Chapter Text
48 - After Dark Days. Seventeen years old.
Somewhere in the darkness, a boy is crying.
It’s too close for Orfeo’s liking. He can hear the long whimpers dragging out in the shadows, coupled with occasional sniffs and muffled sobs that almost sound like words. There’s enough distance that Orfeo can’t make them out, but the intention is obvious. The boy from District 12 is weeping for his mother.
Orfeo’s eyes rove over the shadows, grimacing. The moon is full above their heads, with long silver fingers trying to pry tributes from their hiding places. The moon cannot quite reach them now, not with the thick stone walls of old ruins acting as a refuge.
The arena is exactly the way Plutarch Heavensbee described it.
The terrain is not totally unfamiliar from District 4. There are rocky shores overlooking the illusion of a sea, with rolling hills the color of emeralds. But the hills here are adorned with dilapidated buildings, echoing the ruins of old cities; the kind from school books.
These buildings were spaced out between each other, some more so structurally sound than others. They made good shelter, though it was clear they were not built to last. One wrong move from an imbalance tribute, it could easily cave in; giving away their position or killing them. Fragile is the key word.
So fragile it could be brought down.
Orfeo tries to block Plutarch’s voice from his thoughts, whispering about a destroyed arena, and the what-if’s of sabotaging the Games.
Plutarch wanted Orfeo Osprey to be the face of its destruction. After all, who better to lead a rebellion than the child of a living victor - one set up to be a legacy? It certainly would’ve had an impact.
Marcel had brought his son to Plutarch’s luxurious mansion under the pretense of filming promos. After all, Plutarch was the most prized promotional director in the Capitol, and Orfeo was a would-be legacy and son of a popular victor. It raised no suspicions that Marcel would want his son advertised properly to the Capitol and their prospective sponsors in light of the Games.
But the meeting had nothing to do with promotional material.
If Orfeo agreed, then Plutarch would have arranged the means and necessities to obliterate the arena through a vulnerable center point.
There would be no escape.
Orfeo Osprey would either be killed or captured by the Gamemakers following the detonation. From there, the Capitol would lick its wounds, and nurse their wounded pride. It would be a spectacle to watch the downfall of the arena all across Panem. It would hurt. There was no way it wouldn’t.
And maybe it would have rallied something from the districts.
But it doesn’t change the fact that the Capitol’s hurt would only be temporary. There would still be a Hunger Games to follow the next year, with unspeakable retribution to fill in the gaps in between. District 4 would burn for what he did.
And they would hurt Scilla by forcing her to live under her brother’s mistakes.
So, Orfeo refused.
“If I blow up the arena, the Capitol will be hurt for a day,” Orfeo had said, “but they will hurt my district for a generation.”
Still, looking over the ruins now under the cover of darkness, as well as housing himself within their walls, he can see the thread of Plutarch’s thinking. The problem being all the loose ends. Without any proper knotting, it would all fall apart, and it wouldn’t be Plutarch caught up in the mess.
In spite of the fact that Orfeo isn’t involved, he can’t help but to feel exposed. It’s like a thousand eyes are burning into his skin right now. That’s not an untrue statement, he thinks. In the darkness, he wonders how many cameras are positioned on him now. How many angles are Capitolian citizens watching Orfeo Osprey curled into a ball, while a child cries a few yards away?
He needs to shut up…
Orfeo thought he would be safe here.
He had deliberately tucked himself into a tight formation of half-toppled over rocks, with a thick layer of moss providing a small semblance of comfort. After a few hours of staying in the same position, his neck, bent at a miserable angle, is throbbing in pain. His legs spasm with cramps, so he keeps them pressed into the rocks to subdue them into stillness.
It’s the second day of the Hunger Games.
For those two days, Orfeo has done well in keeping distance between himself and his fellow tributes. The Career Pack had long since given up on the idea of recruiting him, but they also knew he was too dangerous to be kept alive. During the bloodbath, they’d targeted him first.
But after killing the boy from District 1, the rest thought better of it. They retreated into the Cornucopia, focusing their attention on getting weapons and killing the weaker tributes. The girl from District 12 had been among them, but the boy had escaped.
Orfeo didn’t think he’d last much longer.
He certainly didn’t think they’d end up in the same hiding spot.
The thought of killing the boy doesn’t even cross his mind. He doesn’t want to kill him. It wouldn’t be fair, even if it would technically be mercy. He’s going to die, anyway. The least Orfeo can do is make it quick.
It’s not fair, though.
Squinting through the darkness, Orfeo can see the outline of a shadowy figure visibly trembling - from the cold or sobs, he can’t tell. But the undeniable truth is plain. At only fourteen years old, the boy is roughly half the size he should be. Even after being stuffed by the Capitol, meat doesn’t want to cling to his bones. He’s too thin.
Orfeo looks ahead, staring at a moss-covered stone wall. It won’t be long before someone else hears the boy weeping - or a mutt. Something is going to come kill him. And it might get Orfeo killed too.
A secondary, more intrusive thought suspiciously in the voice of Mags Flanagan, whispers into Orfeo’s ear to beckon the boy into his hiding spot. It’s tight enough as is, but surely there would be enough room for a scrawny boy to hide away with him.
The thought passes as quickly as it comes.
No. He can’t let the boy into his hiding spot.
The boy wouldn’t be any real threat in the physical sense. If it came down to it, Orfeo could easily overpower him. But he was too fragile, too weepy, and if he panicked then he would be compromising Orfeo’s life.
There’s nothing he can do.
So, Orfeo tries to space out his breathing, and adjusts his body only when it is absolutely necessary. In spite of his discomfort, he is soundless. Even when pebbles begin to trickle along the walls on the other side of his hideout, coupled with the scraping of boots, he doesn’t move.
There’s a shift in the air, as if the world has tilted on its axis. Orfeo can feel it immediately, but the boy hasn’t noticed. Although the boy is a relatively shapeless shadow in the darkness, Orfeo can tell he is hugging his knees, and rocking his body. The shadow quivers with each sob.
The second shadow to emerge into the darkness is much larger. The shaft of a blade catches in the thin tendrils of moonlight that manage to find them through the cracks. It refracts against the walls, briefly finding Orfeo in his own hiding spot. He sucks in a breath, holding it, as if the light meant to betray him.
But the second shadow is preoccupied. He stalks towards the boy from District 12, who remains oblivious; weeping incoherently, softly calling for his mother. When it happens, the scream he releases punctuates through the darkness like a knife through skin.
Orfeo flinches.
“I want my mama!” the boy shouts. “Mama!”
Orfeo curls tighter into the crevice, molding his body into the rocks until he can’t even see himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his head into the moss-covered surface. It doesn’t muffle the sound of a blade sinking into a body, then the whimpering sounds of death that follow.
It’s prolonged longer than it needs to be. There’s a long stretch of time, filled unevenly with whimpers and gargled pleading, before the cannon finally goes off. The thought occurs that Orfeo should have just killed the boy to begin with. It would have been quicker, painless, and merciful.
“No fun,” mutters the second shadow, disapprovingly.
The voice has a slight rasp to it, though the subtle curve of an accent indicates he’s the boy from District 2. If he’s skulking around, then his fellow Career Pack must be close. That isn’t good.
Orfeo considers the possibility of creeping out of his hiding place and escaping these ruins without the boy from District 2 noticing him. But then again, if the Career Pack shows up, then he’ll be more than outnumbered. But if he decides to stay, then the Careers show up to set up camp, he’s trapped.
As Orfeo contemplates his unpleasant choices, the boy from District 2 is rummaging through the pockets of the body like a vulture over dead meat. He makes another disapproving sound.
“Who was it?” a girl’s voice calls.
“The kid from Twelve. Nothing else here.”
“Let’s move on. I don’t like how open this place is. Hurry up, or we’ll leave you behind.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Orfeo listens as the boy from Two climbs the walls of the ruins, scaling them and hauling himself over the edge. He listens for several painstaking minutes until the footsteps are nothing more but a distant echo in his own mind. They’re gone.
Finally, he releases his exhale.
For a flashing moment, he considers leaving this hiding spot to find something else. But the thought of going through the arena in the dark, with moonlight seeking to spotlight any possible tribute, doesn’t sit right with him. His father told him to keep shelter wherever he could find it, if it’s secure.
It’s the best shot he has of getting through the night, even if it means sharing it with a dead boy. His silence is more unnerving than his tears. But his body will be gone soon. The hovercraft will come for it, returning it away to wherever the Gamemakers store dead tributes.
He’ll be gone soon.
But the hovercraft doesn’t come. Hours pass in the deafening silence. Not so much as a pebble out of place or a whisper on the wind announces its arrival. Through the darkness, Orfeo can see the body’s shadow sprawled across the floor; unmoving.
What are the Gamemakers waiting for?
Spasms of sleep akin to random bursts of lightning in a storm find Orfeo throughout the night. He slips in and out of it. Between the mossy surfaces of his hiding spot, he finds himself chasing Scilla across the beach back home. She’s laughing, wild hair waving in the wind, and it’s the gentlest sound he’s ever heard in his life.
She’s so small.
When the sun rises, Orfeo crawls out of his stony shelter. The hovercraft never came. The boy’s body is waiting for him, but instead of a shadow there’s a puddle of dried blood.
Orfeo looks up, staring at the golden light filtering through the broken pieces of a shattered roof. He wonders if they even can reach the body from here. It’s unlikely. The prongs are too big to get through the gap, not without inflicting structural or bodily damage. The latter wouldn’t matter so much to them.
More than likely, the Gamemakers are waiting until he leaves the area.
A hatch. There might be a hatch around here, Orfeo thinks.
Plutarch mentioned that the arena would have various portals and openings for Gamemakers to pass through. There were crawl spaces hidden behind stone walls and hatches located at the bases of some statues. If a body wasn’t accessible, then the Gamemakers would have to retrieve them manually.
They wouldn’t have come out while I’m around, Orfeo thinks. It’d defeat the illusion. His head cocks. And I could kill them if I wanted to.
The thought of killing a Gamemaker within their own arena might be the only pleasant thing he’s considered in this place. But it is again coupled with the image of his sister, twelve year old Scilla, alone and helpless in District 4. She’d pay for it.
Everything he does in his arena is hers to pay for.
It isn’t smart to stick around.
Orfeo knows he should just go. It stands to reason that most of the tributes left in the arena are still asleep, or at the very least drowsy. He could use that to his advantage by scavenging for resources, then assessing the arena itself for things to utilize. Dwelling any longer than necessary is dangerous.
But it’s the sight of the boy’s crumpled body from the corner of his eye that keeps his feet frozen in place. It’s as if he’s rooted to the moss-covered ground.
Slowly his head starts to turn, dark eyes reluctantly lowering to look at him. The ground under him is red with dried blood. His face is pressed into it, a mess of dark hair masking the terror written across his features.
There are scuff marks along his clothes from where the Career had kicked or stepped on him; distinct imprints of a boot over the material. And there are visible stab wounds all along his back. They look purposefully shallow.
It wasn’t just a kill.
He’s so small, Orfeo thinks.
He isn’t small the way Scilla is, where she’s slender like an eel and just as agile. The boy had been malnourished, with hollow cheeks and gangly limbs that hadn’t grown in quite right. It was as if his bones were stretching over too thin material.
Tributes from District 12 never lasted very long. They were always too thin or unkempt, or sometimes the pampered types unused to hardwork. Orfeo supposes that there is not much in the way of fulfillment in a place delegated to coal mining. At least in District 4, food is plentiful. It’s a resource that can extend even to the poorest sectors.
The boy never had a chance.
Still, Orfeo wishes he had thought to remember the boy’s name - any of their names. His fingers flex at his sides, grasping for something he can’t name yet. His throat bobs.
The Gamemakers are watching.
Whatever Orfeo says or does in this moment can be used against him. Pity could be compromising. Anger would be damning. So, he opts for indifference. He looks down at the boy with an impassive expression and unyielding eyes.
Whatever pause he takes to acknowledge the dead youth - if it’s even being broadcast across Panem - could be viewed as a typical would-be Career’s brutality towards his fellow tributes. He’s not a Career, but he may as well be. Being from District 4 and the son of a famous victor, Orfeo is one of them in all but name.
They hate his kind.
As they should.
