Chapter Text
[64th Hunger Games • Mentor, Year 1]
District 12’s town square is dead silent.
Packed with people, yet not a single one of them speaks.
A mood like a funeral.
It might as well be.
A camera shifts on a roof, the sun glaring off its lens.
Somewhere above, Panem’s flag flaps lazily in the breeze where it’s strung up on the balcony of the Justice Building.
Effie Trinket retracts her hand from the glass bowl containing the name slips of the girls and draws forth a folded piece of paper.
Her textured pink heels clack over the wooden boards of the stage as she walks back to the microphone.
Cole inhales, but the warm air pumping up his lungs doesn’t bring any relief.
Two seats down from him, Mayor Undersee is sweating like a pig in the heat, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief again. There’s a lot of forehead, his hair fleeing his brow much like he might want to.
His daughter is still too young to take part in the reaping. He’ll be doing a lot more sweating then. Even if Cole doubts she’ll ever have a single name slip more in the reaping bowl than is mandatory.
When the escort comes to a halt center stage, the silence is oppressive.
Cole feels like he’s swimming in his suit. The black fabric absorbs the sunlight like a leech, but he doesn’t move a muscle. His whole body is coiled tight in dreadful anticipation when Effie Trinket unfolds the name slip.
Out in the crowd, there are shoulders tensing. Hands being balled into fists. Lips paling from how tightly they’re being pressed together.
Cole swallows around a dry mouth.
“Evalee Caldwell.”
The name rings across the square, a hollow echoing through the speakers.
A collective exhale goes through the female population crowded into the roped-off pens to the right. But for long seconds nobody moves.
Cole’s eyes dart toward his right. Haymitch is still slouched into his chair, spine curving against its rickety back, legs splayed wide. A white liquor bottle rests on his thigh, half-forgotten, held barely in place by his fingers curled loosely around its neck. His gaze is fixed on the crowd.
Cole wets his lip and follows his example.
His eyes find the roped-off sections in the back before he’s even consciously thought to do so.
The twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.
Then there’s some shuffling.
Not in the back. But in the front.
Cole huffs a breath of relief he didn’t even know he held.
Thank god it isn’t a twelve-year-old.
It’s a reflexive thought, and yet he feels guilty for it half a second later.
Twelve, seventeen… It doesn’t matter.
Not to the girl that steps out into the open path between the ropes denoting the sections.
Skinny. Dark brown hair spilling onto her shoulders in wild curls. A pale dress, washed-out sage with a high button collar, carefully mended at the hem.
Shock is written into her face.
Then a scream rings across the square. “EVIEEEE!”
The girl starts. She turns her head halfway, but then she must notice the Peacekeepers. Another beat, and she looks back toward the front, setting herself in motion.
There’s sobbing in the far end of the crowd.
A few peacekeepers have turned the girl’s way, more attentive now, their hands on the guns strapped to their chests, even as she walks toward the stage.
Cole glances at Haymitch again. He doesn’t know what to do. Haymitch proves to be no help. All he does is take another swig of his bottle.
Finally, the girl has reached the steps. She takes them at a measured pace.
Effie Trinket welcomes her with a cheerful smile. “Our first tribute!” she declares joyfully as she receives her, clapping her hands.
Her lace gloves muffle the sound, but the microphone carries it across the square.
Nobody else applauds.
Effie turns her head, shooting a meaningful glance toward Cole and Haymitch. But since Haymitch doesn’t move, Cole stays seated as well.
The escort falters but briefly regains her countenance. “Congratulations,” she tells the girl, who stares at her like she’s living in a completely different reality, before she escorts the teenager to her predetermined spot.
Afterwards, she leans back toward the microphone. “And now it’s time to pick a courageous young man to complete our duo.”
Where before it was the girls' section that was wrought with tension, the same now ripples across the roped-in sections on the left.
Teenagers, sorted by age, penned in shoulder to shoulder like cattle in the middle of the town square, kept in check by the Peacekeepers stationed in frequent intervals. The latter's glaring white uniforms stand out like sore thumbs against the drab hand-me downs worn by the children locked behind the barriers.
Crowd management.
That’s the official term for why they’re there.
For the safety and wellbeing of the public.
What a fucking joke.
Effie’s heels click across the stage. Theatrically, she circles her hand above the glass ball with the boys’ names before she sinks it into the heap of name slips.
Once she’s drawn one out, she returns to the microphone. Her lips move silently when she reads the name privately first, as if she wanted to make sure not to misspell it before she speaks it into the microphone.
