of Morphling shoot out the tip. The needle trembles against his skin, almost puncturing at least a dozen holes in him as he tries to acquire a steady hand. But the only time Dale finds this solace is when his fingers finally close around the handle and the needle slips in — intoxicated, his head lulls back onto the side of the bed, the arteries in his neck screaming even from where Vesper is standing.

She can't watch much more. Slowly, so as not to alert him, Vesper backs away and shuts herself in her room. The image of him self-medicating — self-destroying — stays tattooed in her consciousness. And it suddenly occurs to her that this is the ugly reality of what the Games do to people: if Icarus makes it out, he'll be alive, sure.

But will he be like Dale?

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"Today is the day where your training... really begins," Irma announces at breakfast the next morning. The uncomfortable pause is brushed over enough to ooze professionalism, but not quickly enough to hide her clear distaste in her whole role.

     Dale isn't at breakfast.

     Vesper wonders if anyone else knows what's going on with him, or if she walked in on something private last night. It shouldn't be her number one priority but his empty chair sits glaringly there — and where is he? Drugging himself until he goes comatose, presumably. She's never seen Morphling abuse this bad, never so... intimately.

     "You mean... weapons?" Icarus asks, breaking off a chunk of bread and chewing it slowly.

"Right. Now remember, a lot of the kids in there have had more experience than you. But you shouldn't feel disheartened. Still try and utilise what you already know."

"But we don't know anything," Vesper scoffs, "that's the whole point."

Irma simply blinks at her, fingers delicately raising a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to her lips. "Oh," she shakes her head gently, "you would be surprised."

"Oh!" Hermia slaps the mahogany table enthusiastically with her bony hands. "I almost forgot, silly me! We received a box of tapes while you two were training hard yesterday."

"Tapes?"

"Yes, you know...?"

When no one answers, Hermia rolls her eyes and drops her napkin onto her lap.

"Tapes with re-runs of the Hunger Games in previous years," she answers, as if it's obvious. "I've been trying to get a hold of them for years, but it looks like this year is our jackpot! You may study them as you wish, whether it's interview etiquette or tactics for the arena, although since that changes every year I wouldn't take anything without a generous pinch of salt—!"

"How far do they go back?" Vesper interjects. She's straightened up in her seat now, eyes widened in anticipation. If it's as far back as she imagines, then... she doesn't know what then.

"... Oh, I don't know the exact years. I should expect at least a couple of decades."

A couple of decades.

So, that means somewhere in the box which Hermia points out so dubiously, somewhere wedged in between years that blend into one... is footage of her mother. Her face. Her voice. Her soul. In the flesh. Vesper feels the nape of her neck flush with an emotion she can't put her finger on, and she tries to rub it away with her hand.

     It's still the only thing she takes away from the discussion this morning, when the slight nausea from the elevator kicks in once more as they descend to the Gym. Only this time, she doesn't seem to be the only sickly one in this glass case. Icarus won't stop fidgeting; he rubs circles on his thighs and pats irregular rhythms on them, as he stares ahead in a skittish trance.

     "You'll be fine," she only murmurs, but it still makes him jump a little.

     "I know. I'm just... you know, scared... have you seen the size of some of them? They'll crush me!"

     "Not if you can fight back."

     Icarus managed a half-hearted smile, like he thinks it's some sort of joke. "So, you want me to bulk up in the space of what? Two days?"

     "No," Vesper shakes her head gently, "But if you get familiar with a weapon, I figure you won't need to..."

     The Gym suddenly contains a different atmosphere today — almost heavier, with the new array of stations they can now open their minds to; the sharp objects they can wield now. Now surveying their competition, it pains Vesper to see how blatantly inexperienced they are right now. Nothing about watching Boaz swing his baton around in a psychotic frenzy is comforting. So there is no time to waste...

"Any preferences?" she asks Icarus.

"Mmm, not sure..."

"What about knife throwing?" Vesper nods over to Briony, who manages to toss a knife and lodge it only inches from the bullseye. She remembers his smooth hands assessing the rocks on the shore of Lake Mercury, back when they hadn't been touched by the Hunger Games. "I've seen you skipping stones across the lake. You can toss them in a straighter line than anyone I've seen."

"That's different. I wasn't aiming at anyone then. And I don't like the sound of knives, they're too... sharp."

Amused, Vesper cocks an eyebrow at him with a growing grin. "Too sharp?"

"It's not funny! They freak me out." Once over his stubbornness, his arms unfold from his chest and point in the direction of a station in the far corner. "How about archery? It's a little lighter, I guess."