Orfeo doesn’t dwell in the shattered structure for much longer. He pretends to rummage through the pockets of the boy, but leaves without much fuss. He doesn’t spare a glance over his shoulder as he scales the stony wall, landing on a patch of bright green grass and rolling hills ahead of him. In the distance, there’s a marble pavilion overlooking the sea.
A cannon goes off, shattering the quiet.
I’m sorry, Orfeo thinks, for whatever it is worth.
At least their fight is over.
50 - After Dark Days. Nineteen years old.
“They’re not going to make it.” Scilla’s voice shook, warbling under the weight of unshed tears that made her big, brown eyes glassy. “It isn’t fair. There’s too many of them. They’re all going to die.”
Orfeo didn’t know what to say. In his mind, there was nothing to say regarding the situation, except for to acknowledge it in grim silence. The odds were never in their favor. That much was a given when it came to the reapings. All that could be done is chalk it to bad luck, while others might try to tread the fathoms of what it really means to be reaped.
The second Quarter Quell was a reckoning that would come sooner rather than later. Orfeo won his Games two years prior at only seventeen, meaning he never had a reason to fear the Quarter Quell when it came. It wouldn’t have hurt him. But as a victor himself, as well as a new second generation legacy, there were new stakes ahead.
Scilla turned twelve the year Orfeo was reaped. His heart had hammered madly in his chest when the name of a girl was drawn from the bowl. She was spared that year, while he was sent into the arena. Last year, he still stood tensely on that stage, waiting for Scilla Osprey to be called across the sea of people ahead of him. Her name never came.
But this year was different.
Orfeo hadn’t been alive for the first Quarter Quell, but he had learned about it in school. The districts had to vote on who would be sent into the arena, offering their own tributes up as sacrifices. One could only imagine what the second Quarter Quell would be. And imagine it he did.
He pictured every conceivable horror that a human mind is capable of.
This year, Scilla turned fourteen years old.
She was taller than she was when she was twelve, with leaner muscles gained by sea and training under their father in the event she went in. She was a more imposing force, meaning a more promising prospect for entertainment. Reaping her seemed like an obvious outcome. After all, what better way to raise the stakes in such an important year than to have a legacy among the tributes?
Her name hadn’t been reaped.
But two of her friends were.
Barba and Urchin. They were friends from school, only two years older than her - if that. The other two, Angler and Maritte, had volunteered, though she knew them well enough. Scilla always had a way of knowing people, even in the unlikeliest scenarios.
Orfeo admittedly didn’t spend a lot of time watching Scilla with her friends. As long as they weren’t that boy from the Hatchery, he didn’t care. He trusted the head on her shoulders to know not to get into trouble the way he did. But he had underestimated their closeness when he saw her crying from the crowd, hands cupped over her mouth as her shoulders shook.
Scilla had visited both Urchin and Barba before going to Orfeo, waiting in a lounge area in the Justice Building. Her face was red from crying, all puffy and round, and it’d taken everything in him not to tear down the world for her. He hated seeing her like this, even if he didn’t let it show on his face.
They’re not going to make it.
Scilla didn’t bother making plea deals.
She knew that there was no point.
Even if Orfeo had some degree of influence on account of being a victor of value. Last year hadn’t exactly produced a victor of substance, as the girl from District 3, Wiress Pascal, had proven herself to be batty. She was odd from the beginning. No one would have staked their bets on her winning, especially the idea of winning without spilling a drop of blood. It was laughable.
Still, Wiress had won, but she’d impressed no one. Not pretty enough to warrant that kind of attention, at the very least, which Orfeo was grateful for on her account. In that way, she was beyond lucky.
Orfeo had the advantage of riding his own success. Although he had tried to be as uneventful as humanly possible, he’d still made an impression. Not only was he a standout on account of being a victor’s son, thus presenting a second generation legacy, but he also won his Games with the loss of an eye.
That counted for something.
If Orfeo wanted to, he could absolutely sway sponsors in District 4’s favor. If he didn’t, then Marcel would most likely be working diligently in that endeavor, to maintain face. But Scilla didn’t ask him, so Orfeo has no intention of trying harder than he has to.
His sister is right. In an arena that is double the tributes, their odds of making it are next to none. Even if they do survive, what kind of life could they expect?
In any case, the arena has its legacy.
But it’s a twelve year old boy.
Beetee Latier’s son wasn’t spared the reaping the way Scilla was. He won’t survive. It’s callous to think, but there’s no other way of looking at it. Even in an arena of twenty-four tributes, Ampert Latier’s odds weren’t in his favor. But in an arena of forty-eight, with the Capitol’s targets directly set against him, the inevitable will come sooner rather than later.
Once or twice, Orfeo has felt relief. It wasn’t his sister who was the legacy of the arena. But then he thinks about how small Ampert is, and he hates himself all over again.
If Scilla were here, she’d wrap her arms around his torso, and hold him tightly. He’d be too stubborn to hug her back, but he’d lean into it. She’s not here. She’s not here. She’s not here -
“Urchin is dead,” Beetee says.
Orfeo snaps out of the heavy haze of his thoughts.
The present creeps back into place, as if waking up from a heavy dream and finding one’s self back in bed. He runs his hands over the smooth countertop of the bar, tracing the little patterns in the wood with his thumb. There’s a glass of sour tasting liquor in front of him that he can’t remember the name of.
It had been sent as a gift from one of the other victors - Palladium Barker, he thinks, who’d given him a firm nod before leaving to meet with a sponsor. Given how foul it tastes, Orfeo struggles to consider it a gift. Still, it burns his senses enough to nullify certain aches. He’ll pay for it later.
Beetee Latier has settled in beside Orfeo, his expression somber. He slides his glasses off of his nose, replacing them with his hand. A heavy pause settles between them, but it isn’t filled with grief or anguish - at least not the kind a father would feel. For now, Ampert is still alive. And maybe that’s part of the problem.
It might be the drawing out of his son’s inevitable death that is weighing on Beetee. The Gamemakers will be coming for him soon enough. Every second ticks closer to it. Orfeo isn’t ignorant enough to miss why the Gamemakers chose to put Ampert into the Games. While he has tried to play by the roles as a tribute and victor for the sake of his family, Beetee does things in his own way.
There is a will to fight and a stupidity to keep trying.
Admittedly, Orfeo doesn’t know much about what Beetee did to fight or why he kept trying. The more innate details are deliberately lost to him, because genuinely not knowing something can be a lifeline under dire storms. Whatever it is Beetee did, Orfeo hopes the cost of his son was worth it.
Given that the Games are still going and Beetee is still here, probably not.
But Beetee isn’t here to talk about Ampert. Urchin is dead. Orfeo’s tribute and Scilla’s friend.
Orfeo isn’t surprised, but he still frowns. “Okay,” he says, unsure what else to say here. If Scilla were with him, he’d be the one holding her. His arms fold over his chest instead. “How?”
“The water was poisoned.”
Go figure.
Orfeo’s imagination had been allowed to go wild when he’d tried picturing the second Quarter Quell’s arena. The first thing he thought of was a variation of his own arena, which had been old ruins and hills overlooking a sea. He imagined taller mountains with caves and grottos. Maybe there would be shark-like mutts.
But the actual arena had exceeded his expectations.
It was beautiful.
Even that, beautiful was an understatement.
There had been a moment where Orfeo sincerely forgot that he was watching the Hunger Games. When the cameras panned out to show the Cornucopia and surrounding meadow, Orfeo had been in awe. The grass was greener than green, like shining emeralds, and the sprawling flowers, overhead skies, and shimmering trees were enough to render him speechless.
They’d be quick to find out that the beauty was all just a farce. The water, the food, everything was designed to kill them. Even the most harmless looking variance of animals were disposed to unthinkable violence.
It was the kind of beauty that existed only within dreams, because in dreams nothing is real, so everything is possible. But all it took was a blink for the trance to break. Unfortunately, most of the other tributes were lost in a haze of their own, and delayed in stepping off of their podiums.
Except the boy from District 12.
He was unmoved by it, at least from what Orfeo could tell. The boy who got a score of one was as unbothered as unbothered could be.
No one gets a score of one unless they did something remarkably right or horribly wrong, Orfeo thinks. Either way, it’s probably going to kill him in the end. The Gamemakers don’t like to be shown up.
And this Newcomer nonsense?
Doomed to fail.
“What happened to the kid from Twelve?”
“Which one?” Beetee asks.
“Don’t be coy,” Orfeo says, his tone thickening with impatience. “The one you’ve been hanging around. I’ve noticed, Beetee.”
Another beat of silence settles between them.
Beetee raises his hand to flag the bartender down, ordering the same thing as whatever Orfeo has. His face puckers when he drinks it, squinting at the wall, but he takes another gulp.
“He ran,” Beetee says.
Orfeo waits for more, but he’s met with silence again. “Do I want to know?”
Beetee shakes his head. “You don’t,” he says.
“Is your boy still alive?”
“He is.”
Orfeo doesn’t know what to say next. He considers nodding his head and saying something like, that’s good. But there is nothing good about the Gamemakers keeping Ampert Latier alive. He’s not going to become a second generation legacy, youngest victor in living history, or leave behind any memories aside from an obligatory shrug of indifference after he dies from the Capitol.
This is personal.
Even when he dies, Orfeo expects the Capitol won’t broadcast the full moment; probably pieces of it as is necessary. The entirety of it will be reserved for Beetee and Beetee alone. Because as much as the Capitol loves their Games, their stomachs might roll watching a twelve year old die under such circumstances. Whatever they are scheming, it is designed to hurt.
Orfeo slaps his palm against the counter, drawing back.
Cocking his head back, he spares a quick glance up at the nearby screen covering half of the wall. It flickers between the tributes, like the girl with all those necklaces from Twelve stalking Carat, and then to Silka sharpening her weapon.
The screen shows Haymitch Abernathy, with Ampert at his heel. Ampert looks so small compared to the boy from District 12, that it is almost easy to forget that Haymitch is equally a child.
Watching them together, Beetee breathes in sharply. It isn’t a nervous sound, but rather hopeful. It’s enough for Orfeo’s muscles to pull taut. Even after everything he’s lost, after the Capitol proving they are in control, Beetee is still fighting and trying.
Whatever it is, Orfeo knows it isn’t good.
And somehow, somehow, he has a feeling he knows who’s behind it.
The same man with ineffable plans, unwilling to pay the price of blood himself.
Orfeo finishes the rest of his bitter drink before turning it upside down and slamming it onto the counter. It burns going down, searing away the words he wants to say. They drag down into his body, like falling through a chasm, but he can hear their echo.
When it passes, he musters up the only words left. “I hope it’s painless, Beetee. I really do.”
54 - After Dark Days. Twenty-three years old.
“He’s alone.”
Scilla’s voice is tight, as if wrung out by many hands and twisted into a knot that cannot be unbound. There is a rawness to it, as well, that almost straightens Orfeo’s gaze from the screens above his head. Almost.
But he can’t afford that measure of compassion. Not here.
He has been in this game too long to permit any extensions of it to unnecessary causes. But in the case of his sister, she is still too green, or then again maybe her heart is just all that warm; welcoming any to its fire. Unfortunately, Orfeo’s cinders faded out a long time ago. No one save for a small few are welcome to it.
Even then, they would likely state that sentiment is debatable.
Orfeo chooses not to hear his sister.
Instead, he leans forward to brace against the back of a sofa, and pretends to find something interesting in his tributes. They are a standard batch this year. Typical Careers. The boy is the son of a merchant, with ebony hair and glossy dark skin, and vibrant eyes like sapphires.
The girl is very much in his likeness, so much so that Orfeo had wondered if they were related. They weren’t. But the stylists very much enjoyed the ways they could parallel each other in the Tribute Parade in matching clothes.
That was the angle that had been adopted; the unity between them. They knew each other vaguely from school, but the pair had decided to lean wholly into the idea of kinship. They would go into the arena together, fight together, and by proxy garner double the amount of sponsors. The Capitol does love the idea of a matching set, until there is only room on the shelf for one.
They are both physically capable, but they are given a stronger advantage by being charming. This will be the key component in sponsorships. And, more importantly, alliances.
A Career Pack is tradition, after all.
Orfeo feels his eye shift.
Although his head remains fixed ahead, neck stiff, his gaze flickers briefly across the lounge. He spots Gemma Lux sitting in a rotation of velvet chairs, across from Palladium Barker - the man who won the 46th Hunger Games.
