Chapter Text
“Nellie, we’re going to play a game.”
You groan audibly at your dad’s playful tone. You always hated his games. He’d always jokingly cheat and say he’ll let you win this once, and the prizes at the end would always be something you could’ve gotten from the cupboard yourself when propped on a booster chair.
Grinning from ear to ear, your dad shakes a tiny paper bag in the air. He says he has a handful of caramels, a rare treat these days, which he had been able to get his hands on in exchange for one of his golden pocket watches.
“Come on, little plumcake, humour your dad?” your mom pipes in just as cheerfully. “He really liked that pocket watch, you know.”
“The fastest to the car gets two pieces after dinner!”
Your dad hops across the parking lot, leaving you and your mom behind, with her laughing lightly and you pouting at the thought of earning dessert by something as trivial as getting to the car first. Your mom walks ahead and follows him at a leisurely pace.
You contemplate whether running in the midday sun across the parking lot was worth two measly pieces of rancid caramel. You had just come from an apartment of one of Dad’s friends. A friendly visit, Mom had told, but you’ve been on many of these visits to know they were buying food from these so-called friends. Food is hard to come by, you know that much, so you’re thankful. It was better than in District 3, they would say, because Dad would make so much more money working for the Capitol.
“The fighting will be over soon, and you’ll be able to eat as much candy as you liked once President Ravenstill fixes everything.”
You wonder how long ‘soon’ would take, and whether it’ll arrive just as soon as Dad opens the car door and gets inside.
“Nellie, I’m getting the keys to the car! Last chance, plumcake…”
Mom beckons you to follow before letting out another chuckle. “Nellie, come, dear, we have to be quick, dad’s winning! He’s getting the keys, he’s about to open the car!”
It was unfair, really, this stupid game. Dad’s got really long legs. But you take a few steps forward. Besides, it had been a while since you had heard them laugh like this. You don’t get far when you realise you had dropped your pink stuffed rabbit.
“Mommy, wait! Bunny is missing,” you call out.
“You must’ve dropped Bunny, plumcake. Oh, there it is, just right behind you. Go pick it up, I’ll wait.”
“Okay,” you sidestep to where Bunny is, making sure you could still see your dad. The game is still on and once you get Bunny, you’ll be running as fast as you can to the car. You’re getting those caramels and you’re demanding four.
But you don’t even reach Bunny. You get thrown back as you feel little bits of something hit you and whizz past your ear. The wind is knocked out of your lungs, and you hit the ground hard. Your left side takes the brunt of the fall. You could’ve screamed at the pain, but you concentrate on your breathing. The first greedy gulp of air you take is used to let out a pained scream, because even breathing hurts, and you don’t hear it. Instead, all you hear is this ringing in your ears, unbearably loud and louder than the raid shelter alarm that blared all over the streets of your home. The first thing you call for is your mom, so when your vision clears, you try to spot her, but you see nothing in front of you through a thick cloud of dust, except for a raging fire where the car had been just seconds ago.
“Mommy!”
Your arm is hurting so bad it hurts to even move your fingers. You remember Dad’s words to you as he was bandaging your first scraped knee: be brave no matter how much it hurt. You had learned since then to dress and bandage your own wounds when they’re not around. With his words replaying in your mind, you limp forward, covering your mouth so you can breathe through the thick smoke. The dust is now clearing slightly and there’s a lump of something just a few steps more from where you are.
Another sound starts coming through amidst the ringing: the faint sound of car alarms. The lump is moving, slowly rising, but it doesn’t get to its feet. It just lies back down, trying to use its arms, bent awkwardly, to get up. The glint of the watch on the wrist catches your attention.
“Mom?”
Your voice is faint, and muffled, but you rush to her side. You try to ignore the distant screaming you hear around you and the throbbing pain around your arm reverberating through all your muscles. Mom needs your help. Concentrate.
With great effort, you turn her over. You find it odd that her legs don’t move with her body even as you turn her torso. She’s wet as you hold her. The liquid coats you and seeps through your soiled clothes – thick, pungent, metallic, dark.
“Mommy?”
She tries to open her mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a gurgling sound, along with blood, which trickles freely down her skin. That’s when you realise what you’re drenched in.
Right where her stomach should be is gaping nothing, where the blood is coming out in spurts.
Her legs are no longer attached to her torso. You stare at the exposed, bleeding flesh and begin to feel the panic creeping in. You try to gather her, and what’s coming out of her stomach, together.