“Orrin Whitcomb.”
Cole doesn’t recognize him. Another dreaded possibility unrealized. A small mercy in the grand scheme of things. And he knows who it is the moment the name is called out anyway. Because there are heads turning in the first row, people making space, subconsciously leaving only a single person standing in the gap.
A tall eighteen-year-old. Just as skinny as the girl. Black hair, olive skin. Dressed in a button-down that’s too short at the wrists.
Three yards to the left of where Cole stood last year. One row closer to the stage.
His gaze finds the spot before he consciously thinks to look.
It’s surreal. Watching that very same thing happening from a different angle.
This time, nobody screams. When the boy sets himself in motion, his face is a blank mask.
He walks up the stage and takes his spot without having to be told. His lips twitch into a shaky smile, wobbling, before falling flat again.
The escort turns back to the mic. “Now’s the time; if anybody would like to volunteer?”
The only answer to her question is the wind.
“Well,” Effie says after some painful thirty seconds of silence and clears her throat. Her smile hasn’t even faltered. She places a gloved palm on each of the tributes’ shoulders. “Then it is my honor to announce this year’s Tributes for District 12! Evalee Caldwell and Orrin Whitcomb!”
She claps again, vigorously, like that would make up for the lack of applause coming from the crowd.
Cole thinks maybe he should get up. Stand next to the tributes.
His tributes.
But then Mayor Undersee takes over once more, walking up to the microphone. He thanks Effie, who takes her place again, driving a cloud of sugary rose perfume ahead of her, taking care not to squish her puffy pink dress too much when settling on her seat.
Undersee recites the Treaty of Treason in a monotone voice.
Cole barely pays attention. But it’s automatic to get to his feet as soon as the hymn starts droning across the town square.
Even before the last sound has died off, Peacekeepers start to climb the stage.
The tributes are taken into custody. Arrested. Not officially. But you can call a donkey a horse all you like, but that doesn’t turn it into a horse.
Down in the square, the crowd starts to disperse.
Cole looks at Haymitch. He doesn’t know what happens next. Haymitch is his only reference point. He knows they’ll have to get to the train at one point. But the how and when is somewhat obscure to him.
Suddenly, Effie Trinket materializes beside them, and Cole swears if she weren’t wearing heels, she would be skipping.
A smile is pasted onto her heart-shaped face, wide and cheerful and so very authentic. She isn’t tall, but in her shoes that resemble stilts more than actual footwear and the gigantic wig with the bleach-blond ringlets and the puffy pink fascinator piled on top, she all but looms over Cole. “Victor Cartwright,” she says, offering her hand once again.
He shakes it more out of reflex than anything.
Then she turns toward Haymitch. “Victor Abernathy. Effie Trinket. It's my personal pleasure you meet you. As District Twelve's newly appointed Escort, I look forward to what I'm certain will be a productive working relationship," she says in an all professional tone accompanied by a blinding smile.
Haymitch stares at her outstretched hand for a long beat. “...We’ve met.”
Effie lowers her hand, moving on as if nothing had happened. “Indeed. Several times,” she trills, her smile fixed in place. "I simply thought it proper to introduce myself in an official capacity."
Haymitch stares at her.
Effie looks at him in kind, almost curiously as she takes him in. “You look… more distinguished," she voices, which Cole gathers is the polite Capitol way of pointing out someone has aged.
Her wording, though, nearly has him choking.
Haymitch blinks.
Perceiving that she's made some sort of faux-pas, Effie swiftly tacks on “Than your file photograph.” The realization that somehow this sounds worse, seems to arrive precisely once the words have actually left her mouth. At least going by the look in her eyes.
“I’m sure,” Haymitch replies dryly.
“I mean, you’ve changed quite dramatically," Effie hurries to elaborate. "And I mean that positively.”
“Yeah, why don’t we save the niceties,” Haymitch says, already turning away.
Effie seems taken aback momentarily. But a beat later, her smile is fixed into place, and she turns to check the time. “Well, the train does happen to take off in eighteen minutes,” she says, and whatever spark of amusement Cole had been able to muster dies a swift death. “I should think they would’ve sent a car by now.”
Haymitch is already halfway to the large double-winged doors of the Justice building — gaping like an open maw now that the ceremonial part is over and held open by a pair of Peacekeepers, evidently waiting for them.
Cole moves. It doesn’t take long for Effie’s heel to no longer click behind but beside him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” she starts as they head for the doors.
Cole makes a vague sound in the back of his throat.