Palladium seems to be talking about something important, given how he leans forward on his knees, and makes gestures with his fingers.
Gemma Lux, still so green from her own victory three years ago, nods along.
Although he knows better, Orfeo can’t help but to study her. She won the year after the second Quarter Quell, which meant that expectations had been stacked heavily against her. Following up a Quarter Quell is, after all, overwhelming in regards to expectations and preparations. But being a Career from District 1, she had better odds than most.
Still, Orfeo didn’t envy Gemma.
His own Games had been relatively forgiving all things considered. It was a tropical climate with plenty of water resources, meaning he stood on more familiar ground than the majority of his fellow tributes. The heat could be oppressive, but it wasn’t any worse than District 4’s particularly brutal summers.
However, following the stunning, yet poisonous, arena from the second Quarter Quell, the Gamemakers had opted for something uglier. The next arena had been a treacherous swamp. The stench was apparently awful, but the elements were worse.
Random geysers would burst with fire or acidic gas. Quicksand hid under the foliage. There were rodents of unusual size waiting to pounce on unsuspecting tributes and rip their throats out.
It was a miracle that Gemma Lux made it out alive, especially unscathed.
I guess the Gamemakers wanted to save her pretty face, Orfeo thinks, and shudders. Even before she won her Games, he knew the exact fate waiting for her. And because of that, he wished she’d been killed or maimed to the point of public revulsion.
“Orfeo,” Scilla says, this time firmly.
Orfeo finally looks down.
Scilla leans forward against the back of the sofa, her blue-painted nails digging into the material. There is a scolding look behind her eyes, the kind that their mother used to give.
Speaking of green, there is his sister to consider.
She won her Games only two years ago, but just barely.
He can still remember the way his stomach instantly dropped when he saw her arena. Springing forward out of his chair, he had almost made a go to lunge at the screen as if to reach her. A pair of hands grabbed his arms, trying to pull him back.
He couldn’t understand why at the time.
It wasn’t until later he saw the bruises over his arms and felt the rawness in his throat that he realized he had been fighting. More than that, he’d been shouting in the old language at the screen. He cursed the Gamemakers and called out for his sister.
They were no doubt watching him from cameras hidden in the lounge, pleased by his reaction. Misery enjoys company. And the Gamemakers enjoy an audience.
The arena had been a frozen tundra.
Snow was uncommon in District 4. Usually during the winter seasons they had high wind and cold rain to contend with. The waves would be restless. Capsized boats were commonplace, though supply demands met quotas.
In the rare instances of snowfall, it was usually more akin to powder. It was the heaviest kind of snow Scilla had ever experienced. And when she tired of the cold, she’d retreat inside to get warm.
This arena didn’t have that luxury.
The Cornucopia with all the weapons strewn around its maw and inside its belly were already half-buried in thick blankets of snow. The wind was already wild when the tributes arose into view. A few even stumbled, threatening to tip off.
They wore thick jackets overtop stuffed coats and heavy boots. Each wore gloves, though they were thin and impractical for the climate. Temporary was the key word. If they wanted something warmer, they’d need a backpack from the Cornucopia.
But when the gong rang, the tributes stumbled and fell through the snow. Many simply could not navigate it. The tributes from the lower districts, like Twelve for instance, managed to barrel through the snowy bed easily, temporarily outlasting the Careers.
Scilla ran to her partner to help him through the snow.
Orfeo had been convinced she wouldn’t last very long by the proxy of weather. But she had managed to survive it. And then she fell through the ice.
Orfeo clears his throat, trying to force the memory out of his head. It takes effort, with a pulsing pain settling between his eyes. But every time he blinks, he sees his sister floating in dark water, body spasming from the shock of being swallowed whole.
“There’s nothing we can do,” his father had said.
Kiernan had his arms hooked around Orfeo’s body, pulling him back from the screens as he shouted.
A wince pulls through his body as Scilla presses a hand against his back.
“We should help him,” she says softly.
As unwelcome as others might be, Orfeo balks at his sister’s tone. There are few who can weaken his resolve, and, unfortunately, one of those few is the girl he swore to protect.
The same girl who he played by the rules for, all in the vain attempt of making life easier for her. If he was a good tribute and an even better victor, his sister wouldn’t pay the same price he did.
Not that it did him any good - or her.
Orfeo reluctantly turns, catching his sister’s eye. Her eyes are warm and brown, with subtle flecks of gold circling her iris; the kind of gold that isn’t worn around a neck, but rather the kind that rises over the sea.
“We should help him,” Scilla says again.
“There’s nothing we can do.”
Orfeo clicks his tongue. Green, he thinks again.
In spite of everything she went through in the arena, in the supposedly helpful conversations she’s had with fellow victors, she still wants to help.
Not just help, but distribute that aid to the most hopeless and dangerous victor alive.
Haymitch Abernathy.
The only victor from District 12.
In spite of his efforts to avoid all contact with the boy, Orfeo reluctantly lets his eye lift to regard him. It is a sad, pathetic sight.
Orfeo is only four years Haymitch’s senior, yet the boy from District 12 looks so much older. The liquor has aged him into a scruffy mutt. His hair hangs in oily strands over his eyes, once full curls hanging dejectedly across his brow.
Heavy, dark bags cut under his gray eyes. They are even more colorless than before, no longer gray like a storm, but now like a fog; lost and drifting.
“They’re so small,” Scilla says.
Orfeo knows who she’s talking about, but it’s also something he can’t afford to think about. There are twenty-four children in the arena, and twenty-three who will die. If Orfeo spent all of his time thinking about each child and the home they could go back to, then he would have gone insane a long time ago.
There are some limitations to the heart.
Haymitch Abernathy has a scrawny thirteen year old boy who came with lice and a bent ankle and a girl who looks more well-to-do with blonde hair and fine clothes. But neither are going to survive.
The boy will likely be the first to die, while the girl will be lucky if she outlasts the bloodbath.
“We can help him with sponsors,” Scilla says.
She still doesn’t get it.
Scilla had only been fourteen when the second Quarter Quell passed. Orfeo had held his breath, knuckles clenched so tightly he could hear them cracking behind his back. The tributes were doubled that year, meaning District 4 would sacrifice four of their own instead of two.
It seemed like the sublime opportunity for the Gamemakers to pull their strings and force another Osprey into the arena. One by one, the names were called, and by the time the four stepped onto the stage, Orfeo had forgotten how to breathe.
His sister was spared that year.
Her friends, however, weren’t.
Maritte came close. For a moment, Orfeo almost fooled himself into believing that she could survive, or at least make it to the final tributes. But then she died like the others, and he still remembers how sad Scilla was when he returned home.
The Gamemakers spared his sister that year, but they took her friends, and Orfeo was not blind to the subtle warning residing there. So, the next year he tried harder with the promos he was assigned to, and cooperated in the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Not that it mattered. Scilla was reaped the year after.
“Sorry, it’s your eye,” Caesar had said, feigning a shudder, “it gives me the shivers!”
The audience laughed. Orfeo did, too, and even popped it out of its socket for their enjoyment. There had been an audible array of disgruntled cries, but more so there had been an uproar of applause.
In the end, his sister was the one shivering, as she was tossed into a frozen tundra of an arena.
“Orfeo.”
This time, the voice doesn’t belong to his sister. It’s deeper, with a rumbling gravel that thickens the word in his throat; like he’s garbled seawater.
Orfeo tips his head back.
Marcel moves forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his deep blue vest. His dark hair is swept back out of his bearded face, both peppered with gray and white.
Given how well-dressed he is, he must be coming back from filming promos or meetings with sponsors.
He goes up beside Scilla, squeezing her shoulder. The gesture looks affectionate on the surface, maybe even consoling, but Orfeo notices his father’s fingers deliberately biting into her. His sister masks a wince.
“We’re not helping him,” Orfeo whispers.
“Of course not.” Marcel spares a small glance towards the boy, nose crinkling a little, before looking forward again. “We have our own tributes to worry about. And he…is trouble.”
Trouble.
It’s a funny word coming from the man who would’ve seen his son meet the same fate only a few years ago.
The unspoken matter not even addressed within his own thoughts, as if the Capitol and President Snow would have access to those, too.
Orfeo sinks his teeth into the insides of his cheeks. When his tongue roves over them, he feels the scarring left there. For a moment, just a moment, Orfeo wants to go to Haymitch’s side. The boy is so disgruntled, so broken,
But then Orfeo remembers the moment shared in Plutarch’s library. Marcel had made the arrangements, prepared to auction his son off as Plutarch’s vessel of rebellion. They would’ve hurt my district for a generation, Orfeo thinks. In that same thought, he imagines the mass hangings that would’ve taken place in the town square, only for the bodies to be relocated towards posts overlooking the ocean. They would be at the mercy of the elements.
For weeks to months they would stay that way, as a perpetual reminder what impudence costs. His sister’s body might’ve been among them, though he expects her fate would’ve been much worse. Plutarch said her name was already in the roster to be reaped for the Hunger Games, but he didn’t know when.
But he expects if he had acted as Plutarch wanted, she would’ve been reaped the year after, and set up for death at thirteen years old. He’d be forced to watch while she died and his district burned, all because he tried to make the world better.
There is no better without a price.
And it’s a price Orfeo can’t pay.
Orfeo would’ve wound up like Haymitch Abernathy.
But he made the smart choice. He played by the rules. For that, he and his family are still alive, and untouched. Unhurt. Maybe not whole, but no one ever leaves the Games whole, anyway. As for his district, the Peacekeepers remain relatively impassive, and there are no great losses looming over them.
Aside from a fair few who reach too far, too dangerously, it remains the same.
If Oisin Odair had it his way, the whole district would burn and he’d be left playing his fiddle over the ashes, Orfeo thinks suddenly.
He tries to push this thought away as quickly as it comes. Affording that fiddler from the Hatchery any more attention than he’s worth is a waste of good thought. Still, now that Oisin is there, it’s hard to shirk him off. He’s imagining the boy with bronze red hair and eyes as unpredictable as the sea sabotaging Capitol cargo, drugging Peacekeepers in local taverns, and dragging his sister along for the chaos.
Scilla never had the same intentions as Oisin, but she had a tendency to follow at his heel. It was that swarthy smile he gave her and pretty songs he’d sing in private moments that wooed her.
The danger was secondary to the thrill of a rebel’s affections.
At the very least, Neleus Odair has done well to rein in his brother. It is a challenging task, to say the least, though after a brawl with the Head Peacekeeper, resulting in three fishers from the Hatchery being flogged for Oisin’s temper, the fiddler’s been quiet.
Scilla has always had an affinity for the ill-tempered, whether it’s would-be rebels like Oisin Odair or the heavy-hearted wounded like Haymitch Abernathy. It’s the gentle unyieldingness in her heart that reaches too far for someone who would only rip it apart in return.
Calluses build over time, though hers remain remarkably soft.
Scilla spares Haymitch Abernathy a long look, her dark eyes trimmed with gold flashing. Her teeth audibly grind together. Without a word or secondary glance towards her father or brother, Scilla turns and storms out of the victor’s lounge. Her knuckles are clenched tightly at her sides.
Marcel sighs. “I’ll go talk to her,” he says, looking down. “You know I’m right. Don’t you, Orfeo?”
“Of course, dad,” Orfeo says. “He’s a liability.”
Marcel stands quietly, staring down at his son for a long and chilling moment before he presses ahead to seek Scilla out. The doors open, with Marcel passing through and Kiernan passing by him.
Kiernan clearly must have noticed Scilla first thing, because he gives Marcel a long, scrutinizing look that has the latter ducking his head like a boy caught in trouble. It’s fleeting, though, as Kiernan shakes his head and redirects his attention towards Orfeo.
His gait has slowed over the years, with a subtle limp in his right knee. When he had been a tribute for his own Games, one of the tributes had tried bashing his knee in with a club, though the swing had been poorly timed, and they had underestimated Kiernan’s durability. But with old age, it’s taken its toll.
Everything about Kiernan is older, though; down to his white hair and long, wrinkled face. He looks so out of place compared to the significantly younger victors residing in this lounge, or simply scattered around the Capitol engaging with sponsors or clients.
Even his clothes are old-fashioned; a button down blue shirt, a brown leather vest, and a long coat that masks how thin he is.
Most victors don’t live past fifty, but Kiernan has beaten those odds.