"Whatever you say, kiddo."

"Don't call me kiddo—"

"Alright, sorry..."

The only other person occupying the station is Hero, District Two's Career girl — it doesn't seem like the obvious choice for her, Vesper thinks. With those toned arms and bulging tendons, she'd have guessed Hero would be one of the first to step onto the wrestling mat, or at least tossing spears. But who is Vesper to judge a Career? It seems she has everything under her belt, because every shot she fires seamlessly through the air hits the target. She never misses.

Right from the moment Vesper picks up the bow, she isn't sure this is for her. It sit weirdly in her arms — it's too light — and her aim is good, but not good enough.

     Icarus, on the other hand, is a whole other story. From the second his fingertips first stroke the sleek design of the bow, he is at one with it. It's rather on the large side but he somehow manages to make it look graceful as he loads it with an arrow. He draws it to his cheek and exhales — something in him stills, his pupils sharpening with focus, and his elbow trembles with the slight strain of his first time holding a bow. With the way he carries himself, you'd think the boy had been hunting for years, when in fact he could barely handle crushing the crabs his mother sometimes bought from the market in the summer.

     He releases. The arrow whistles through the air and buries itself into the target; one ring away from the bullseye.

An impressed silence falls over the two. Not sure how else to react, Icarus picks up another arrow and takes a pointer from the instructor. This time it has inched even closer to the bullseye. Third time lucky, and it's success. The next few shots alternate unwaveringly between being on the money or only a smidgeon away.

Vesper chucks her bow to the side in disbelief. "Well, that was easy..." she mumbles, scratching her head. Hero seems as perplexed as she does, her arrows hitting the target further away but with more aggression now — Vesper can't lie, it is pretty amusing to see a Career get stood up by an innocent thirteen year-old from District Six.

Icarus is positively beaming with pride now. "I think I might've found my weapon."

"Oh yeah? You think?" Scoffing, Vesper hangs her bow back up on the rail, along with the sheath of arrows. "You sure you haven't been practising without me knowing?"

"No, I swear!" he laughs. Then, bashfully, he clears his throat. "You can, um, try some other stuff if you want... you know, I can practice, and you can find something for you."

"So you'd like me to clear off, is that it?"

"Well..."

Before he can say anything, she raises her hands and starts stepping backwards. "Alright, alright, I know my place. But if you need me, holler." Not that he does, she thinks, as Icarus loads another arrow.

Alone at last. Vesper has to admit, while she keeps glancing across at him to make sure he hasn't been assaulted by a Career, it's nice to finally go out on her own path. In all honesty if Icarus hadn't been picked at the Reaping, if it had been some stranger's face she could forget, she would be quite happy going it alone. What was it Blythe used to tell her? Oh, yes: "You've always been a lone wolf at heart."

It's time to think about herself — what does she want? What can she do?

     First she has her try at spear throwing. The spear must be taller than Icarus himself, but it feels less lightweight or liable to flying out of her hands at any unwanted time. Both tributes from District One toss spears across to the mannequin — Emerald's hand isn't so great, but the enthusiasm she oozes in airy giggles suggests she won't quit trying any time soon. The only other person there is the District Seven girl. And she is fierce. Spear after spear slices through the air and lands with a thunk in the mannequin's chest.

Flicking one of her tight platinum blonde braids behind her shoulder, the girl turns and clocks Vesper waiting her turn. Her opal eyes turn abuzz with curiosity and step forward. "You're Vesper, right? District Six?"

"Yeah... yeah, that's me," Vesper says, surprised she remembered. "I'm sorry, I don't think I ever caught your name?"

"I'm Fern. District Seven."

"Right, got it."

Dabbing some sweat from her temples with her wrist, Fern peers behind Vesper to the archery station. "Your little friend's got some gumption, huh?" she remarks. "It's nice to see kids having a chance in the Games for once. Usually they get crushed every year. Good on you for sticking up for him. I noticed you two in the Reapings."

"You did?"

"Uh huh, I think with the right training you could go far. I'm so sorry, I'm in your way!" Fern moves aside suddenly, gesturing to the mannequins with a slender arm.

Vesper poises herself with the spear above her shoulder, taking a few strides for a run up and thrusting her arm forwards. The spear goes flying and soars a little lower than she'd aimed, falling short and hitting the mannequin a little under the waist. With the weight of the spear, it then sinks to the ground and drags the mannequin forward slightly. Next to her she hears a laugh as Fern starts clapping with amusement.