This had to hurt. The last time you saw blood from a careless nick of a sharp kitchen knife, it had stung like hell and it made you cry out so loud your dad had to rush to you. But your mom...she hasn’t a made single noise since that awful sound she made. She’s unable to speak, so she must be mouthing you something. Now desperate, you search that normally animated face, those bright eyes that would crease around the edges when she smiled – but the face you know so well isn’t moving at all, and her eyes: they were empty, glassy, unseeing. Something in your mind clicks in an instant. Somehow, you know. You just know you couldn’t help her anymore. There is no amount of bandages you can place that could make her right.
You aren’t going to cry, no sir, not now. You had to find your dad. He can help, right? He’s much better at bandaging wounds than you could ever be. You place your mother back down on the pavement as gently as you can and tumble closer to the burning car. Dad is right there, you think. Your pace increases, and then you trip over something.
You scrape your knees on broken glass. It should hurt, but the pain does not come. Not anymore. You find that strange, but before you can try to find out why everything in you stopped hurting despite the pain you had just dealt with when you came to, your eyes land on the object you tripped on.
A hand.
There’s an arm that’s supposed to be attached to it. Except it isn’t. In an instant, somehow you know whose hand it is. Or was. That gentle hand had bandaged you so many times more than you could ever remember. That hand had admonished you on the many occasions you got too curious and landed yourself in trouble. That hand had ruffled your hair every chance it got as a way of saying it was proud of you and it loved you.
That hand had just been holding a paper bag full of caramels just a few seconds ago. You know that hand.
Just like you know whose hand it is waving right in front of your face.
“Hey, Nellie. Prunella. Nellie!”
Your eyes focus on Sejanus Plinth, who had taken the empty seat across the library table.
“I’ve been calling your name several times now. Ms. Metzer’s been giving me the side-eye.” He jerks his head at the old woman arranging books not far from your table. “I was wondering where you were, we’re about to start. What are you doing here?”
What are you doing here? Clearly, you had a book spread open on the library table, which you seem to be reading. You’re on page twelve, it seems, and your open notebook seems to indicate you had attempted to scribble notes, except you had seemed to abandon the attempt and resorted to doodling on the paper instead. Vaguely, you remember rushing to the library after that dreadful announcement: that twenty-four of the best of the best in your senior class were to be chosen to actively participate and be complicit in the murder of twenty-three innocent human beings for the sole purpose of discouraging the Districts against rebellion and entertaining the minds of sick, superficial Capitol pigs. You remember seeking peace and quiet, but all you got were flashes of chaos no child deserves to ever witness, and Sejanus wrenching you out of both. It’s welcome, nonetheless.
“Studying, in case the open books, the notes, and the fact that we’re in a library don’t give the hint,” you finally respond with a bit more sarcasm than you had intended. “Start what?”
Sejanus merely laughs at your clipped tone. He’s used to it, after all. It’s the kind of banter your friendship has taken to – one interlaced with dark humour, witty remarks, and a genuine care for each other’s welfare. He makes a quick swipe at the notebook you’re writing on. He purses his lips comically when the librarian stares at him pointedly with her hands on her hips for the laugh he let out that had absolutely no place in her sanctuary.
He responds with just as much bite. “So studying just means doodling a bunch of creepy-looking hands on paper, wow. Is this some sort of new fetish?”
You reach across the table to snatch the notebook back in mock irritation, unable to hide your grin of amusement. “What’s about to start?”
“Most of the class is brushing up on their Hunger Games knowledge, starting with watching the past ones in the projector room. I’m obligated to ask, but I already know your answer,” he shrugs. It’s nonchalant, the way he brings it up, but the mention of the games tenses the atmosphere between you two. Out of all your classmates, he’s the only friend whom you share an open disdain for the Games with.
“I mean, we can just hang out if you’d like…not here though,” he says in an attempt to lighten the mood. He tilts his head in the ageing librarian’s direction and whispers, “Not with that old crone breathing down on our necks. The coffee shop, maybe?”
“No, you go watch with the class,” you say as you absently run your fingers on the macabre drawings. “You’re a sure pick at that mentor thing, you’re going to need that more than I am.”
With a scrunched-up face, Sejanus asks, “What are you talking about? You’ll be there, too, you’re third place.”
“Not for long.” From your periphery, someone tall and blond is making his purposeful way in your direction. “Oh look, there’s your boyfriend. You should go with him, Janus. He looks cross.”