“Of course I feel like I already know you; I mean, you’ve been all over the media this last year. Panem’s latest victor! I’ve never had the opportunity to properly congratulate you in person.”
“Thanks,” Cole says flatly.
They pass the two Peacekeepers guarding the threshold to the bleak concrete interior of the Justice Building, the doors falling shut behind them with a decisive clang.
Effie jumps and reaches for his elbow in reflex, turning to look over her shoulder.
Cole moves out of her grasp, his steps echoing from the concrete floors when he picks up his pace.
At least it’s cooler in here, despite the sunlight falling through the embrasure-like windows in the back of the Justice Hall. Bright slashes of light which illuminate the dust particles in the air. Right in between, Panem’s sigil is carved into the wall like a brutalist scar, imposingly large and unmistakable.
Haymitch is already a good few feet ahead, rounding one of the tall grey pillars supporting the high ceiling where water marks stain the cracking stone.
Yesterday, there would’ve still been the rickety tables set up on the floor, roped-off lines where the desperate could sign up for tesserae. Today, they’re all cleared away.
Now the hall is empty, safe for the Peacekeepers stationed beside the arches leading to the stairs. Likely in anticipation of having to escort the Tributes again once they’ve said their goodbyes in the designated rooms on the upper floors.
Cole remembers sitting on the antique sofas just a year ago, staring at the wood-paneled walls and talking to his mother about renting out his room. Discussing arrangements as if his death had been set in stone.
Remembers listening to the sobs coming from the adjacent chamber.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Effie asks cheerfully.
Cole side-eyes her. Her happy constitution even in the face of the armed Peacekeepers and what transpires upstairs and her fluffy pink dress so distinctly Capitol amidst the authoritarian concrete of a crumbling District 12 building.
"Our first Hunger Games, I mean,” Effie adds. “We'll have quite a lot to learn, won't we?" The sound of her pumps bounces back from the walls with every step while she chatters on. "I daresay we're in rather similar positions. Your first year as a mentor, my first year escorting—"
When she sees Cole’s expression, she cuts herself off and says, "Do forgive me if I become a touch overbearing. I've made rather extensive preparations."
Cole hums. He’s itching for a cigarette.
"But I simply like to be thorough. I've already familiarized myself with this year's schedule. We have the farewells first, then transport to the station, dinner aboard the train, introductions, stylist consultations, training allocations..." She catches herself. "Oh dear. I'm getting ahead of myself." A moment later, she says, “You did get the provisional itinerary I sent via mail?”
“Yeah,” Cole says.
“Good. I mean, as I always like to say, organization is the cornerstone of success.”
“If you’re done exchanging pleasantries,” Haymitch cuts in, from where he’s waiting next to an unobtrusive door, gesturing. “The cars are waiting.”
Thank fucking god.
The glare of the sun is immediate as soon as they step outside. Two cars idle on the unpaved road behind the Justice Building, engines running, exhaust curling from their tailpipes. Their black roofs gleam beneath the midday sun, the air above them shimmering.
Cole trails Haymitch toward the one in the front. Apparently Effie is riding with them, and she seems to have some trouble with her expansive skirts, wrestling with the pink puffs thrice her width when she tries to squeeze through the door.
Cole isn’t happy to be trapped in the middle, even if it leaves him pressed against Haymitch. Half his lap is overtaken by Effie’s skirts. Her ginormous sleeve squishes into his cheek.
“Goodness, I apologize,” Effie says. “But really, they could’ve sent another car.”
Cole clenches his jaw. His fingers tap nervous patterns onto his knees, only interrupted when the car sets itself in motion and he’s jostled farther against Haymitch, simultanously getting a mouthful of puffy sleeve.
He spits it out under Haymitch’s amused glance and Effie’s fussing apologies.
Unfortunately, afterwards, the escort doesn’t waste another minute to launch into a speech about schedules and itineraries, treating the whole thing like a glorified PR campaign for two up-and-coming stars who are oh-so-fucking-lucky to have been picked for this once-in-a-lifetime event and aren’t about to be primped up like a pair of prize ponies before they’re sent to the slaughterhouse.
By the time they arrive at the train station, Cole’s three seconds and a cigarette away from a rage-induced meltdown, half-choking on the scent of sugar and artificial roses courtesy of Effie’s perfume paired with the waft of liquor coming from Haymitch’s bottle.
He’s glad to get out, even if District 12’s train station looks as dreary as always, grey and dilapidated, which makes the shiny chrome train waiting on the rails seem even more alien.