“What happened?” Kiernan asks.
Orfeo shrugs. “Disagreement,” he answers. “Where have you been?”
Kiernan raises up a black tablet between them. “Managing sponsors,” he says. “We’ve got some good ones, I think, if any of them are actually good -”
“Shh,” Orfeo hisses, eyes flashing.
“I’m not scared of them, son.”
Orfeo doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
Kiernan stares at Orfeo for several moments, waiting for the boy to say something noteworthy. When he doesn’t, he fixes his eyes on Haymitch, and then grimaces. A somberness settles over his old features and in his eyes, making them look momentarily glassy.
It’s the same pitying look that Scilla gave Haymitch. But then that look of pity takes a new name. Determination.
“What’re you doing?” Orfeo asks.
Kiernan moves forward. His eyes light up like the embers of a dying flame.
During the Quarter Quell, Kiernan didn't have anything to do with the tributes from District 12. They had no victors and therefore no mentors to aid them in the arena, so Mags and Wiress volunteered to teach them. After all, Districts 3 and 4 had enough victors for their own. These two could be spared.
But Mags had come back different.
Kiernan should have been angry about that.
“Doing as we do,” Kiernan says, “collecting sponsors.”
“He’s trouble,” Orfeo says.
“You sound like your father,” Kiernan says.
“He’s not worth it.”
“He survived the Games, didn’t he?” Kiernan says. “He’s a boy, like you. No one should be alone.”
Orfeo watches as Kiernan walks towards the half-sober victor, slumped in his chair and one match away from an open flame. He suspects that Kiernan’s eyes just might ignite it.
For a moment, Orfeo considers staying in place in case something goes south. But on the other hand, he doesn’t want to see it, because he doesn’t want to be right. If Haymitch drunkenly lashes out, it wouldn’t be very imposing. But it would be pathetic.
Orfeo decides he doesn’t have the stomach for it.
Instead, he turns on his heel and advances briskly towards the door. He passes through it just in time to hear Haymitch’s drunken shouting, and then his body hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he sees Kiernan trying to hook an arm under Haymitch.
“Steady,” Kiernan says. “It’s okay, Haymitch.”
But it’s not okay. It’s never been okay.
Orfeo looks away, stomach churning. Haymitch should have said no, he thinks as the door hisses shut behind him.
57 - After Dark Days. Twenty-six years old.
“He’s going to win,” Gemma Lux says.
Orfeo doesn’t want to dignify it with a response, but he knows it’s true.
His eye briefly flickers to another screen where the odds-makers are gathered together in front of a board, discussing the merits of each tribute. Steadily, the name of Ren Lusca has been rising higher and higher than the others. What had started off as dismissal or indifference has since evolved into keen interest.
His numbers have been skyrocketing in terms of sponsors. There was a standard flow at first, the kind that was to be expected for District 4. After all, even if they didn’t always have winners, their tributes always put on a show. They promised entertainment at the bare minimum, usually ranking the top eight or even five.
The last victor in District 4 had been an Osprey, so it would probably do them all some good to finally have the attention pulled away from their cursed family.
Ren Lusca lacks the title of legacy.
He’s an underdog.
Orfeo hadn’t paid much attention to him before back home, though he was aware of the boy’s ambitions. He came from the community home, though he spent only as much time as required there. More often than not, he was in the Quarry; sparring with himself or anyone willing to join him. He was in the water, paddling through heavy waves and diving under thick currents.
There was no fear in him, even from the beginning. Orfeo had watched how confidently Ren walked across the stage, chin tipped up as if he belonged there. For every interview and promo, Ren had successfully engaged the populace enough to warrant a promising set of sponsors at the beginning.
All he had to do was survive the unsurvivable.
Whoever had built the arena had greatly misjudged the terrain. It was pretty enough to look at, though entirely impractical. Only a skilled climber could navigate it safely. Even then, the foundations were unpredictable, and no one was safe from sharp edges or steep dropoffs.
The Capitolians loved pretty arenas. It made for better vacation spots and wedding venues after the Games were over. But what the arena had in beauty it lost in practicality. As soon as the gong sounded, there was no smooth path to the Cornucopia - or away from it, for that matter.
When the tributes jumped from their podiums, they were instantly fighting against gravity. They struggled to find their footing on such unsteady ground. Many even fell over the edge of the mountainous cliff, bodies splintering against the rocky edges and falling into a foggy mist down below.
The Cornucopia was a bloodbath before the tributes could even raise a weapon or hand to each other.
Ren, however, navigated the terrain well.
He was constantly in the Quarry, which itself was a rocky terrain, so he found his footing almost immediately. It took no great effort for him to evade the Cornucopia and the rallying Career Pack. Instead of joining them, he opted to ignore them entirely. He’d spared them a glance, but the truth was obvious. They’d slow him down.
From the Cornucopia, Ren had snagged a backpack and knife, and ran before anyone else could gather their bearings. They were too preoccupied trying to right themselves than paying attention to competition. It was almost comical.
Shortly thereafter, Ren had found a body of water and a tall cliffside with a waterfall. He’d tested the water and found it drinkable, then he found something no other tribute would think of.
He abandoned his backpack only briefly to dive in the pool. From there, he found a cave tucked behind the sheet of water, with a rocky surface he could rest on.
Since then, Ren has spent the better part of his time in the arena under the waterfall, lounging against his backpack.
He’d neatly arranged his supplies - consisting of two cans of beans, one can of peaches, a bag of berries, and a blanket - around him. As his mentors advised, he’s been rationing his resources. And he’s been diving for fish.
But that doesn’t mean Ren’s hands are clean.
A few tributes came to the water to either camp or get something to drink. But it was too dangerous to let them dawdle. Ren would slip into the water and stay there out of sight, until he could grab a tribute and haul them in with him.
He’d hook his arms under their necks, choking them until their bodies stopped moving. And then he’d drag their bodies ashore, to the edge of a cliff where he’d kick them into the fog.
There are so few tributes left now.
Ren is most definitely going to win.
But in spite of that fact, Gemma does not seem entirely bothered by it. Her head is cocked curiously, staring up at the screen above their heads with a keen interest in the tribute.
Orfeo wonders if she had been at all dissatisfied with her own tributes. “You still have a chance.”
“It’s nice of you to say, but you’re mistaken.” Gemma sighs daintily. Everything she does, even killing, is dainty. “You have the advantage.”
“What advantage is that?”
“Being a legacy.”
Orfeo throws her an unimpressed, cold look. “Says the Career.”
“A Career and a legacy are two very different things,” Gemma says. “You had the potential to be both.”
“What a waste. Shame I can’t go back in to rectify that.”
“Hush, Orfie. Don’t give them ideas.”
Orfie? That almost draws a totally displeased grunt, coupled by a strategic storm off disguised as heeding to a tight schedule. Instead, he humors her with another look, and decides to stay. It’s one of his many mistakes.
Her eyes shimmer back at him.
“Why are you over here?” Orfeo asks.
“I thought I’d let you know that Scilla tried helping Haymitch again,” Gemma says. “She told me not to tell you.”
That’s her mistake. “What happened?”
“They had a fight. Haymitch said some unkind things, which isn’t surprising,” Gemma says. “He threw things.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Only her feelings.
Orfeo stiffens, expression hardening. Only her feelings. He ducks his face away to hide the hatred in his eyes, particularly reflected in the solid black piece of obsidian resting in an empty socket. Gemma tries fixing her head to find his eye, but he only turns it from her again.
For whatever reason, Gemma has never been particularly intimidated by him. Try as he might to ignore her or yield only coldness to their conversations, she stays.
Maybe it’s because she appreciates his indifference compared to the perpetual fawning from the Capitol. Or maybe she’s smug about his red cheeks.
“Orfie?”
Orfeo lifts his eye, exhaling. “Are they still together?”
“She’s with Mags. I think it’s harder for her this year without your dad,” Gemma says. “Haymitch even said -”
“Excuse me.”
“Wait, Orfie -” Gemma catches Orfeo’s hand, squeezing it between her fingers. “Don’t go starting anything. He’s not worth it.”
He’s just a boy.
Orfeo pulls his hand away wordlessly.
He walks away in long strides, shoulders pulled taut and his gait stiff. He’s grateful when Gemma doesn’t try to follow him, but he can feel her jewel-like eyes burning into his back. She wants to follow him. But she has enough sense to leave him be. If only Scilla had that wisdom.
It’s always Haymitch Abernathy.
Scilla is too forgiving.
When she looks at him, her heart can’t help but to bleed at his expense, even though it’s not her wound to suffer. It’s the fact that Haymitch is alone in District 12, with no other victor for companionship. Rather he seeks the aid of empty bottles and bitter words.
She doesn’t understand what drove him to it, save for the mutually understood grief they share. They have all been in the arena, with blood on their hands, and too young to properly comprehend the weight of it.
But Orfeo sees the shadow of what he could have been. Plutarch failed in recruiting the son of a legacy, one who could destroy the arena with some semblance of an impact. Instead he steered his attentions towards someone who had a fire to stoke, someone who wouldn’t understand the consequences.
Not for the first time, Orfeo feels a swelling of hatred towards Plutarch Heavensbee. He would seek to reap the virtues of freedom and yet never pay the price of it.
Orfeo finds Haymitch on the twelfth floor of the Tribute Center. The doors hiss open, revealing the utter disarray left in the wake of a drunken rampage. A gathering of stylists stand together across the room, hissing to each other, and cradling glasses of wine. Orfeo hears something about ruined future prospects. District 12 is a poor leg to stand on.
On the other side of the room, sitting back against one of the few upright chairs, is Haymitch. He doesn’t have a bottle in his hand. Instead, they drape on either side of the chair, and his head is slumped to the side. Above him, District 12’s escort is scolding him.
“…actions reflect badly on all of us!” Effie Trinket trills.
She is clad in outlandish pink frills that form a fan behind her head like some agitated lizard. It certainly isn’t an inaccurate description, given how she’s waving her folded fan in Haymitch’s face in sharp, jabbing motions. She hasn’t yet noticed the presence of the victor in the midst.
He supposes if she did, she’d be all the more flustered. After all, her little sister - Penelope? Proserpina? - has been fawning over District 4 for years now, waiting for the opportunity to be elevated to a tribute’s stylist. This isn’t exactly a good impression for the Trinkets.
Orfeo doesn’t care. He’s never cared about the Capitol.
Through Effie’s unyielding lecture, riddled with sharp gestures with her fan, and a shrill voice that could crack glass, Haymitch notices their unprompted guest. His head tilts sideways, misty gray eyes sharpening into awareness as they settle on him. His expression, otherwise annoyed or impassive, adopts a colder look.
There is also a peculiar understanding residing in his gaze, as well. He knows exactly why Orfeo is here. And Orfeo is grateful for the lack of false pretense.
“Go away,” Haymitch says, gruffly.
“Who are you talking to -” Effie cuts herself off.
As expected, a horrified gasp slips through her lips. Her eyes frantically rove across the destroyed apartment floor, as if willing everything to right itself again. She tries to muster a controlled smile of pearly teeth, but it can’t reach her eyes. All it does is strain her artificial features. To put simply, she looks manic.
Haymitch presses his hands into the sides of his chair and pulls himself upright. Remarkably, he accomplishes this the first try. He sways in place for several seconds, with his knees buckling. But something locks him in place.
“Go away, Effie,” Haymitch says.
Effie flushes. “We really should tidy up to entertain our guest, Haymitch -”
“I said go away!”
Effie recoils as if she has been struck, curling back from him. Her eyes snap between Haymitch and Orfeo, expecting something from them. But no moves. Wordlessly, hands still wringing over her fan, Effie turns and storms towards the disheveled stylists.
They leave together in a haste to the elevator, packed like a barrel of fish. Once they are well out of sight, Orfeo faces him.
“What did you say to my sister?”
“Same thing I said to you. Go away.” Haymitch lowers his eyes. “But I guess with less kindness.”
He grinds out the word as if it were bathed in coal dust, practically spitting it out between his teeth.
There is a moment where Orfeo considers taking a swing at Haymitch. It passes through his thoughts fleetingly, with his knuckle even clenching at his side to prepare for the blow. Orfeo had always been a strong kid, and an even stronger man. Although he did not make it a personal habit to deliver blows in his youth, he was not shy about it, either.