Sejanus whips his head behind him, only to roll his eyes at you. “He always looks like that,” he mutters under his breath.
Coriolanus Snow finally reaches your table and without a preamble, questions, “Are you coming or not?”
Ms Metzer shushes him loudly.
Coriolanus completely ignores the warning but lowers his voice. “We’re not waiting for you, they’re putting the films in the projector.”
Sejanus’s brows are raised questioningly as he stares at you.
Come with? He says with a look.
But you simply cross your arms to drive the point.
“Fine,” he sighs in defeat and gets to his feet. You wince at the noise his chair makes as it scrapes the floor.
“You too,” Coriolanus nods in your direction.
“Nah, I think I’m going to stay here,” you flippantly reply. “Have fun watching heads blow up, I guess.”
Coriolanus opens his mouth to speak, but Sejanus drags him away, waving you goodbye as he does. You notice Coriolanus’ jaw tick for a fraction of a second just as Sejanus grabs his arm. He could be an elitist little prick sometimes, manifesting in subtle ways just like you witnessed. Maybe it’s what makes it hard for you to trust him like you do Sejanus. Maybe it’s something else you can’t see yet, something in him that is yet to surface. It’s stupid sometimes, the way your instincts refuse to give him – and other people for that matter – a chance, despite being presented with no proof of any wrongdoing. Sometimes you wonder if that’s your fate: keeping him, and other people, at arms’ length because you’re so damn scared of what’s underneath those masks they’re so fond of wearing. If only you could get to peek underneath without being wary of injuring yourself in the process.
Except you know that isn’t how the world works.
With a sigh of resignation, you pack your books in your bag once they're gone and decide to go home. There isn’t any point studying for the final terms now when you can barely get past three sentences and the thought of getting soaked in your own mother’s viscera is heavy on your mind.
***
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
Juno’s mocking voice floats to you from across the locker room as you retrieve your stuff. The entire senior year seems grateful that the teachers are being so generous with handing out free periods, and there is an overall sigh of relief that the finals are over. A whoop of victory for some, especially for those whose names have topped the finals result chart on the senior bulletin board.
Strolling past you with a taunting tone, Arachne’s annoying pitch calls out, “Hey Nellie, did it hurt? When you landed at the bottom?”
You ignore the loud guffaw she lets out as she exits the locker room with Juno in tow, who joins along with her laughter.
Festus pokes his head out of his open locker door, clearly miffed at two. “Hey, cheer up, Nellie. Grades don’t matter,” he says with a shrug, before adding with a more playful tone, “You still get to pull the pretty face card. That should count for something. Hey, got any of those fruit mints left?”
“Nice pick-up line, Festus. Try not to use that one on Persephone, though, I don’t think she’ll like it very much,” you tease back as you throw him the entire bag of candy from across your locker.
“Hey, shut your mouth!” he whispers, almost missing to catch the pack of sweets. He looks around nervously to see if anyone has heard you. Another wave of your classmates enter, with Persephone among them. He is momentarily distracted by her entrance, then glares at you and hisses, “How did you know?”
But you’re already leaving with a book in tow as you reply, “Have fun guessing!”
Of course, you know. You had an inkling, then, even before you saw the way his face lit up in your third-year History when he learned they’d be partners for a two-month-long project. There are things that you just know.
And it irritates you at times how irrational, yet correct these instincts could be.
You hurry as much as you can to your favourite hidden spot in the Academy. It’s the shadiest tree in a grove south of the Academy, where other students rarely go, even for romantic trysts. Probably because there are rumours of a dead peacekeeper's soul wandering among the trees looking for his dead lover from the districts. It’s hidden from view, but you could spot other people coming from a long way away, giving you enough time to leave (or run if absolutely necessary) before they even reach you.
It’s the perfect location to get some reading done now that your mind is oddly clear of ghastly flashes of dead parents and disembodied hands. Before Sejanus finds you and begins interrogating you for what he would call self-sabotage.
As if on cue, your eyes catch the blur of brown curls and red uniform.
You let out a groan to yourself. You’ll never finish this book at this rate. Sejanus doesn’t even bother to sit down.
“Twenty-six,” is all he manages to say. “Twenty-fucking-six.”
“Problem?” You glance up at him from your book with an innocent wide-eyed look. He rubs his face with his palms and furrows his brows.