     "Ooh! Right in the crotch... the boys had better watch out for you."

     "I wasn't aiming there," Vesper mutters in defeat.

     "It could be worse. And remember spears aren't just for throwing. Here, let me try." Effortlessly, once more, Fern sends the spear soaring through the air and it lands perfectly in the mannequin, this time right in the stomach. She takes a good look at her as she goes to retrieve some of the spears she's thrown — she's a tall girl, slim and long-limbed, and at first sight not much muscle on her. How does she do it?

     Taking a seat on the bench nearby she thinks aloud, "I would've thought you'd have gone straight for the axe throwing."

     "No, not me. That's Grover's forte," Fern nods over to a younger boy, perhaps around Telle's age, swinging an axe around and appearing to lose control as he staggers backwards with the weight of it. "Besides, that's predictable. District Seven means lumberjacks, right? Not me. I figure..." she pauses to take a sip from a flask of water, "if I do end up dying in a few weeks, I might as well make my mark. Spice things up. Instead of just blending in to all those faces who died, that we'll all forget in a few years anyway..."

     THUNK!

     The spear lodges itself perfectly once more. Vesper is intrigued — there's no doubt that Fern is determined for victory, but there's a hidden grit in her that she finds interesting. It wouldn't be a permanent alliance... but an alliance nonetheless. Of course! And now she comes to think of it, Districts Six and Seven have always been natural allies over the years, being next to each other in the running order. From memory she's pretty sure there was a boy from Seven with one of the many Irma teamed up with. Was his name Linden? Something like that, anyway.

     She doesn't know why it took her this long to introduce herself. With Fern added to her mental list of people she might think twice before killing, she bids goodbye and moves on to continue with the hunt for her most suited weapon.

     Vesper surveys her remaining options; instantly ruling out anything involving a good aim, which she's established will not get her too far. She'd rather not risk breaking a bone by stepping onto the wrestling mat with Talon and Durian, and Coral seems a little too confident with her trident. If she's simply using the axe and not throwing it, it might be alright...

     On the edge of her periphery she spots a familiar face — Levin, his sword in hand, sparring with the instructor. A memory flashes through her head from home, of play-fighting in the streets of Vagary with Bolt and Cheyenne, duelling with some sticks they found on the side of the road. It subconsciously draws her nearer to the station, like a North being dragged to South by a magnetic field.

     When he finishes, Levin runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, stopping halfway when he notices Vesper staring. "Oh hey," he jumps down, chest still heaving from the exertion, "You here to try out a little sparring?" He grins and she clenches her jaw. She doesn't need any of his ridicule today.

     "Yes, I am," she utters back through gritted teeth.

     "Well, here you go then, you can take mine." He tosses his sword up lightly in the air and catches it at the handle, before extending it out for Vesper to take. After a few seconds of hesitation, she grabs it and tugs it away from him. The handle is still slightly warm from his touch. She wordlessly weighs the sword in her hand, slashing it compactly below her waist for a test run — it sits comfortably in her hand, weight-wise and grip. The fluorescent ceiling lights ricochet off the polished blade and produce an unnervingly clear reflection of her face.

There are a few basic techniques she's told instantly by the instructor. The words pass over her head like a empty breeze, but she focuses on the gesture. And then she executes them as if they were verbatim — one slash and she almost feels it cut through the invisible matter surrounding her. Another slash and she thrusts it into a mannequin's stomach. Another and another and another.

     By the time lunch rolls around, her sweaty hand throbs with clenching the leather-bound handle so tightly, imprints left in her skin. This could be it. If she doesn't jinx herself, her progress in the last half hour she's been sparring could look promising. Probably not perfect, by any means — any Career could still thrash her right now — but she can improve. She's adaptable when she wills herself to be.

     But there's no telling there will even be a sword in the arena.

     The bond at the lunch table appears to be emerging from the dust as a trusting one. Icarus and Telle seem to genuinely have hit it off, conversing and laughing lightheartedly as if they have known each other for years — she just hopes Icarus hasn't forgotten why they are all here. Vesper wishes she could say the same for Huxley, but it's like talking to a brick wall. Nevertheless it's nowhere near the hostility Boaz oozes. She can cope with a little social awkwardness. Hell, she's not much of a social butterfly herself.

     She does notice, peculiarly, that Levin appears to have broken away from the Careers table. He still lingers on the fringe, perhaps scared to let to completely, but today he's sitting at the adjacent table with the two tributes from Ten. Of course, Vesper scoffs to herself, who wouldn't want Talon as an ally? Though it's not Talon he's paying attention to — it's his

     Vesper wishes she could just figure him out.