He had gotten himself into a fair bit of trouble in school once or twice at the expense of others. Once, he had hit a boy because he tugged on Scilla’s braids. The second instance resulted in a brawl, when Oisin Odair antagonized Peacekeepers with Scill present.
They had all gotten into trouble for that.
Odairs always spelled trouble.
Orfeo couldn’t understand Scilla’s interest in the Oisin boy. But he supposes her interest in him is not so dissimilar to her interest in Haymitch Abernathy. After all, both can easily be described as broken boys, and Scilla does have an affinity for fixing broken things.
“I don’t understand her obsession with helping you.”
“Neither do I.”
Haymitch uses the chair to navigate himself to a nearby table where a half-empty glass waits for him. Haymitch tilts it, staring across the surface of the amber liquid as it shimmers under surrounding lights.
“I guess she likes a lost cause,” Haymitch says.
That is an understatement.
“I’ve told her to stay away from you,” Orfeo says.
“I’m trying.”
“You hurt her.”
Something in those words draws Orfeo’s eyes up, expression tightening into hard lines. But there’s something more to it, as well. There is a pain behind the mist of his gray eyes. They’re lost, only sometimes finding something of clarity amidst the fog. It’s the distinct look of regret, which is something Orfeo is very familiar with.
It’s a strong genetic component within the Osprey bloodline, unfortunately; a chronic symptom. It’s like a shadow attached to their heels, only thickening in the surrounding darkness. At least it’s one thing that Orfeo can find in similarity to Haymitch.
Well, maybe more than one thing.
“You want to hurt me?” Haymitch asks.
“I do.”
Slowly, Haymitch sets the glass back down to the table. The liquid inside remains remarkably untouched, though he’s looking at it with longing. Orfeo wonders how much restraint he is practicing at this moment to keep it out of his gullet. More so, Orfeo wonders why he’s practicing restraint at all.
Haymitch’s shoulders draw back, tensing. He’s bracing for the heavy blow to come, though he leaves himself open. The blow doesn’t come, but he doesn’t stop bracing for it, even when he notices Orfeo shaking his head.
It’s tempting. It really is.
“Do it,” Haymitch says. “Hit me.”
His voice is too soft. But the apartment floor is so deafeningly quiet that he could hear the flutter of Haymitch’s heartbeat from here. It’s like when waves crash softly against the rocks on the shoreline; a gentle thud, then dragging back to sea, taking pieces with it.
Orfeo stands in place, unmoving, like that rock.
Haymitch keeps staring at him expectantly. Slowly his posture starts to straighten, though his legs are trembling under him. He looks like the thin branches of a withering tree, swaying feebly in the wind; snapping under the smallest pressure.
There is nothing threatening about it at all, but it isn’t something Orfeo wants to see happen. For now, his sister’s face and hurt slips out of his thoughts. All he can do is stand and wait for the snap to happen, or for the wind to settle.
Haymitch’s fingers tighten around the glass.
“Hit me!”
The glass soars through the air. Orfeo doesn’t even have to move to dodge it. It hits the wall, spilling amber and glass across it and then the floor. Haymitch’s body falls forward with the motion.
Orfeo moves forward then, hooking his arm under Haymitch’s thin torso. The smell of booze strikes his senses so heavily that it does more damage than the thrown glass ever could. But he doesn’t drop him. As limp as Haymitch goes like an old ragdoll, he doesn’t fall.
Haymitch doesn’t fight it as Orfeo leads him back to the chair, setting him back in place.
“I’m not going to hit you,” Orfeo says. “You’re just a boy.”
You’re not much older than him, a little voice says in Orfeo’s ear.
Haymitch lulls back into the chair, head bobbling for a moment. His eyes are in that foggy state again. The clarity he had was only fleeting. Now there’s that same bitterness, but it’s heavily muddled, with only fragments visible in his eyes.
It’s impossible to not think about that kid he saw in the arena, the rascal with a score of one, who won by a series of dumb luck. He’d only been sixteen years old, set up against the Capitol and by people he trusted to keep him safe. They failed him. That is, they failed again, because every time they try this happens.
The Capitol will hurt for a day, but they’ll hurt us for a generation, Orfeo thinks. They’ve learned nothing.
“El que a hierro mata, a hierro muere,” Orfeo says, softly.
Haymitch’s brow starts to furrow. “What?”
Orfeo shakes his head. “It means I don’t want to hurt you. Not really,” he says, sighing. “Scilla might be hurt, but not so hurt that she’s going to stop helping you. She has a gentle heart. I wish mine was like that.”
Haymitch’s eyes narrow. “Nothing about you is gentle.”
He’s right. Gentleness dies in the arena. “You’ve been hurt enough, Haymitch.”
“No…I haven’t. Not even close.”
For once, he’s probably right.
65 - After Dark Days. Thirty-four years old.
Orfeo can’t let him die.
It’s the only thing he can think of with any sense of clarity. Don’t let him die. When his thoughts threaten to unfocus from fatigue or rushing nerves, he can see little Scilla standing in front of him; big brown eyes glassy with tears, lips quivering. She tells him that they’re probably going to die, but she doesn’t have the heart to beg for their lives.
In the same breath, the fourteen year old girl changes into one with bright blue eyes, and a burning intensity in her voice. She begs, even if the odds are way out of their favor, because she can’t lose him. Orfeo isn’t ready to confront why she can’t lose him. That’s a road he’ll walk later. For now, his focus is resolute on one thing and one thing alone: keep Finnick Odair alive.
Easier said than done.
Every year, Orfeo tries to stay out of the public eye.
He passes his promotional slots over to someone like Ren, who has the charisma and means of procuring sponsors. Comparatively, no one wants to see the one-eyed victor with a tendency towards gruff indifference or, worse yet, boring impassivity. He’s worked hard to mold this image for himself.
But this year is different.
And the sponsors definitely notice his efforts.
“This one must really be special if Osprey is out and about,” a woman whispers, giggling.
“I mean, have you seen him?” whistles another. “He’s only fourteen, if you can believe it.”
If Ceres knew the truth of what she was asking, Orfeo has a feeling she would regret her wish on keeping her friend alive. But she isn’t here. He’s done everything within his power to shield the truth of the Capitol from her. The less she knows, the better. Knowledge is power and power is dangerous.
But this isn’t just about keeping Finnick alive for the sake of a wish. If Finnick returns home to District 4, alive and well, then Ceres won’t be able to volunteer for the Games. That is her end of the promise, and he intends to make damn sure she upholds it.
There is no eluding the threat of being reaped. That will always loom over their heads, but at least he’d have something to keep her from trying to enter the Hunger Games. It’s a small tool, but it has merit. A life for a life, after all; that kind of promise isn’t so easily broken. Stubborn as she is, Orfeo has a sense she won’t retract on her end.
Finnick’s life just might be worth more to her than her pride, if such a thing is even possible.
There’s something else to keeping Finnick alive, too. Orfeo’s own crippling sense of morality and self-inflicted obligation. How could he let Finick Odair die when he saved his own daughter? He took a risk of his own getting involved in her troubles, then choosing to protect her.
Orfeo can still remember the day Finnick Odair walked into Victor’s Village, all damp, disheveled, and reeking of seaweed. He recognized the boy immediately - being the spitting image of Oisin, it really was haunting.
He didn’t know why the Odair boy was there, but he knew it was trouble.
“I stole your boat,” Finnick had said.
Orfeo had been surprised, so much so he’d almost laughed. The boy was lying, of course. How could a seven year old boy from the Hatchery manage to steal a boat from the docks by Victor’s Village?
There was no possible way that Finnick Odair would have been able to steal his boat. As clever and capable as he was, even at seven years old, it was ludicrous to even entertain. It didn’t take much to piece the rest of it together.
Ceres had been the one to steal his boat, but it had been Finnick who’d paid for it. Orfeo didn’t understand at the time, but he knew he wasn’t going to let the boy take the fall. So, instead, he reported his boat to the Peacekeepers and blamed faulty knotting. They’d lectured him for it, of course, but it was all a wrist slap.
After deliberating the matter, Orfeo had balked up the nerve to go to the Hatchery. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it at the time. It was as if his feet were moving on their own accord, tugging him closer and closer to a place that had once been like home.
Neleus was there by the fence waiting for him. Perhaps Neleus saw him coming. Then again, Neleus always had a sharp sense about things, so he must’ve felt Orfeo’s presence draw closer. But he didn’t stand like the leader of the Hatchery, the way he faced off the Peacekeepers with a dignified stillness and stern eye.
Instead, Orfeo found him leaning back against the fence, staring up at the sky above them. Fittingly enough, a pair of ospreys were passing by. Odd indeed to see them in pairs.
“It’s been a while,” Neleus had said.
Orfeo was not one to waste time on pleasantries nor small talk, and he knew that Neleus wasn’t the type, either. “Your son helped my girl today,” he’d said. “I’m grateful.”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
Neleus had looked at him expectantly.
Orfeo said nothing in return for several long moments before he finally exhaled. “I want to trade.”
At the time, it had been a means of gratitude. Orfeo often took to the sea to fish, even though he had no reason to do so. As a victor, he had more money than he could ever need - for himself and his family - so there was no real reason to take from the sea. But it made him feel better.
There was a normality in being in a boat, the waves rocking softly underneath him, and the seagulls calling from above. Under the sun, he wasn’t a victor or a legacy. He was just Orfeo, just a man. Whatever he caught he’d bring home to Demetra to cook.
Anything extra he couldn’t bring to town without drawing suspicion or getting someone into trouble, so he usually sent the rest on the other victors.
But there was something to the idea of giving back to the Hatchery through Neleus that set well with him. After all the wrong that had happened between their families a generation prior to their children, it seemed like an atonement. Neleus would claim the fish as his own, caught at his leisure and then donated back to his people. It should have ended there.
Why didn’t it?
And why did Finnick Odair’s name have to be reaped?
You know why.
Orfeo reclines back against his chair, looking down at the tablet set in front of him. It feels strange carrying it around. Every now and again it will buzz to life with a sponsor update, like an interested party or a new sum of money.
Stranger still is the buzzing of idle chatter and dull music filling empty spaces where silence should wait patiently. But this isn’t a place delegated for thought. This is where victors come to be charming, for Capitolians to gossip, and debts to be made.
Orfeo has only visited the Lotus a handful of times during his life as a victor. The first time had been with Marcel and Scilla during her Victory Tour, which had been used as the backdrop for promotional material. Look how domesticated the legacies from District 4 are, the whole situation read.
Orfeo had hated the food and the company. He still does.
The Lotus is a very old restaurant, one of the few that has lasted through the Dark Days. Favored by President Snow, it has withstood time, and presents as a peak of luxury for wealthy Capitolians for Sunday brunches and dealings.
It is a tall building with towering walls and a curved stained-glass roof. On sunny days, light reaches through the glass to create a veil of rainbows that drape across the gardens below.
The middle of the restaurant is a diamond-shaped terrace which divides into four separate pathways. Between each pathway are genetically modified flowers, designed to survive without water or natural light. Birds created in labs flutter overhead. They’re programmed to sit on mantles lining the walls and to sing in perfect harmony to the patrons. Too perfect.
The tablet buzzes again.
Mags told him to keep it facing down during meetings or in his coat, but Orfeo feels better being able to see it. The occasional buzzing sound comes as a relief. It's a lifeline he can throw to Finnick Odair. Ren also noted that the activity of the tablet could indicate competition, which might be enough to encourage Capitolians to one-up each other in terms of sponsorships.
The man sitting across from Orfeo breathes in deeply, pale blue eyes flashing with sharp irritation towards the tablet. He looks at it as if it has insulted his mother. But he sits a little taller, and his hands are digging deeper into his pockets.
“Thrax Mellona, was it?” Orfeo says.
Thrax cocks his head. “I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to meet with me,” he says, his voice a lofty pitch that borders on a melody just off beat. “You’ve become quite popular.”
The smile that Thrax Mellona gives him is a wide one, but unnerving. It doesn’t reach his pale blue eyes, which are tattooed in red liner into a catlike curve. He is a young man with long and sharp features. Technically, he might be considered handsome, but there is something unnatural about the beauty.
It’s like watching a shark’s body beneath the surface of calm waters. There is a beauty to its movements and natural demeanor, but when blood reaches its senses, the true nature of a predator unveils itself.
Orfeo wants to be on edge.