Multiple camera teams are in the process of setting up, and journalists are getting powdered by their stylists, while coordinators are still squabbling over the best spots.
Haymitch makes a beeline for the open train doors, and Cole is right behind him, while Effie stops to join the throng of journalists to check from which angles they’ll be filming.
The AC in the train is blasting, and Cole heads toward one of the vents almost immediately to cool his sweat-sticky skin.
Still, he hates this fucking train. With its red carpets and the velvet upholstery and glittering chandeliers.
Instinctively he looks toward where his cabin used to be.
But he’s no longer a tribute. He’s a mentor.
Every fucking year he’ll have to ride it.
The price of survival.
Better get used to it.
Haymitch is already wrestling off his jacket, revealing patches of sweat under his arms.
Cole’s fingers twitch, and he has to restrain himself from simply stepping close to just grab the fucking bottle off him to aid him.
In the end, he takes off his own suit jacket, and when he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, he hangs it over his arm.
His shirt is soaked in kind, sticking to his skin, the small of his back slick with sweat, where his tight waistcoat plasters it to his torso.
Standing there stupidly, his eyes find Haymitch again, but the man is already watching him.
“Have you eaten yet?” Haymitch asks after a beat.
“No.”
Haymitch nods and turns, gesturing for Cole to follow him.
“What about the… you know?"
Haymitch looks back over his shoulder at Cole, who’s still standing next to the door. “It’ll be a while before they arrive.”
“Okay.”
“First thing they serve is dinner, but they usually have some food out between meals in the buffet,” Haymitch tells Cole, while he guides him through the train. He brought his bottle but not his jacket, the latter discarded somewhere on the back of the seats, like he knows he'll have no trouble getting it back later.
Cole hums distractedly. He's hardly listening.
Because walking through the familiar interior of train feels like going through the worst kind of deja-vu. A feeling that only gains in intensity, when they reach the dining car.
Cole stops at the door.
It looks just the same. From the starched white tablecloth on the elaborately decorated table down to the flower bouquets and the glittering chandelier.
There’s a buffet shoved against the wall with ice and drinks, bowls containing fruit or savory snacks, as well as tiered trays loaded with a variety of flaky pastries and artfully decorated tarts.
Haymitch’s already sunk his fingers into a bowl of salted nuts, throwing a whole handful into his mouth.
Momentarily, Cole takes a breath and moves into the car, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. The bloodred lining flashes ominously.
It’s not even a sign really. Cole knows what’s coming.
He pries open the buttons of his cuffs and shoves up his sleeves, but instead of going for the food, he sits down and starts to roll himself the cigarette he’s been craving for the past two hours.
Haymitch joins him after a short while, bringing the bowl of nuts with him.
He gradually crunches through them while he watches Cole roll his smoke.
The first drag once he's lit his cigarette settles something in him. Still, it takes a few more before he even considers speaking. Smoke curls toward the polished ceiling and Cole tips his head back, watching the cloud softly dissipate right beneath the dazzling rainbow specks of refracted light from the crystal chandelier. “What happens now?”
Haymitch huffs. “Usually I’d raid the bar about now.”
Cole snorts despite himself and tears his gaze away from the showy display. “Yeah?”
The bottle of rotgut Haymitch brought from home is sitting in front of him. They put a good dent into it yesterday. There’s barely half an inch of liquor still floating around its bottom.
“You know the broad timeline,” Haymitch says.
Cole keeps looking at him.
Haymitch scrubs a hand across his mouth and shifts in his chair. “Camera teams are going to want to get a few shots of the kids–”
“Should we be there for that?” Cole interjects.
Haymitch shakes his head. “Effie’s got ‘em.”
Cole thumbs at the butt of the cigarette. “...She’s new.”
“If she can’t manage to pose two teenagers for five minutes in front of the cameras by herself, she might as well quit now.”
Cole takes a slow drag of his cigarette. He keeps the smoke in his lungs for a beat before he exhales. A blueish cloud swirls across the table. Hanging in the air like the unspoken fact that they don’t get to quit.
“What’s after?” Cole asks eventually.
Haymitch shrugs casually, but the way his gaze drifts away from Cole and toward the windows betrays him. “Show them their cabins. Leave them alone to have a good cry.”
Cole swallows. He takes another drag of his smoke and tries to remember if he had cried. He doesn’t think so. He’d showered and tried to make himself presentable. Already trying to work an angle.
“Dinner’s in roughly two hours,” Haymitch tacks on. “Going by her enthusiasm, she’ll want to talk about the itinerary before that.”