“Look, I know you’ve been distracted lately, I get it. But if you were having trouble with anything, you could’ve said something,” he rants flailing his arm. You keep yourself from commenting on how dramatic he’s being; it’s not like you betrayed his deepest secrets. “You could’ve asked me, borrowed my notes, or some shit.”
Instead of your normally clippy tone, you opt to try and calm him down. “Don’t worry about it, Janus. I’m perfectly fine. Best I’ve felt in days. Honestly, I didn’t think it’d work, but it’s exactly how I predicted.” You give him your best reassuring smile. He doesn’t seem so convinced.
“Well, enlighten me,” he presses. “How exactly is dropping from the third place to the twenty-sixth going according to your pla- oh.”
“Finally caught up, have you?” You flash him a grin while you watch his brows unfurl and his features relax, your purpose dawning on him.
Sejanus does not offer any more words to confirm his thoughts. He sits cross-legged right in front of you and simply takes your hand in his. His gaze is soft, as is the squeeze he gives the hand he’s holding. It’s the same look of understanding, the same squeeze of reassurance he gave you the day you allowed him to get close.
You were in a bathroom stall hugging a toilet as you emptied what little contents of your stomach you’d managed to down for breakfast. You had just run away from the class, a free period graciously given by Professor Demigloss in favour of watching the Seventh Hunger Games being broadcast live on TV. You had not even lasted an hour, and what drove you to excuse yourself was a tribute hacking another tribute in half with a blunt machete and dragging the severed torso across the arena.
It had made you see red.
Your classmates were quick to call you a wuss. A crybaby. A chicken.
Honestly you had not known what you had expected then. Your Uncle Cas had always been transparent about what the Games were when you were eight and had not spared you of its horrific nature. You had actively avoided watching then until Demigloss.
The urge to vomit had finally died, and you had been readying yourself to get back to class with nerves of steel to endure the other kids’ taunts. But then you heard him call your name.
You thought he was there to make fun of you.
“Nellie? Nellie, I know you’re in here,” he had called, knocking on every bathroom stall. Before he reached yours, you had spoken up.
“Sejanus? Go away.”
But he didn’t. “Nellie, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“You’re in the girl’s bathroom, that’s what’s wrong,” you had said in a biting tone, already on the defence.
He had seemed just as stubborn as he is now.
“Well, I’m not leaving until you come out and tell me what that was all about.”
It took you a while to budge.
“Nellie? Please?” his voice had seemed so genuine then. “Or, I could just stay here all day, get caught peeping, and eventually be branded a freak and a pervert...”
You nearly laughed at that. Maybe it’s what made you emerge from the stall. You wiped your mouth with a handkerchief and ignored him as you washed your hands.
Eventually, you reveal, “No one ever comes here. They think it’s haunted.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Any place the students claim is haunted is a good place to be alone in.”
And that’s when you had burst into tears and sat on the cold, tiled floor.
Sejanus followed beside you, awkwardly patting your back.
He never left your side then, waited until your sobs died down. You had spilled everything to him. How there was nothing left of your father you could hold close, how your mother died in your arms as you desperately tried to cram her innards back into her, how you got so soaked in her blood and guts it had taken a week for you to get rid of the pungent scent, how you often wake up screaming and thinking you’re still soaked in it, how at the present you couldn’t stand seeing a single drop of it without getting sick to your stomach...
Everything.
And then you laughed, because you had found it ironic how you’re being called a chicken for not wanting to ever relive that day in any way.
“They can call me a wuss all day, I don’t care. But no one in the right mind would willingly watch more of that over and over, especially not on TV, advertised as a show like it’s a fucking primetime, family-friendly sitcom.”
And you had talked about so much you had forgotten to read him, what he thought of all of it. Would he judge you just like the others? Call you a weirdo?
But he never did.
He had taken your hand in his. You didn’t know back then what his expression meant, so were gauging whether it was a farce or not.
But then, he squeezed a little, and then you understood: that look he had on, the same look he has on now, told you everything he couldn’t put into words: that he wasn’t, he isn’t going anywhere. The corners of your mouth curled in a small, thankful smile.
The same smile you’re showing him right now.
Your corner vision spots a glint in the horizon, of warm yellow rays hitting platinum blond curls. You let go of Sejanus’ hand and abruptly get to your feet as soon as Snow reaches the cool shade of your tree.