He doesn’t want to give Thrax a single drop of blood to entice him forward.
But this isn’t about him. He made his choice.
“You’re a credible sponsor,” Orfeo says.
“Desired sponsor. Give me some credit, Osprey.”
“Credit is what I’m looking for.”
Thrax tips his head back, laughing. “I’m here acting on my beloved’s behalf, not my own. It’s her money I’m dealing in. Well, ours - soon, anyway.”
Alcinoe Crane.
She’s the Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games, so she can’t be seen presenting public bias towards the tributes. Her role is to create a spectacle. But whatever she does behind the cameras doesn’t matter.
“But you’re sponsoring my tributes,” Orfeo says.
“Unofficially,” Thrax says, tapping his fingers over the table. He points at Orfeo. “I hope I can trust your discretion in this meeting. Victors are very good at that. Your sister should know.”
Something in Thrax’s eyes sharpen into something akin to hope. Looking at Orfeo, he looks like a delighted child who’s thrown a rock at an animal in a cage. He’s waiting for the wild reaction, all without the consequence.
There is a moment where he almost gets it.
Orfeo feels his muscles pull taut, prepared to brace and spring forward. He’d wrap his hands around Thrax’s throat and choke the life out of him. No one would be able to stop him, not with the overwhelming rage pulsing through his body.
He had worked hard to keep his sister safe and out of Capitol clutches. His influence and compliance could only buy his family so much relief. His sister still faced the same fate as many victors who’ve come before her and who will come after.
But the blatant malice in Thrax’s tone, the baiting, is almost enough to drive him to act.
Thrax is smiling smugly.
Orfeo’s expression remains impassive.
The tablet buzzes again.
Orfeo looks down, turning the tablet over to examine the glowing surface. He doesn’t read whatever it is, in part because the words are blurring together. He can’t knit them into anything sensible. Rage is all he feels.
He takes his time, pretending to be invested in other sponsors or meetings - anything that isn’t here. Several times Thrax clears his throat to get attention back on him. It doesn’t work.
Finally, once the heat between his eyes has settled, Orfeo looks up. “You were saying?”
Thrax’s smug grin turns tense. “We’d like to sponsor Finnick Odair,” he says. “My beloved is quite taken with him, as you can imagine.”
“Not Harpee?”
Thrax scoffs. “Her?”
Orfeo fights back a wince.
Harpee Dowe is the girl who had come with Finnick Odair. She volunteered for her friend, Mara Spurnire. Technically, the girl was Ceres’ friend, as well, though Orfeo has never thought much of her. Those two girls tended to cling to Ceres’ side. It was less so by merit of friendship and more so to keep themselves safe.
They knew that Ceres wanted to be the next victor. If either of them happened to be reaped, they’d have the assurance of safety in knowing Ceres would volunteer for them. But neither could have accounted for Finnick being reaped first.
It was the sole reason Ceres didn’t volunteer for them, because she couldn’t go into an arena with Finnick.
Orfeo didn’t know what to expect following the reaping. Above all else, he couldn’t have anticipated his daughter pleading for Finnick’s life. Truthfully, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He is the closest thing she has to a real friend, after all.
A life for a life. He saved her, now she has to save him.
Still, it’s difficult to not feel guilt towards the girl.
“That mousy girl? No. It the boy wants nothing to do with her, neither do we,” Thrax says. “It’s an interesting strategy to have him boycott the Career Pack, but it has helped him stand out.”
He waves his hand, as if willing the very notion away.
“We would both be interested in continuing business after his victory, of course,” Thrax adds.
Continuing business. Orfeo feels his stomach twist all over again. The pulsing drive to keep Finnick alive is starting to wither and die. But then he sees his daughter’s face, with her bright blue eyes filled with desperation.
The boy can’t die.
Hours upon hours slip like water through the crevices of Orfeo’s mind. He can feel himself slipping out of patience, his jaw tightening and his eyes hardening the longer he listens to the Capitolians talk. They love talking. The occasional buzz of the tablet was enough to bring him back to reality.
But by the end of these meetings, the tablet feels heavier with both weight and funds. As for his own body, he feels as if he’s sawed off pieces of himself and tossed them into hungry mouths. Rather than a heavy weight, he feels hollow.
Returning back to the Tribute Center, Orfeo pays no mind to the victors or guards he passes. He slips into the elevator, encompassed by gray walls and overwhelming overhead lights. He feels as if he is trapped in a crate.
His body slumps back into the wall. He doesn’t care that there are cameras watching him now, with satisfied Gamemakers observing him in this disheveled state. He tries to maintain a stoic demeanor at all times, resulting in being extremely boring to watch. He disappears.
Today, they see him as a man.
A hand suddenly reaches out to block the elevator doors before they can close. Orfeo lacks the energy to look up, though he can tell who it is by feeling alone. Her presence is like a warm hearth on a cold day. He can feel it seeping through the hollow of his bones all at once.
Scilla settles in behind him, leaning her shoulder against his own.
But then someone follows in step behind her. It swallows the flame like a room without air. His lungs burn.
“The elevator is full.”
Orfeo’s tone is biting, with a small lingering threat residing just beneath it. It doesn’t have the desired effect, not when Beetee stands unwanted in their midst.
Orfeo hasn’t had much to say to Beetee since the second Quarter Quell. It was bad enough that Plutarch had dragged those children into his games, but it was the fact the victors suffered for the failings.
Wiress had always been odd, but she’s never been quite the same since then; battier than before and prone to rambling.
Mags can’t even talk anymore.
The Capitol news explained it away as the results of a stroke, which was common for women of her age. No one batted an eye when she was wheelchair bound for the next six months.
Beetee didn’t need to be tortured. His son is dead and his wife is pregnant. What comes next is obvious. Once again, he’s caught playing the waiting game.
The glare Scilla gives her brother is cold enough to frost over volcanoes. “There’s plenty of room, Beetee.”
Beetee has the graciousness to hesitate, looking between Orfeo’s chilling glare to Scilla’s welcoming warmth. He makes the wrong decision by stepping into the elevator, but he’s smart enough to stand on the other side of Scilla.
When the doors hiss shut, Beetee touches his glasses. “I thought our tributes could be allies,” he offers. “Both of mine survived the Cornucopia, while yours separated -”
“I know what happens to your allies,” Orfeo says.
Beetee visibly winces.
For a moment, Orfeo feels a modicum of regret. Then again, maybe it’s the dull sting in his arm from where Scilla twisted his skin. He leans away from her.
“No Career Pack or allies this year,” Beetee says. “It’s an interesting strategy. Was Finnick antagonizing the Pack part of your plan or -?”
The look Orfeo gives him finally cuts Beetee off enough for at least ten full seconds of silence, before he’s talking again.
“The boy is capable,” Beetee says. “I’ve noticed he’s received the brunt of the sponsors.”
Scilla looks up at Orfeo, the pair exchanging a mutually tense glance. Neither of them like this. Finnick Odair is a personal matter for both of them, and keeping him alive is in their best interest. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard. Guilt is a hell of a weight to carry.
“Worry about your own tributes,” Orfeo says.
“Thank you, Beetee. Normally we’d be willing to discuss alliances,” Scilla adds. “But this year is a little different.”
Beetee cocks his brow, his eyes flickering towards the elevator doors as they hiss open again. “Different,” he mutters. “Different…”
The elevator stops on the third floor. The doors hiss open. Ahead of them, the victors of District 3 sit together at their table, huddled in and their tablets neatly arranged. They all look up when the door opens.
Wiress’ head bobs up. Her hair is cut short to her chin, framing a long face set with thin, tired lines and dark circles under her eyes. But they brighten when she notices Beetee.
Beetee exhales softly, stepping off the elevator and onto his floor. He hesitates before turning to face the Ospreys. Scilla’s face is gentle and apologetic, while Orfeo’s is unapologetically cold.
Beetee’s throat bobs. “I am sorry,” he says.
Orfeo doesn’t answer.
“I hope you never have to experience it,” Beetee says.
“Experience what?”
The elevator doors start to close. “That loss.”
It isn’t until he feels the warmth of his own blood that he realizes his nails have sunk into his palms. He uncurls them slowly, flexing his fingers at his sides.
If this goes well, then it won’t be a concern of his. You thought the same thing about Scilla, Orfeo thinks. Look what happened to her. To dad. To you.
It can at least buy him time.
“Maybe we should consider it,” Scilla says, her voice soft.
Orfeo’s teeth grit together. He knows that tone all too well. It’s the same tone she uses when she eyes the underdogs, the lost causes, the things that can get her hurt. But he doesn’t have the same grit to respond. He’s too tired after the day he’s had - knowingly bartering Finnick’s life away.
His daughter wants her friend back. Orfeo can choose to ignore the fact there’s more to it. It isn’t just the innocence of friendship that compels her to bargain for Finnick’s life, even at the forfeit of her ambitions.
It’s his own moral cage to consider.
He can’t let the boy die.
I can’t let him die.
The elevator doors open again to the fourth floor. Scilla steps out, though she pauses mid-stride when she realizes she is alone. “Orfeo?”
“I’m going to meet a friend.”
“Since when do you have friends?”
The sharpness in her candor is most welcomed compared to the pitying glances she could be giving him. Worse yet, she could be urging him inside, to talk to her about the sponsorships and everything else going on. She has always been a good listener, but that in it of itself is a problem. In order for her to listen, Orfeo needs to talk.
Scilla has a way of sitting in silence as if she owns the very space he resides and the air he breathes, until his own body spills like a broken pipe; truths pooling out before he can stop them. This is something he can’t afford to have happen. Not now.
The way she looks at him now, Orfeo can tell she is deliberating dragging him out of that elevator herself, or joining him. He wouldn’t stop her if she tried. There are few weaknesses Orfeo can admit to. His family has a way of bending iron into clay.
But Scilla doesn’t move.
“I’ll be down soon.” Orfeo exhales slowly. “Don’t wait up for me, Scil.”
She holds his gaze until the doors close, when the long awaited silence finally encompasses him. For the first time since the rising of the early dawn, he is alone - truly alone. It’s fleeting, of course, but it’s enough for his body to collapse against the wall. He doesn’t care how pathetic or tired he looks anymore.
It’s as if a thousand spiders are racing to crawl away from his skin. The voices of the Capitolians spill out of his ears, falling like rain droplets down his skin in pursuit of escape. The way their eyes had feasted upon him as if he were a banquet for their consumption lingers, only long enough for their bite marks to stitch back together.
It’s a kind of exhaustion Orfeo hasn’t felt in a long time.
The last time it had felt this heavy was when Marcel died.
Orfeo closes his eyes, willing the face of his father out of his vision. But he can’t help it. Marcel creeps through his thoughts like a ghost. He sees his father by the edge of the shore, holding Ceres’ hand as he guides her across the water. Orfeo never liked seeing Marcel involved with his children, but Scilla thought it was good for them.
The Capitol couldn’t take everything, after all. In spite of everything they have been through, they were still family. And it was important for his children to grow up with a grandfather.
Until he got himself killed, by whatever rebellious means he had sought for himself. The details are askew, deliberately on Orfeo’s part. The less he knew, the better, but he knew for a fact that Marcel didn’t walk into shark-infested waters willingly.
Now they’re left with this…mess.
A damned legacy.
Orfeo rakes a hand over his face. He can feel the tension pulsing between his eyes and in his temples. Throughout the day, he’s been staunching the headaches through caffeinated beverages and the alerts that came through his tablet. Now left in silence, it is given the liberty to occupy its host fully.
His palm pauses just over his eye.
Every now and again, the husk screeches in pain.
It’s easy to forget that he once saw the world through two eyes instead of one. He has adjusted to half of his vision occupying blackened corners, with the other eye working more diligently in compensation. How things used to look are more or less lost on him now in habit.
The headaches, though, are nice reminders.
His thumb brushes over the lid, feeling the obsidian stone residing beneath it. The Capitol wanted a real looking eye so he could retain his aesthetic, but he’d refused it. If he saw blackness, then he wanted everyone else to see it, too.
Ping.
Orfeo looks up.
The elevator doors open.
The state of the twelfth floor is not quite as egregious as it could be. The smell of liquor burns so heavily in the air that a lit match could very well be the Tribute Center’s undoing. It’s honestly not a bad idea. If anything, it would be a considerable irony considering the outcomes of Haymitch’s actual efforts to burn them down.