     Spoke too soon. After everyone has dispersed from the cafeteria, she moves on to a quieter station while she waits for her food to go down. Then maybe she'll have a try at another weapon... just as a back up. However much Vesper wants to buckle down and focus on her knot-tying, though, it seems futile at the point when an increasingly discernible figure as of late takes a seat cross-legged opposite her, gazing down with amusement down at the rope.

     "Hi there."

     Not even bothering to look up, she loops the rope's end through and tightens it. "Hey," she mutters dully.

     A pause. Levin pats his knees and lets his shoulders drop with an airy sigh. "I was watching you today," he remarks — he hesitates for a moment, seemingly debating whether that was the right thing to say, before continuing. "You know, with the sword. You're seriously good. Probably even better than I am."

     Oh yeah, sure I am, she thinks bitterly. Why does every Career have to be so patronising? Every one of them just takes their boundless years of training beforehand for granted, just as she thought before she entered the Games.

     "Have you ever held a sword before?"

     "No."

     "No? Holy crap, your hand-eye coordination must be out of this world. It took me years of training to get that good—"

     "Look," Vesper finally snaps and maintains eye contact for the first time. "I'm not here to make friends. This isn't some stupid playground —" an over-medicated Dale flashes through her head, but she shakes it off. "— and you're not gonna make me join your stupid pack—"

      "Pack? What pack?" Levin seems genuinely alarmed at her bluntness.

      Vesper nods coldly to the flock of Careers behind him. Levin turns around, just catching Hero high-five Hermes with a snigger, before balling his hand into a fist on his lap. "This isn't even about them... I'm not trying to start anything, alright? It was just a compliment. You know, from one kid heading into certain death to another. That's all."

     Maybe she is being a little brash. All of this Icarus protection mess winds her up further and further every day. And there's also the fact that he actually looks hurt... but then she stops. Why should she feel sorry for him? It's not like he will be thinking about that poor District Six girl as he kills her in the arena.

     Speak of the devil — with a naïve optimism that seems so out-of-place with only days to go before the Bloodbath, Icarus eagerly approaches Vesper from behind and rubs his hands together. "Vesper, guess what?" he teases, "I finally got a snare trap to work! Huxley saw it and everything..." His voice trails off into an uncertain moment as he clocks the icy glare Vesper shoots the District Four boy.

     Unwilling to waste any more time on this, she gets to her feet, before uttering four simple words: "Stay away from me."

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A servant comes to clear the dessert plates far into the evening, perhaps getting as tired as everyone is of hearing Icarus's sugar rush-powered commentary of the entire day. As endearing as it is coming from him, Vesper doesn't know how much longer she can listen to him rattling on about what she's already.

Irma seems to be the most engaged, closely tied with Hermia — she responds with perfectly timed smiles and even her own anecdote, remarking how she herself opted for archery all those years ago when she was a tribute. "It was my one defence," she had said. "And that's something important, actually. More often than not I was defending myself, not attacking."

That was followed by a backhanded comment from Dale, who has miraculously showed up to the dinner table this evening. Vesper almost wishes he hadn't. He looks awful. His bloodshot eyes strain every time he blinks, his skin clammy and pale, and his left hand won't stop trembling...

Whatever gave him solace last night has left him crashing harder than ever.

"Well!" Hermia clasps her hands together and they make a little hiss, "Today must have gone very well then. May I propose a toast?" She raises her glass of red wine, her nails rattling against them, as the others are embarrassingly complacent in joining her. "To our multi-talented tributes from District Si—"

Dale audibly groans from the other end of the table. "Hermia, just cut it out, will you? If you pamper them any more you'll be sending a pair of prima-donnas into the arena."

In the awkward silence that follows, Hermia thins her lips into a forced smile as she clears her throat. No one quite knows what to say. Perhaps it's because they have all noticed how ill Dale looks...

"Your sponsors are coming along well," Irma blurts out.

"Ah, yes!" Relieved at the change of subject, Hermia claps. "It's a slow trickle, mind you, but a steady one at that! In a few days time, especially with your training scores and the interviews, I should imagine they will be emptying their wallets in the blink of an eye."

"Hey, that's what I was gonna ask..." Icarus suddenly pipes up, shifting in his chair to lean in closer. "How do sponsors work anyway? I mean, why would any old stranger in the Capitol wanna pull cash out of their own pockets just to help little ol' me?"