He has on an annoyed expression, just like he does when things don’t go his way, except he normally tries to mask it with cold indifference. Today, he doesn’t bother keeping up that appearance. He associated with you in some way, after all. A friend, one might conclude at a glance. Maybe he does consider you as one, and the hint of disappointment in his eyes means he expected better of you?
“What kind of game are you playing?” he snaps, clearly directed at you.
Sejanus is immediately at your side in an attempt to intervene, but you shake your head at him once. You can fight your own battles. “In case you haven’t connected the dots yet, Coriolanus, I’m trying not to play at all.” You ignore his look of realization and affront and continue, “And it worked. Twenty-sixth means I have two places worth of buffer zone in case a couple of you lot backs out. I’m not trying to rebel, I just don’t want bloo-“
You pause as flashes of shrapnel whiz past your ear and loud ringing invade your senses, your hands coated in a thick, red, sticky substance –
You swallow that lump in your throat to regain composure. “I’ve seen enough of that.”
Maybe that’s a flash of understanding in those calculating eyes you see, and he hides it well with a squint. Maybe you imagine it. Maybe it’s a look of contempt. Maybe he couldn’t comprehend the fact that you were arrogant enough to throw away an opportunity he wanted so badly merely because you hate the sight of blood. Maybe it’s all those all at once.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he said simply as he puts on a blank mask and purses his lips.
“Yeah, and everyone here is the textbook definition of sanity.” You do not wait for their reaction to your retort. You waltz past the two of them, but you could feel Snow’s stare burning holes at the back of your head even from a distance away.
***
Monday rolls by. The day of the Reaping. A day when district children are gathered, and from among them the chosen twenty-four who would go on and forced to become adults overnight, face gruelling horrors they’ve likely never seen before – which is funny in its own, dark right, seeing as some of them had already endured hunger and abuse and loss even before they’re thrown into a pit to kill each other for survival.
In other words, a special Monday morning in the Capitol most of these pigs looked forward to.
Speaking of pigs...
A classmate of yours, Livia, had just emerged from the girls’ bathroom. As soon as she sees you, she comes marching to you in her pointed heels clacking against the floor, wearing a fine dress suit with gold trimmings on the neckline.
“Nellie. You’re wanted at the Dean’s office,” she says with a sneer. “Hey, don’t be nervous! If they ever kick you out, you can always go back to being the district trash you always were.”
Livia, ever the lovely Capitol lady she is, is somehow attempting to be meaner today, you observe. Snow appears from around the corner and follows right behind her, looking smart in a double-breasted waistcoat over a crisp, white shirt. The red rose clipped on his vest completes the look. To you, it’s no wonder why some of the younger girls at the academy fawn over him. Odd, however, that despite how good he looks today, he keeps glancing around him and fidgeting at his collar. What could Coriolanus Snow possibly be unsure of?
He seems to hear Livia’s backhanded comment and raises a single eyebrow. “The name Innis has been consistently topping in the quarterly Math and Sciences Hall of Fame charts since our first year. I’ve only seen Cardew thrice on that list, barely scraping top ten.” He tips his head slightly in your direction and adds, “You’ll be fine, Nellie.”
A compliment? From Snow? The world has truly gone mental. Perhaps another effect of this so-called anticipated Capitol Monday. Maybe it’s like a fever and it’s spreading among your classmates. You might have to wear a hazmat suit tomorrow if this goes on.
“Tch. Whatever.” Livia dismisses him with an eye roll. “Excuse us, the top performers are needed at the Heavensbee Hall.”
He doesn’t follow suit, though, smoothing over non-existent wrinkles on his vest. As soon as the sound of Livia’s heels fades, you address the other classmate before you.
“Thanks, Coriolanus. You too. At the Games, I mean. You’re good at that kind of stuff.” Crafty. Cold. Calculating. That’s him. He’ll be just fine. Hell, he might even win, too. He blinks at your compliment and lets out a subtle sigh as his shoulders relax a little.
“Thanks.” His eyes roam on your uniform-clad state with a small frown. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I forgot,” you reply with shrug. “Works just as well. I think I’m just about to be suspended.”
Coriolanus just scoffs, a corner of mouth lip tugging upwards. “High-as-a-kite-bottom can’t suspend you. No matter how thoughtless and ridiculous what you did was.”
There it is. The old Coriolanus you know. You find yourself grinning back at him and peering into his face a little better. Handsome, truly, but you could also tell he’s paler than usual and his cheeks have never been hollower. Has he had anything to eat?
“Again, thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll see you around, Coriolanus.”