Heaving a deep sigh, Orfeo steps forward.
The space is quiet. There are no screens displaying the Games, at least none that he can hear or see. Haymitch might’ve destroyed them at this point. The Gamemakers probably wouldn’t care enough to replace them.
The further he goes into the apartment, the quieter he finds it.
Haymitch sits almost peacefully in its midst.
He sits on the floor, back to the wall, and his head turned to look out the towering windows. In his hands is a half-empty liquor bottle, with several others sprawled within reach. There are a handful of stains over the carpet from where some bottles have toppled over, ranging from red to amber.
The scene itself is chaotic, though Orfeo struggles to say Haymitch fits it. His body is outlined by the city lights surrounding them, ranging from colors of gold to red to orange; like a lit flame. Irony, indeed.
Haymitch tips his head. “Hard day?”
Orfeo stops.
When Haymitch adjusts his leg, Orfeo sees a black tablet resting over his thigh; no flicker of life for intrigued sponsors. It’s about as useful as a brick.
“Harder for you,” Orfeo says.
Haymitch doesn’t answer.
In that second, Orfeo doesn’t see the bedraggled, scruffy drunk from District 12, who had no business winning the Quarter Quell. Instead, he sees a boy with nothing left in the world save for the memories in his head and the liquor in his hand to drown them out. He’s just a boy without a home.
In another life, Orfeo could have become like him.
If he had listened to Plutarch and gone through trying to detonate the arena, this would have been his fate.
Why did you listen to him, Haymitch? Orfeo thinks. You were just a kid.
They were all just kids, though. In many ways, they still are.
“Can I join you?” Orfeo asks.
If Haymitch is wary or perplexed by the request, he doesn’t reflect it. Instead he gestures vaguely to the space across from him. “What are we drinking to?” Haymitch asks.
Orfeo settles on the ground, ignoring the way his tightened muscles protest, and how his joints creak like a weathered floorboard. “We’re alive.”
The sound Haymitch makes is almost a laugh, though it catches in his throat like a goose’s honk. His head shakes, with dark, oily strands of hair falling into his eyes. “That’s a poor reason to drink.”
“You pick, then.”
A few heartbeats pass before Haymitch looks back out the window, the corners of his mouth turning into a mirthless, cruel smile. “To die.”
“I’d hate giving them the satisfaction.”
“You’re saying that because you’re still fighting.”
Orfeo wants to protest, but he knows Haymitch is right. For all of Orfeo’s efforts to disappear, to be as uninteresting to the Capitol as possible, that is his effort to fight. He fights to keep the Ospreys out of Snow’s interests, even if his own daughter is perpetually trying to push herself ahead of it.
He could never understand where the obsession came from.
Orfeo had been born the son of a victor, grew up in Victor’s Village, but being in the Hunger Games had never been an interest of his. It was a very real possibility, but never a desire. He didn’t want his father’s legacy.
He knows that Ceres’ obsession isn’t for him. She isn’t chasing her father’s shadow, or even her grandfather’s. For whatever reason, she wants to build something of her own, on the foundations of a family that has been left broken by it. Whatever she builds will crumble.
Marcel never fought for his children. He was willing to sacrifice Orfeo to Plutarch’s plans, to the promise of a better future, where the price would be his son’s blood. When Scilla won her Games and was forced into the ring of Capitolian desires, Marcel did nothing. It was Orfeo who had to protect her.
Marcel is dead now. But even when he was alive, he was never their protector.
Orfeo has his sister to think about. He has Demetra, a wife and a love he’d indulged himself in against all practical reasons. He has Ceres, a daughter conceived by accident, who he can never afford to lose. And he has Liber, a son who was a mistake made under a need for normalcy, yet one who can’t pay for his father’s choices.
“Shame about your tributes,” Haymitch says.
They’re so young.
Haymitch would see two fourteen year olds spouted from a Career district, in a rare instance without real volunteers. These things don’t stem from coincidences or idle chance. The reapings, one way or the other, are deliberate. Although Haymitch may not understand the depths of it, he surely sees the signs.
Orfeo knows the truth.
The Odairs have a history of trouble, even in spite of Neleus’ efforts to salvage the ruinous reputation made by his brother. But it wasn’t enough. The Capitol needed blood as retribution, to put any dangerous ideas back in their place. And Finnick was just the offering to do it.
As for Mara being reaped, then Harpee volunteering for her, Orfeo doubts the Capitol expected that outcome. He imagines they wanted another girl volunteering, one who had been boasting about it for weeks, months, years.
But if failed.
And neither the Capitol, nor Haymitch, understand the lengths Orfeo will go to protect the boy. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose his girl.
Haymitch is right.
Orfeo has everything to lose.
70 - After Dark Days. Thirty-nine years old.
Somewhere in the blurring haze of dawn, where morning light doesn’t quite reach the crest of the mountains, Orfeo can hear Finnick crying.
It had been a long night.
Orfeo was awake when the elevator doors opened, with Finnick Odair’s shuffling feet barely making it across the floor. He looked terrible, but that word felt like an understatement. Honestly, there was no word to describe the way he looked.
When he had left the apartment at around five o’clock, Finnick had been well-dressed, and reeked of Capitol charm. He wore that swarthy grin that sent chills through Orfeo’s body. It was uncanny how natural Finnick slipped into the role of Capitol darling, as if there were two Finnick’s who existed separately from each other. Sometimes it is unfathomable to reconcile that they are the same person.
At around one o’clock in the morning, Finnick returned to the apartment as himself. The Capitol darling was left behind at the steps of the Tribute Center, while the real boy from the Hatchery was left to stagger back in ill-fitting clothes.
The whisper-thin fabric of his shirt bordered on translucent, with a sleeveless cut that emphasized his bare shoulders and muscles. Slender ribbons were left to dangle freely down the slit of the shirt, leaving it open to frame the marks of nails and teeth.
Orfeo had stayed awake for the sake of his daughter.
Ceres refused to go to sleep.
She was intent on staying awake long enough to see Finnick when he came back. Orfeo had argued that Finnick wouldn’t want her to see him like that, but she argued in turn that it wasn’t about that.
They had sat in relative silence together in the shared living space, encompassed by uncomfortable quiet and occasional bobbing heads. When Finnick returned, Ceres had sprung to her feet. Orfeo expected Finnick to push her away, but instead he leaned into her. He held her so tightly that Orfeo could hear his daughter’s bones breaking.
Without any words between them, she walked him to the back rooms. They stayed there for some time before they returned back out into the open. Finnick was freshly showered with baggy clothes, looking more himself; but his eyes were heavy.
Orfeo knew enough to make himself scarce by then. He’d gone back to his room to sleep - to try, at least.
Sleep never really finds a victor.
Instead, through his open door, he hears Finnick crying. The others would be asleep by now or at least have had the sense to shut their doors. Orfeo had left his own open, for reasons he still doesn’t fully understand. He’d done it without a second thought.
From his bed he slips quietly through the apartment, pausing against the wall just on the other side of the open seating area.
Orfeo peers over the edge of the wall’s frame
Finnick’s head lay over Ceres’ lap, as her fingers thread through his bronze hair.
His shoulders shake heavily, though the sounds of his sobs are muffled. Her hand is over his back, hunched forward to hold him. Hand. Just one hand. At this angle, Orfeo can’t see the stump of her left shoulder. But in his mind, he can see the way it snapped in the mutt’s mouth, and how her body drifted away in a cloud of blood.
“I can’t do this,” whispers Finnick. His voice is a strangled, retching sound, as if those hands were still wrapped around his throat. His shoulders arch in another sob. “Ceres, I can’t.”
Ceres doesn’t answer.
There are no words that can possibly mend or fix things. Her fingers continue through his hair, massaging around his temples, and the back of his neck. Orfeo can only see the back of her head. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she’s angry.
Anger, like any Osprey, has a way of resonating off of her in waves.
“Don’t go,” Finnick says suddenly. “Don’t go.” His fingers tighten their hold around her leg. “Ceres, I can’t lose you.”
He pulls himself upright, just enough so he can latch ahold of her. He clings to her as if she were a buoy in a restless storm, threatening to drag him down over and over again into shark-infested waters. They’re all hungry.
Orfeo knows that this is an intimate moment he has no business seeing. But he can’t compel his feet to move an inch. The mentor in him wants to approach the scene from a pragmatic angle. For the most part, Finnick manages his Capitol persona well. Out in the public eye, he is the exact darling that President Snow needs him to be, and the Capitol are more than satisfied with him. And then there are moments like this.
But as a father, he wants to protect them.
It is a plain and simple thought. If he could, he’d rid this apartment of every camera and mic that chronically monitors President Snow’s prized victors. If given the chance, Orfeo would give Finnick the peace to grieve. Within the Capitol, there is no room for such luxuries. The best they can do is survive the Games, then return home.
At least there they can break apart in relative privacy, whatever that might mean.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ceres promises. “I’m right here. See?”
Ceres’ hand moves from his hair to cradle his jaw, with her thumb brushing gently across his lower lip. Finnick stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes gorge themselves on her face, taking in every inch of her as if to imprint her to memory; like one day she’ll be gone.
She holds the intensity of his gaze unflinchingly.
It is an odd thing to see her like this.
As a child, Ceres had always been distant. The Ospreys were never a particularly affectionate family, save for certain necessities. For instance, holding the hands of his children when they were very small, or carrying them on his shoulders. Even Demetra tended to veer on the side of shrewdness concerning her outward affections.
Neither Ceres nor Liber seemed to crave it. Ceres was content to her own delights, while Liber often drowned himself in his solitude. At the time, Orfeo didn’t think much of it. Mostly, he was relieved by Liber’s ability to keep his head down. But it was Ceres’ perpetual interest in the Games that stirred his fear.
Between his children, he watched Ceres the closest. If either of them would find themselves in trouble, it would be his daughter. He could at least sate himself knowing that Liber had the wit to keep himself alive.
In hindsight, Orfeo sees things differently. The blackened edges he chose to ignore make themselves more obvious.
“You need to sleep. We have promos tomorrow,” Ceres says. “Can I help you back to your room?”
Finnick answers with a small nod.
Orfeo takes this as his leave to go.
Soundlessly, he pulls away from the wall and pads across the apartment back to his room. He slides into the darkness, closing his door fully this time.
She loves him.
Orfeo feels the ferocity of fear that he hasn’t known in years. It paralyzes him down to his toes.
Oisin was a rebel. Neleus was a leader. And Finnick was just a boy.
A boy who loves his daughter.
At least that much hasn’t changed.
~`~`~
Once again, Plutarch’s plans fail.
He doesn’t pay for it, of course, because he knows how to play the game. The same can’t be said for Porter Millicent Tripp, one of the victors from District 5, and several others. While the promos have been primarily dominated by District 4’s victors, the others have been interviewed as a form of courtesy. They would discuss the merits of their tributes, congratulate the winner, and urge the Capitol in celebration.
But Porter has remained out of the interviews following the conclusion of the Games. No one would really care, of course.
The Capitol is focused on District 4’s newest victor, who, according to Gamemakers, is under their devoted medical care. After all, the flooding of the arena had been an absolute spectacle of a showstopper, and although Annie Cresta was an accomplished swimmer, she is still only human. Humans are fragile even when they’re victors - especially as victors.
Lies, lies, lies.
Every screen Orfeo passes, he sees Caesar Flickerman’s pearly white teeth flashing, and his head tipped back in laughter. His hand presses into his chest. “What an absolute twist!” he exclaims. “What that dam burst, I thought I was going to burst, too! Where do you think of this stuff?”
The cameras pan to the Head Gamemaker.
This year had been a little different.
Following Alcinoe Crane’s graceful abdication of power - and life - following the sixty-eighth Hunger Games, her little brother, Seneca, had taken up the mantle as Head Gamemaker. The sixty-ninth Hunger Games had been a relatively successful followup, neither particularly spectacular nor mundane. It was a decent beginning to a Head Gamemaker’s career.
Seneca had gone with a desert theme to offset the use of caves and water from the year prior. It hadn’t been entirely unlike Marcel Osprey’s Games, a fact that didn’t slip past Orfeo’s notice. He couldn’t help but to wonder if it was supposed to be a gesture or tribute of some kind.
Primus Pax, a Career from District 2, won that year. He had volunteered as a tribute of his own for his brother, Armor, who had died the year prior.