Effie, he means.
“They’re gonna broadcast the reapings tonight, won't they?” Cole muses after a beat.
“Yeah.”
“Should probably watch that.”
“Hm.”
Cole smokes in silence, staring into space. His own reaping was a year ago, but now that he’s back on the train, he remembers it all vividly. Myrtle with her dishevelled braids. Haymitch drunk. Viorica, with her red eyes and clawed nails, inspecting them like livestock and deciding they could probably be made presentable.
When he realizes he’s smoking more filter than tobacco, he puts his cigarette out on a plate. Then he rolls himself another.
Afterward, he glances at Haymitch, who’s still sitting in his chair, working his way through the nuts.
Cole doesn’t know what to make of this. Him. Haymitch being here, just snacking. Sitting. He wonders what he would usually do right about now.
But Haymitch’s already said it, hasn’t he?
Getting absolutely shitfaced.
The fact that he hasn’t yet…
He’s making an effort. And it’s not for the Tributes’ sakes.
Cole rolls his cigarette between his fingers, staring at it. There’s something that needs to be said, something which he’s pondered over for a while but which he’s never explicitly told Haymitch. “I want to try,” he says.
Haymitch stills, his hand hovering above the bowl with nuts before he resumes the movement. His answer comes a moment later, quiet and serious. “I know.”
Cole wets his lips, looking at the bouquet of fresh roses.
Red and white.
“Is that… stupid?” he asks hesitantly.
When he glances at Haymitch, the man looks at him intensely. “No,” he says then. And then, after a beat, "You're supposed to."
Cole glances down at his cigarette. Watches the smoke curl up from its end, its slow journey toward the ceiling before dissipating.
He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling around its end before he abruptly gets up.
Haymitch’s eyes track him, watching him grab his jacket.
“You wanna give them a welcome speech?”
“No,” Cole says. And then, “Maybe.”
Haymitch snorts.
“Kinda seems like the thing to do,” Cole voices.
After a beat, Haymitch sighs. He downs the rest of the liquor still in the bottle, and then he gets up as well. He veers off toward the buffet, grabbing a shiny, perfectly symmetrical apple from a bowl, pushing it at Cole before he walks past him.
"Come on," Haymitch says. "Might as well get this miserable parade rolling."
The train starts moving while they’re still on their way. Going from stationary to break-neck speed in seconds.
Cole grabs onto the handlehold of a seat to steady himself, more out of reflex than from actually being jostled physically.
“Careful there,” Haymitch says. “Wouldn’t want to brain yourself on your first day.”
“Afraid you’ll have to mentor by yourself?” Cole says and straightens up.
“What’s another year,” Haymitch replies.
Cole has no retort to that.
Effie’s voice rings distantly before they even arrive in the proper car.
When they do, she seems to be in the middle of a cheery speech before she notices them. “There you are,” she declares with a wide smile. “I was just giving our valiant Tributes an overview of today’s schedule.”
Haymitch huffs through his nose. “Told them the time for dinner, then, have you?” he says.
“We were just getting to that,” Effie responds. Maybe she’s blushing. Hard to tell with all the make-up and her mask of enthusiastic professionalism.
Cole uses the opportunity to take his first closer look at the teenagers he’s supposed to mentor this year.
The girl is a slip of a person. Five feet of skin and bones. Wild hair, bushy eyebrows, brown eyes. Rare for the Seam. But there’s no doubt she is. She carries her left shoulder a bit lower, like it healed wrong once after a break.
The boy looks the part. Seem as they come. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Olive skin. A bit lighter than the girl’s. But he’s a tall fellow. A hint of stubble is fighting for its existence on his jaw — a bit weak — and there are some whiskers on his upper lip like he’s trying to grow out a mustache and failing.
Both still seem vaguely overwhelmed, but the girl has noticed his gaze, and momentarily, she’s sizing him up in kind, like she’s weighing her chances.
Cole isn’t the tallest victor either.
The male Tribute, meanwhile, wipes his nervous hands on his pants, eyes darting between Haymitch and Cole. He's seemed to come to a decision momentarily, because he squares his shoulders, pumping up his lungs with an inhale in the same breath, and walks toward Cole.
Apparently, he’s deemed him more approachable between the two mentors. Might be because Haymitch is a known drunk. Or because Cole’s only a year older than him.
Fucking hell.
And he's supposed to mentor him.
Cole feels his pulse picking up then, an uneasy prickle driving up his spine. He’s nearly half a head shorter than his tribute.