You both proceed the opposite ways with a wave. You catch a faint whiff of roses as you pass by him.
Before darting over to the Dean’s office, you had to make a detour. The senior locker room isn’t too far off and you had done this too many times to count. You reach the locker labelled ‘Snow, Coriolanus,’ enter the lock’s combination (he’s never bothered changing it since Sejanus figured it out) and from out your bag you fish a box of chocolates you had taken from the fridge this morning.
Using one of Coriolanus’ post notes and his pen, you write “Don’t let Festus see this or he’ll eat all of it,” and place it on top of the box. Remembering you had a pack of lollipops inside your own locker, you move quickly to get it and leave it beside the chocolates, labelling it “for sharing.”
Maybe that Capitol-Monday-fever had finally gotten to you, too. But no matter what your insides seem to keep telling you about him, he does not deserve to go hungry.
Satisfied with your handiwork, you take long strides to Dean Highbottom’s office to greet your fate like a martyr. Or a lamb leading itself to slaughter. You get past the empty reception room and softly knock on the carved wooden door. The door swings open to reveal Acacius Innis.
“Uncle Cas?”
Your puzzled look is met with a raised eyebrow from him. He steps aside to let you in, revealing Dean Highbottom sitting behind his desk with his fingers laced together. Your uncle takes a seat at the opposite side, his chin propped on his hand.
“Good morning, Professor. Uncle. I was told to come here.”
Highbottom points at the empty seat beside your uncle. You sit, folding your hands on your lap.
“Let’s make this quick, the Reaping is about to begin.” As the Dean fishes out something from his drawer, he adds, “I invited your uncle over to help get to the bottom of this. He’s an extremely busy man, what with the Games and all, but he was willing to come here because of this.”
He throws a test paper across the desk unceremoniously.
“Care to explain that?”
It’s your test paper for Literature, with barely any writing on it, and a big fat ‘F’ scrawled the in middle and encircled in red. You lower your head slightly and fidget at your sleeves in feigned embarrassment.
“I reviewed the wrong set of notes, sir,” you begin softly.
Dean Highbottom’s eyebrows raise as he slowly repeats, “You reviewed the wrong notes.”
Nodding, you explain further, “Yes, sir. I was under the impression that we were going to write short essays on sixteenth-century literature and its impact on twenty-first-century multimedia. But when I read what it was about, I kind of...blanked,” you end, trailing off at the last word. “I’m very sorry, it was my fault. I should’ve listened better.”
Highbottom releases a weary sigh and starts tapping his glass desk. “I guess there’s a first for everything,” he concludes finally. “Ms. Innis, in the history of the Academy, there are very few who have shown such aptitude for all advanced branches of mathematics the way you have. Minds like yours have great potential to shine at the University, which is why I am disappointed that you would make such a careless misstep at this crucial point in your academic career. Do you realise, if it wasn’t for this, you’d be in the gala right now? Placed in the mentorship program for the Tenth Hunger Games?
“Simple mistakes can make you miss great opportunities.”
You know it isn’t a mistake, but his disappointed tone gets you nonetheless. You bite the inside of your cheeks, unable to find words to say.
“If I may, Professor,” your uncle starts, businesslike in manner. He leans forward on his seat with his palms on his lap. “I’d normally argue that grades don’t really matter in the end, here, but Nellie,” he turns to you with a rigid expression, “Dean Highbottom is right. The University would look at this gap in your records and think you got complacent.”
Dean Highbottom points his finger at him, showing he agrees with your uncle.
“Well, in any case, what has been done is done.” The Dean gets to his feet and pours himself an amber-coloured drink from the mini bar cart on the corner, before adding a small vial of clear liquid you suspect is morphling. He holds out the bottle to your uncle as an offer, which your uncle politely declines with a “no, thank you.”
“Ms. Innis, if you’d kindly wait outside my office so your uncle and I can discuss a solution to this quandary,” Highbottom says in an exasperated tone after a sip. “Also, I’d admonish you for not looking your best for the Gala, but, I suppose it’d be beating a dead horse, at this point. Dismissed.”
You bow lightly in thanks and do as you’re told.
Within ten minutes, your uncle emerges from the office like nothing happened. He waves his forefinger in the air and points to the office exit, beckoning you to go with him.