"That is a very good question—"

"And I will answer it," Irma interjects before Hermia can be set off. "It all revolves around PR. As a mentor, we represent our tributes, and our your job to help them look good in order to be sponsored. That way we can afford the gifts we send down to you in the arena."

Vesper scrunches her nose up. "Isn't that pretty... twisted?"

"I— I know, it is."

"So what kind of things have you told them?" asks Icarus eagerly, "About us?"

With a sidewards glance at Hermia, who simply shrugs with indifference, Irma inhales deeply through her nose. Almost as if she's delaying this information as much as possible. "It's not something you should focus on now. When the interviews roll around, we can go into much more depth. But for you, Icarus, youth can be a great factor. We've said this before but they often pity the younger tributes and will throw their money in regardless." She takes a moment to turn and look across to Vesper, a pitiful look in her brown eyes. "And Vesper... well—"

"Caesar's probably gonna talk about your mom in the interview."

Irma starts — she might as well have been given an electric shock. "Dale!" she cries.

"A lot," he deadpans, picking at a chip in the table. "I'll bet he has some archived footage to dish out on the night too."

It's as though she has been slapped round the face. It stings, it burns, and more importantly she feels betrayed. "Hang on a second... just... how much did you milk this?" From the guilty stares that avert to anywhere but her, Vesper knows the answer. She had never wanted this much coverage. The sting manifests into rage, spitting and bubbling inside.

"Vesper, it's for your own good," Irma tries to reconcile.

She laughs. She actually laughs. "My own good?" Vesper snaps once she's done. "You think whatever sponsors I have showing up to my little party on interview night are for my own good?"

"I thought you agreed to it!" sighs Hermia, exasperated as though it's another nitty gritty inconvenience in her life that she can swat away.

"Yeah, I thought you'd just mention it a couple of times. I didn't realise that was the entire focus!"

"It's rather late to take back what you said now, Vesper. But no matter... all you'll have to do is simply play along?"

"No, you don't understand, I can't..." Why does she suddenly want to cry? Do NOT let them see it. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she stares so hard at her lap that she might burn holes in the sleek denim leggings. "It's not that easy." Because it's my mother. "And I thought the Hunger Games was the whole reason she died and left us alone in the first place! How is that gonna sit with the Capitol?"

"If you'd just pay attention, you'd see we're actually trying to help you," Dale adds with a tone of boredom.

Vesper turns on him, barely missing a second, and mindlessly counters him: "Helping us?" she fires back, like a gun gone awry, "By doing what, drugging yourself into a coma?"

A beat passes. Time slows down, and yet speeds up at the same time. She barely has time to see the switch flick in Dale's face before he explodes — the man flies up from his seat and brings his fist down on the wood with a BANG that paralyses everyone into their chairs with shock. With the other hand he takes off his plate and cutlery with one clean swipe and a deafening CRASH.

Dale tremors with a mania Vesper has never seen in him before — and by the looks of it neither have the others. But there is so much pain in his eyes. He's wounded. Slowly, he brings up a shaky hand and thrusts his finger in her direction.

"Do you know..." his voice is so low, laced with something sinister she has never faced. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Do you?"

"Dale please just sto—"

"No, SHUT UP!" He doesn't even see Irma flinching at the startling volume he screamed, and keeps his stare fixated right on Vesper the whole time. She never thought she'd say it about Dale, but she's terrified.

"Years and years and fucking years of this hell, do you get that? YOU try getting to know a bunch of kids, only to watch them die days later! YOU try getting... g-getting BLAMED for all of it!" As if she wasn't disturbed enough, he hiccups out some kind of hysterical giggle and careens to the side before catching himself. "Oh no, the morphling man's slipped up — yet again!" he coos in a patronising sing-song, "Oh well, another kid gone, what a shame. Better luck next year!"

Suddenly he seizes his empty teacup and lobs it over his shoulder, barely missing Icarus thanks to the servant diving in the line of fire, as it narrowly showers him in shards of porcelain in the wake of Irma's traumatised scream.

"I HATE IT!" Dale shrieks, spit flying from his mouth and his face boiling red. "I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT!"

Catching himself for a breath, he clutches a hand to his chest and grabs onto the edge of his chair. While dropping his head down he must have caught Icarus shivering uncontrollably, unable to even look his way out of fear. He's on the brink of tears — Irma is actually crying, streams of tears slipping down her cheeks despite straining to hold herself together for her tributes. Vesper can't say she isn't far off from that herself. And maybe he isn't, because instantly Dale softens, shedding the mask of fury from his eyes and revealing the self-contempt in his eyes.