And then he blinks, realizing that there’s a palm hovering in the air in front of him, because the tribute is offering a handshake.
“Name’s Orrin,” the tribute says, smiling, and Cole switches his cigarette over into his other hand in order to grasp the proffered hand. “But people usually just call me 'Happy.'"
Cole stares, standing in complete inaction for a long beat. “...Christ,” he mutters without meaning to.
Orrin frowns faintly, but luckily it’s due to confusion rather than recognition.
Haymitch, distinctly more used to Cole's idosyncrasies on the other hand, knows exactly what he meant, as evidenced by his snort.
Cole lets go of Orrin’s hand and takes a deep drag of his smoke.
Happy.
Of all the names.
Orrin shoves his hands into his pockets and slides his gaze from Cole to Haymitch. “So. You’re mentoring us.”
The girl expels a sharp breath through her nose.
“Yes, indeed,” Effie jumps in brightly. “Victor Abernathy and Victor Cartwright will be your mentors, and I shall have the honor of serving as your escort.” She smooths a hand over her skirts. “These are my very first Hunger Games in that capacity, in fact. So we're all embarking on something new today, aren't we? A brand-new escort, a brand-new mentor—” she nods toward Cole "—and our two fresh-faced tributes, soon to be in the Capitol spotlight.” She smiles so broadly her cheeks nearly disappear. “With Victor Abernathy's years of experience to guide us, I simply know we'll make an excellent team.”
Cole can’t help but look at Haymitch. Maybe if it were a different situation, he’d tease him about Effie’s comment. But right now humor is the last thing on his mind.
Haymitch huffs. "Let's not oversell it,” he mutters. “And how about we drop the victor titles?"
“Oh, well,” Effie says, clearing her throat. “If we’re already shedding ourselves from all formality, I insist you call me Effie.”
“Great,” Haymitch replies, sounding like he rather thinks the opposite, and rakes his eyes over the tributes. “Congratulations,” he drawls. His sarcasm is audible. Or perhaps audible to all but Effie. “Dinner’s in about an hour.”
Then he makes moves to leave.
“And what are we supposed to be doing until then?” the girl says.
Evalee, Cole recalls.
“Whatever the hell you want,” Haymitch says offhandedly over his shoulder.
“What Haymitch means to say,” Effie interjects, "is that you’re welcome to enjoy the amenities to their fullest extent. Undoubtedly you’ll want to freshen up before dinner; I know I’d be looking forward to a shower. It’s been an exciting day after all.”
"There are showers,” Orrin echoes, dumbfounded.
“Of course,” Effie says. “Your personal suites have been fitted with private bathrooms. I know it’s a bit cramped, being on a train and all, but you should find everything you need.”
The tributes stare at Effie with similarly blank looks.
Cole presses his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll show you,” he says before he can think better of it.
Haymitch, who's already in the doorway to the next train car, coincidentally leading in the direction of the suites, pauses. He watches Cole head toward him, followed shortly by Evalee and Orrin and a beat later Effie.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s make a whole school trip out of it, why don’t we?" he mutters.
Cole knocks him on the shoulder. “Move,” he says.
Haymitch huffs. Then he moves.
Beyond the windows, the landscape rushes by in blurry smears of green. The wood-paneled walls and the expensive interior of the train don’t have the same effect they used to when he saw them first, but Cole can imagine the way the new Tributes are taking them in. What they’re seeing. The decadence. The luxury.
Haymitch spearheads their small excursion until the layout of the train changes, the center aisle turning into a narrow hallway running along the side of the cars to make room for the private suites.
Haymitch raps his knuckles against the polished wood of a sliding door. “That one’s you, girlie,” he says, already moving on.
“I shall give you the tour, yes?” Effie pipes up somewhere behind Cole. Evalee seems less than thrilled but doesn’t protest, letting Effie take point before they step through the doors.
“Come on,” Cole tells Orrin, who stands, stunned at catching a glimpse of the interior of the compartment.
Haymitch waits at the sliding door to what used to be Cole’s suite last year. Cole hesitates just for a beat before he enters.
It’s strange seeing it all again. Panem's sigil embedded in gold in the polished wooden walls. The TV, the couch, the coffee table, and the dressers. Fresh roses in the vase.
Subconsciously, his hand finds the silicone fingers of his prosthesis. He’d unpacked it right here. The gift box Aurelius sent him.
When he pulls himself out of his memories and looks at Orrin, the latter is openly gaping.