Acacius Innis, or Uncle Cas as he likes to be called, had been your guardian since your parents’ death. Before the accident, he and his younger brother, your dad, had already made a name for themselves in District 3 for being excellent inventors. The Innises had always been drawn to innovation, people kept saying. They established Innis Tech together and sided with the Capitol during the war, providing them with the technology they needed to quell the rebellion and eventually put an end to the fighting. Just like the Plinths, they were allowed to move from the Districts to the Capitol, only that your parents made the move while the war was ongoing. They hadn’t even lived in the city for two years before the rebels decided they were a threat and had them taken out. Your uncle has since then taken responsibility for you and managing the company alone at the same time. He often claims it was your dad who had a flair for business, but he grew Innis Tech to what it is today: the biggest tech company supplying the Capitol with its much-needed technological advancements.
As soon as your Uncle was satisfied with the company’s growth, however, he turned over the management to a distant Innis relative in District 3 and kept the majority of the company shares, so he could focus on his other passion besides computers: teaching. The University welcomed his tech know-how despite his lack of formal education. It was through his efforts that the University established a Computer Sciences College, to which he became the Dean.
Your Uncle Cas is a force of nature, and you love him for it.
The only thing that doesn’t sit well with you is how he became involved, inevitably, with the Citadel as a gamemaker.
He’s involved in designing the Hunger Games.
He knows you don’t approve of it, too, and out of respect for you, he tries as much as he can to keep you away from that part of his work, despite your shared interests in computers.
As soon as you get inside the car, Uncle Cas releases a heavy, relieved sigh. He instructs the driver to take the both of you home.
“Guess who’s been suspended for a day,” he says lightly to break the quiet. Mild mirth dances in his eyes as he leans heavily against the car seat, muttering to himself. “Fucking Highbottom getting high on the job...”
This is the Acacius Innis only you get to see.
“Ah, and you’ll be taking a remedial test tomorrow. So, think of it as a study-at-home kind of thing. And because I’ve so kindly promised to donate a state-of-the-art computer lab so the Academy can begin training kids like you a little earlier, they will overlook this misstep, erase that failing grade from your record and let you pass with high honours. No harm done, it seems.”
This is exactly the outcome you have been expecting, but you were hoping that your uncle wouldn’t have to shell out any money in the process.
Perhaps he’s confused as to why you’re being quiet, so he looks at you questioningly.
“What’s with that look on your face? You look like somebody just died. This is about the money, isn’t it?”
You nod, looking at him sombrely. He never had to clean up your mess before, so why was he acting like there was nothing to it? He hums to himself, glancing at you sideways with a thoughtful look.
“So, let me ask you this: you think manipulating your grades so you could avoid mentoring in the Games was worth spending a fortune and getting yourself into trouble?”
Your uncle never misses anything.
“Yeah...” you admit.
He raises a sceptical eyebrow at your tone. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you snap. It’s getting on your nerves a little how nonchalant he is about all of it. If he’s angry, he should be telling you outright, instead of whatever the fuck this is supposed to be. You’re not twelve, he doesn’t have to be this condescending. “Yes, I am,” you repeat with a firmer tone.
“There you go.”
His softness surprises you. You peer into his face curiously, expecting to see disappointment, but all he has for you is the gentlest, most affectionate smile you’ve ever seen from him.
“That’s the spirit. Nellie. You fought for what you thought was right, and there should be no shame in that.” He places his hand on your head and ruffles your hair fondly.
You may have lost your dad, but your Uncle Cas more than makes up for it.
“I’m proud of you, little plumcake.”
Your eyes start to burn with tears of relief. You had not disappointed him, after all.
“Thank you, Uncle Cas.” It means the world to you. “I was scared I’d embarrass you, though.”
“Yeah, you should be,” he says with a chuckle. “That could’ve easily blown up on our faces. Loathe as I am to admit, image is placed a high degree of importance in this city. So, next time you think of pulling another stunt like that, consult me first and we’ll put our heads together to come up with something better, yes?”
“I will.”
Your uncle nods, clearly satisfied. “Well, since that’s settled, why don’t we get some ice cream?” He chirpily declares, and instructs the driver to stop at your favourite creamery.
“I thought they needed you back at the Citadel?” you ask.
He just dismisses your concern with a small shrug. “I told them it’s a family emergency. Besides, it won’t take us fifteen minutes.”
“So ice cream is a family emergency,” you make a mental note to yourself out loud with a hint of amused realisation.
Your uncle hears this, and jokingly narrows his eyes at you. “Don’t get smart.”