His chest laboriously drags in breaths mixed with panic and shame, as he observes the carnage he amassed in his rampage. Then he looks to Vesper, who cowers away from his apologetic gaze. Mainly because she doesn't know how long she can look at him like that — so irreparably ruined — knowing she threw the grenade he detonated.

"I'm sorry..." Dale looks dazedly around, from the silent servant attempting to scoop up bits of porcelain, with help from Icarus, to the shell shocked Irma. "I— I—" Something flashes across his face and sets in a stony mould; an epiphany of some sort, although Vesper doesn't know what it is. "I'm so sorry..."

The heartbroken shell of a man begins to stumble away, not daring to look back until he's slammed the door to his room and clicked the lock shut. Vesper sinks further into her chair — her ears feel fuzzy, and she can't hear much except for her own blood roaring through her head, pulsing and throbbing in her head.

Then through the smoke emerges Hermia, with a dutiful calm she never expected. "Is everyone alright?" she asks, her voice dropping an octave so it almost sounds human. "You aren't hurt, any of you?"

The pair shake their head. Irma pulls her chair out and attempts to stand up and follow Dale, but she is gently pulled down by Hermia, who gives a soft shake of her head. There's something so maternal about the way she holds Irma's hand, and something so childlike about the way Irma accepts it in return.

She whispers something intangible, but when she repeats herself, it cuts through the silence clearly. "He was just like Enzo..." she breathes, stuck in some sort of trance.

Enzo Guerra. The raging Morphling addict who scared all his tributes senseless before they even got into the arena. Some say his mentoring alone was enough to scar a tribute for life. But that rage has to come from somewhere, and Vesper thinks she is finally beginning to understand its origin...

     "Why don't you two get an early night?" Hermia suggests quietly. "I think it would be wise of you to get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow."

     They don't bother hanging around. When Vesper passes Dale's room in the hallway, her gut does a nauseating somersault of guilt. Can't she just learn to think before she spouts senseless comments? She swears she's been more like this the past year — so angered — since her father...

     The overpowering peppermint toothpaste provided Capitol still doesn't wash her mouth out. Nor does it wash out the thought of Dale, sitting half-conscious in his room somewhere, numbing the hurt with whatever heaven he can squeeze out of that horrid needle. She's scared he might do something stupid; whatever that means.

     When she switches the bathroom light off and re-enters her bedroom, a figure has joined her. Icarus looms sorrowfully in the doorway, clinging a fresh pillow and a thin bedsheet in both his fists.

     "I... didn't want to sleep alone," he mumbles.

     He needn't say anything more. In a shot, Vesper is by her bedside fluffing up her pillow, and bringing one for herself. Just when she's making her way to the end of her bed, Icarus notices what she's doing. "It's fine," he holds out a hand to halt her. "I'll take the floor."

     "You sure?"

     "I kinda like it. When I was little, I used to pretend I was camping out in the wilderness. Maybe one day I actually will."

     She's too exhausted to argue. He sets himself up for the night at the foot of her bed, tucking himself in. Vesper crawls into bed and pulls the duvet over her shoulders, cocooning herself away in the hope that it was calm her to sleep. But just when she's drifting off, just when she thought she had removed Dale from her mind, Icarus's glaring comment brings her back round with a crash:

     "I don't ever wanna end up like him."

     At this point, Vesper thinks that's a given for anyone who wins the Hunger Games. So what does that mean for him? It's too much to contemplate this late in the evening. "Me neither," she finally manages.

     She surrenders herself to sleep. Her faceless mother haunts her dreams again. She wakes up in midnight with her disembodied screams replaying in her head.

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A/N;

FINALLY i updated! you have no idea how long it took me to write this chapter...

also, side note, this chapter was super depressing so uhh, i hope you're okay? believe it or not i actually don't enjoy writing depressing scenes like this very much (hard to believe when you see what i put my characters though 🙃), however i can guarantee you the next few chapters are slightly lighter! actually, maybe not the start of the next one, but...

fun (???) fact: i actually got choked up when writing the whole scene where dale loses it and then hermia comforts the others. not even sure why, it just struck a chord, but yeah... that has only happened ONCE to me in all of my experience writing, so yeehaw

please feel free to drop a comment, i really appreciate feedback! hope you're having a good day, and if you aren't, i send my best wishes to you anyway 😇

[ published: 27th january, 2021 ]

— Imogen