"There are clothes in the dressers,” Cole says. He takes a drag of his forgotten cigarette, ash trickling onto the floor. “There’s the bathroom. Bedrooms over there.” He points at the indicated doors.
Orrin swallows. Then he turns to look at Cole. His tongue darts over his lip.
Cole feels increasingly uncomfortable.
“That was yours. Last year, wasn’t it?” Orrin asks.
“Yeah,” Cole says and tries not to think about dragging his bedding into that very shower. About getting shitfaced on vodka and hardly being able to pass out against the tiles anyway.
“What’s it like?” Orrin asks.
Cole frowns at him. “Being a victor?”
“Being a tribute,” Orrin says.
Cole swallows and stares down at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. He doubts ‘fucked up’ is the answer he wants to hear. "Overwhelming" is what he settles on.
Orrin nods quietly.
Silence unfolds between them.
“I think,” Orrin says, “I’d like to be alone now.”
Cole’s mind flashes back to Haymitch mentioning the thing about the tributes wanting to have a good cry.
“Yeah,” he replies around a tight throat. “Sure.” He takes his cigarette with him even though it needs putting out and slides the door shut behind him.
He's almost surprised to find Haymitch waiting for him. He’s leaning against the wall, pushing himself off, when Cole appears.
“You didn’t lie to him,” Haymitch says quietly, while Cole moves to open a window to toss his smoke out.
“Why would I?” he asks before he turns around.
The sound of wind rushes loudly from the open window.
Haymitch shrugs. “People like to make it sound better than it is.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think ‘The likelihood of you croaking in a week is very high’ is not something that can be smoothed over with words.”
Haymitch exhales through his nose. "Look at you. Already putting a nice coat of paint on it.”
“Guess I’m an optimist,” Cole replies breezily.
Haymitch looks at him for a beat, before he says, “Give it a few years.”
The words leave only silence in their wake. Cole turns to look out of the windows. Smears of green and brown, rolling hillsides and vast forests.
“Come on,” Haymitch says then, when the tension won't go away. “Let’s figure out where they stuck you. Gotta say, that’s a first for me as well.”
Cole hadn’t even really given that any thought. A second mentor suite.
“Guess you get to have your pick,” Haymitch says once they find it. An additional car added to the train to make up for the missing accommodations. “You've got the tributes on one side and Effie on the other.”
Neither is very appealing.
“I'll leave it up to our most experienced team member. Age before beauty and all that,” Cole quips.
Haymitch huffs, glancing at him somewhat amused. “Figure I’m probably better off downwind from all your cigarette smoke. Don’t need my cabin catching fire when you get ideas about tossing your smokes out the window only for them to get sucked into mine.”
“Suit yourself,” Cole replies and pushes the door open. It puts him closer to the tributes, but he figures it’s all the same in the end.
The layout of the suite is the same as he remembers from Haymitch’s during the victory tour. Couch, armchairs, TV, a wardrobe, and farther down, the doors to the small bathroom and the partitioned-off bedroom where the bed takes over almost the whole of it. Overall, it’s not all that different from the Tribute suites, for the simple exception of there being no huge gold sigil embedded in the paneled walls.
And the fact that somebody put an ashtray onto the coffee table.
“Considerate,” Haymitch voices at spotting the latter.
“Probably just don’t want me to scorch the upholsteries again,” Cole says.
Haymitch snorts. A few moments later, he pokes his head into the wardrobe and whistles. “Somebody went all out.”
Cole feels a reflexive wave of dread. He crosses the room in swift steps so that he can look over Haymitch’s shoulder.
Black upon black stares back at him. “Guess that’s my suite after all.”
“Didn’t think that popinjay would actually take you seriously,” Haymitch says.
“Told him I’d wear exclusively black,” Cole says. “Maybe he’s afraid I would’ve found a different stylist if I hadn’t agreed.”
“Or he just thinks he can win you over by providing the minimum of effort before he convinces you to wear his latest designs to advertise for him.”
Cole lets that sink in for a moment. Then he says, “I’m deciding not to question it. For now.”
Haymitch hums and shuts the wardrobe.
And then they’re standing there, in Cole’s mentor suite, simply staring at each other.
Cole wets his lip. His fingers twitch at his sides.
They haven’t talked about it. Not really. About them. How things would be, now that they’re right back in the middle of the shitshow. The Games. The cameras. The Tributes they need to mentor.
“You should get some rest,” Haymitch says, and then he steps around him, leaving a good five inches of air between them.
“Alright,” Cole says after a beat. Somehow he finds himself still standing in the same place until he hears the sound of the door sliding shut.