It was the ideal sort of year to follow up Ceres’ Hunger Games. Although her Games had been memorable, it hadn’t been for the right reasons. There were too many details scrubbed clean by Gamemakers. The sixty-ninth year had been better. There was a Career with absolute loyalty towards the Capitol to stand as the new star, one who promised blood and gave it.
The seventieth year, however, had slipped through the cracks.
Seneca Crane had stepped down temporarily from his role of Head Gamemaker on account of his wife, Medea Sickle, giving birth. It fell on one of the arena’s lead designers and high ranking Gamemakers, Morus Price, to oversee that year.
Seneca’s hands are clean in the mess that was made, but the same can’t be said for Morus.
Morus Price sits on the other side of Caesar, cradling his bearded jaw in thought. “Well…when you have the opportunity to step in as Head Gamemaker, it’s important to make an impression.”
“You certainly raised the stakes for Mr. Crane when he returns!”
Raised the stakes, indeed.
By now, Morus Price is probably dead.
As one of the primary overseers of the arena’s and their designs, he had deliberately established the dam to be fragile. He knew from the beginning it would be District 5’s tributes who would be the ones to bring it down. In order for him to have access to District 5, he needed a moderator. Plutarch.
And yet Plutarch, once again, remains untouched in all this mess.
When the dam burst, it had killed half of the remaining tributes in the arena, but it had failed in flooding anything of merit. The Gamemakers had been quick to realize something was amiss. And it wouldn’t take very long after to figure whose fault it was.
The Capitol will hurt for a day, but my district will hurt for a generation, Orfeo thinks, recalling the words he’d said to Plutarch when he came with a similar offer. Now it’s District 5 who will pay for it.
Over and over it goes.
Orfeo wonders who Plutarch’s next little project will be.
Speaking of which -
From Orfeo’s vantage point along a velvet lined wall, he watches Plutarch Heavensbee move with controlled energy, his voice sharp and commanding as he so elegantly orchestrates the happenings on stage. A wall of cameras divide the stage from Plutarch, where Scilla stands in a glittering dress like a fish’s tail.
The flashes of the cameras are like pulses of lightning.
Orfeo feels like he’s watching his sister being circled by predators, while he is helpless from the sidelines. Through the random bursts of white light, he can see Scilla shifting through her poses, and hear Plutarch calling out for changes. New pose, new camera lenses, not enough energy, too much energy -
The cameras swivel, adjusting whenever Plutarch barks a new order.
“Sit back more on your heel,” Plutarch calls, “and tip your head back as if this is all beneath you.”
Scilla does as he asks.
“Too much. Smile more,” Plutarch adds.
His tone is dismissive at times, even impatient.
It won’t be long before Scilla’s round of pictures and filmed material are over. Orfeo will be up to take her place. Each victor from District 4 will have to step up on that stage and subject themselves to Plutarch’s scrutiny and the flashing teeth of each camera. After all, they have a new victor this year, and it’s necessary to show a certain amount of district pride.
Across the room, Orfeo sees Ren being undressed by his stylist. Behind him, Finnick’s silver tunic is being adjusted to fit better around his shoulders, while Ceres’ stylist is adjusting her hair.
The tension in the air is thick.
Orfeo sets his eyes back on Plutarch, scrutinizing his every move. His hands clench into fists at his sides, willing himself not to lunge across the room to strangle him. The thought is obscenely tempting.
Loss is a common companion to a victor, particularly unnecessary loss. But what Plutarch has done is beyond the scope of even the Capitol. Generations of blood coat his hands, though he seems to have no problem washing them clean each time. A small price for the cost of fighting. Perhaps his goal is to destroy all of Panem in order to free it.
“I’m worried about Porter.”
Orfeo almost jumps out of his skin.
Back pressed into the wall, he may as well have molded into it. The sudden acknowledgement of his existence brings a sudden awareness all the way through his bones; loosening the muscles encasing them, then freeing the tension in his lungs with a breath.
The concern comes from the unlikeliest person he could have imagined. He isn’t sure who to expect standing beside him, but he certainly would never have guessed Palladium Barker.
The man is striking to look at under normal circumstances, with piercing light blue eyes that contrast with warm brown skin, and a well-defined jaw that could cut through glass. This is the sort of man and victor who belongs on the stage, performing for flashing lights.
His large hands are tucked into the pockets of a gold-trimmed coat, with various jewels interwoven into the fabric to replicate a knife-like pattern; from hilt to point. Judging by his clothes, Orfeo would guess that he’s just come from filming his own promos.
Palladium should be exactly in his environment here. But instead, he looks remarkably out of place. Instead of a swarthy grin and smooth voice, his face is blank, and his voice is subdued with concern.
Why would Palladium be worried about Porter?
Orfeo feels a sense of dread creep inside his chest.
“She’s fine,” Orfeo says.
“No one’s seen her,” Palladium says.
“We’ve all been busy,” Orfeo says. “You know that.”
“No one’s seen your tribute, either.”
It takes every ounce of physical restraint not to push Palladium into the wall, or to storm off himself. But standing here, watching the studio lights flash, and hearing Plutarch shouting orders, he knows he can’t move. But that doesn’t mean he has to indulge Palladium’s prodding.
If he is so curious as to why Porter is absent, then he is either clueless or willfully ignorant.
Something catches Palldium’s eye. He looks up above their heads, across the space of the studio where a large screen encompasses the wall. Orfeo reluctantly follows his eye.
As is typical, they are playing reruns and highlights of this year’s Games.
The boy from District 12 - Macon was his name, Orfeo thinks - moves cautiously through the underbrush. He’s low on his knees, practically crawling, as he plucks the berries from their branches. He was about eighteen years old, less scrawny than past tributes who came before.
His dark hair fell in a mop over his eyes, which were gray like sea rocks, with mossy hues of green around his pupils. He had successfully survived the bloodbath and the days after by keeping his head low.
In the closeup shots, Orfeo sees that Macon’s face is tense, with his eyes flickering nervously. He hadn’t slept during those days, too focused on learning the layout of the arena, and trying to avoid the Career Pack.
Sunlight filters through the sparse leaves above his head, dappling patterns across his dirt-smudged clothes and face. He’d covered himself in it as an effort to blend in with his surroundings.
Unlike most tributes from District 12, Macon seemed determined to survive.
Orfeo closes his eyes.
Although he does not watch it happen, he can see it happen perfectly in his mind’s eye.
While Macon lies on his belly, covered in mud, bugs, and grass, the strike comes like a viper from a den.
Without warning or sound, Marlo Pike had leapt from the edge of the tree-line, and landed over Macon’s back. Marlo had been a big kid from District 4, every bit the ambitious Career that could be imagined; tall, broad, and unforgiving. It should have been a quick fight, if one could even call it a fight.
But Macon surprised everyone by fighting back. He thrashed under the weight of Marlo’s body. Even when Marlo’s arm hooked under his neck, Macon sunk his teeth into the exposed flesh until blood filled his mouth. Although he snarled in pain, Marlo didn’t let go. Their bodies twisted across the shrubbery, snapping branches and berries alike.
The sound of the struggle, even through Capitol cameras, was muffled, but the force was undeniable.
And then there was a snap, followed by deafening silence.
With a heavy breath, Marlo released Macon’s body. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, with his face still twisted in determination; the will to live is a powerful force, even in knowing it was pointless.
Marlo raised his arm, staring at the blood trickling there.
Seconds after, Annie Cresta had emerged from the trees to join her district partner. Her expression was unreadable, but it was clear that she was unmoved by the scene - though she did spare Macon one pitying glance. Broken branches snapped under her boot as she crouched by his side.
Annie took Macon’s knife from his belt, then the berries he kept in a pouch. He had nothing else to speak of save for a signal mirror in his back pocket that had been his token.
Much like Marlo, Annie had been one of the girls down from the Quarry, who rose before dawn to meet with the others to train, and then left after school to continue the pursuits. And just like her partner, she had volunteered for this.
And she won.
Orfeo opens his eyes.
The tributes from District 4 and Macon are no longer on the screen, but rather Caesar Flickerman sitting across from Ren Lusca.
“Tell us, where is our shining new victor?” Caesar asks. “Does the new pearl of District 4 need more shining before her grand debut?”
Ren opens his hands, then glances with a charming grin towards the audience behind the cameras. “Annie is just as eager to meet you as you are to meet her,” he says. “We have a couple of scrapes to square out first beforehand. After all, we want our pearl shining, right, Caesar?”
Orfeo wonders how likely it even will be to get her on that stage, talking to Caesar, and having to watch the reruns of her Games. The girl who entered the arena with all the determination for glory, all the drive to be a victor, was lost the moment Marlo lost his head. When it rolled at her feet, something snapped in her.
It was like the Games totally stopped.
All Annie could do was run. She tore through the trees, over rocky hills, and settled herself in a makeshift grotto where she rocked back and forth on her knees. The only reason she even survived the flood was because she was from District 4. Without it, she would have died, too.
She didn’t win by means of trying or glory. She won by luck.
After the Games, Orfeo went to see her with Scilla. She had to be strapped down to a table and heavily sedated. She wouldn’t stop crying. With every breath, she screamed raggedly for Marlo until her throat bled. “I want to go home, let me go home,” she said, over and over.
They’ll keep her heavily sedated when the interviews finally come, then probably the Victory Tour; minimal contact, very controlled environments. But first they have to figure out the right dosages for someone in her condition.
“About Porter -”
“Leave it,” Orfeo says.
“I just think -”
“I think I’m up next.”
Orfeo moves forward before Palladium has the chance to pull him back. Don’t ask questions. Leave me out of it. His thoughts are sharp. For once, Palladium must possess some measure of common sense, because he chooses to stay back. If he returns to his own people or if he dawdles there, gawking like a fish through glass, Orfeo doesn’t know.
He doesn’t bother looking back.
Scilla steps off the stage when her brother approaches. The skirt of her dress grips perilously to her legs, making each step an absurd and impractical tiptoe motion. Orfeo thinks that the dress is supposed to replicate something akin to a mermaid, though he finds nothing whimsical or beautiful about it.
If anything, she looks so ridiculous that a bubble of a laugh almost swells in his throat. Scilla catches her brother’s eye. When the corners of his mouth tick up, she sticks her tongue out at him. The moment is like a salve against Orfeo’s mind. The reprieve is small and fleeting, but it’s enough.
Plutarch steps into Orfeo’s line of sight. “I appreciate your continued cooperation,” he says, “but I do wish you’d play nice from time to time.”
His pale blue eyes briefly flicker towards Palladium, still leaning against the wall.
“He knows how to play,” Plutarch adds.
“I won, didn’t I?” Orfeo’s eyes narrow. “That’s more than I can say for you.”
“Progress is slow moving,” Plutarch says. “Especially when you’re not paying attention.” He snaps his fingers, pointing at the stage. “You were supposed to be up here five minutes ago.”
Orfeo stands in place approximately ten full seconds before stepping onto the stage. His hands smooth over the fabric of his vest, made from a scale-like material that shimmers under the flashing lights. He must be blinding to look at.
Squinting through the bursts of white light, Orfeo can see the outline of Plutarch’s body moving behind the cameras. His voice cuts through the hum of the studio like a knife.
“Tilt your head up,” Plutarch commands.
The cameras pulse violently, spasming in the corners of his vision. Little orbs flicker across his eyeline, blotting out the cameras and those who occupy them. He tries to blink it away, but the lights burst again.
But through it, he finds Plutarch.
“Loosen your jaw,” Plutarch commands, “you’ll break your teeth.”
Orfeo doesn’t.
“Look ahead - confident.”
The leering cameras seem to mock him, their unblinking eyes latching onto every nuanced spasm or flinch from him. He can feel the pain settling behind his right eye. It is as if there are a hundred needles lodged behind it, prodding violently at every corner of the socket, then along the corners of his skull.
Through the haze, Orfeo sees the face of the boy from District 12, who kept fighting even though he was already doomed to die.
“You’re making this difficult, Orfeo,” Plutarch calls. “Give us more…of a spark. Loosen up.”
“You need to take the damn picture.”
Plutarch opens his hands in a placating gesture. “Just one spark is all we need.”
One spark to light the fuse, and then it all burns down, while you watch from the comfort of your high chair, Orfeo thinks; unscathed, unburnt, and the victor.