With nothing else to do once Haymitch is gone, Cole turns on the TV. It won’t hurt to see what they’re broadcasting. That’s his job now, after all. Staying informed. Mentoring.
He gets through three cigarettes before a knock sounds at his door. “Cole?”
It’s Effie.
Cole opens the door, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the waistcoat long discarded. “Yeah?” he asks.
Effie takes him in for a second, faintly wrinkling her nose over the cigarette in his hand, before she straightens up and says, “I believe now would be a good time to go over the itinerary and the tasks set out for us in the coming days.”
Cole’s gaze drifts down. She’s holding a stack of folders in her hand. They’re color-coded.
“Sure,” Cole says after a beat.
He returns back inside to grab his tobacco pouch before he steps out into the hallway again and slides the door shut. It’s a bit awkward, what with Effie and her gigantic dress blocking nearly the whole of the narrow corridor.
“What about Haymitch?” Cole asks.
“He said he’d be right there. We’re meeting up in the dining car.”
“Okay,” Cole says. He throws a last glance toward Haymitch’s rooms before he follows Effie.
Effie insists on waiting for Haymitch, though Cole can tell she’s getting impatient. The digital numbers on the clock embedded in the wall have flipped past the fifteen-minute mark.
Cole is rolling his second smoke, every move more precise than it really has to be.
Effie exhales again. Quietly annoyed.
Then the door hisses open.
Cole glances up.
Haymitch is drunker than before. Not dramatically. He’s still wearing the same wrinkled shirt and dove-grey suit without the jacket. His waistcoat is half unbuttoned. But he still walks straight, still seems mostly coherent.
“Ah, Haymitch,” she breathes. “So good of you to join us!”
She sounds like she actually means it. Hell, Cole doubts Effie’s even noticed the difference in Haymitch’s state of inebriation.
Cole notices.
Even after some four months sober, he could recount Haymitch’s stages of drunkenness in his sleep. He knows Haymitch buzzed, knows him wasted, and even vomiting-on-his-own-couch drunk. Knows him means drunk, quiet drunk, sentimental drunk, and unconscious drunk.
And now, Haymitch catches him looking. For half a second. Then his gaze slips away.
Cole frowns faintly across his cigarette, tracking Haymitch as he makes his way over to the table. Noisily, the man pulls up a chair and lets himself drop onto it.
Wine.
Probably.
Effie’s looking at Haymitch too. But for a different reason.
The moment drags out. Haymitch still isn’t meeting Cole’s eyes. “Well?” he says, gesturing, addressing Effie. "The floor's yours.”
Very likely wine.
Effie clears her throat and adjusts the folder in front of her like it isn’t already sitting at a perfect angle. “Yes. Of course. I mean, I believed it most beneficial to discuss the days lying ahead of us. Schedules, what we can expect, who’ll be taking over which responsibilities… Just to get on the same page.”
Haymitch hums and drags his gaze down to her color-coded folder. “Seems you’ve got it all figured out.”
No hard liquor.
Effie seems a bit flustered. “I wouldn’t go so far. But I’ve informed myself—”
He’s almost certain.
Cole takes a slow drag of his smoke and watches Haymitch rub his thumb across the bridge of his nose.
He’s been drinking for the last hour.
"I mean, this is only a …provisional draft—”
Maybe less.
But when had he—
"—I've consulted the handbook, of course, but reality is hardly ever quite so tidy—"
He drank alone.
"—combined with your years of experience—"
Alone. Without–
"—I think we'll have a wonderfully organized—"
But why?
Haymitch shifts in his chair.
It’s not even the drinking that bothers him.
He’d expected it, frankly.
And it’s not like he got completely wasted.
But he might as well have invited—
"Cole?"
Cole blinks. "...Sorry?"
"I just mentioned that, before we begin properly, I’d like to briefly go over the week ahead. It helps me to have everything laid out in order." Effie smooths the paper and looks at him.
Cole clears his throat. “Yeah. Sure.” He drags himself into a more upright position and actually tries to focus.
"Today, of course, was the Reaping. We'll arrive in the Capitol tomorrow. The tributes will immediately meet their stylists before preparations for the Tribute Parade begin. Training occupies the sixth through the eighth, followed by the private sessions and score announcements. The ninth is traditionally reserved for interview preparation. Styling resumes on the tenth before Caesar Flickerman's interviews that evening."
Effie smiles at them, looking up from her page. “And of course, the Games commence on the morning of the eleventh."
Cole had already known that. But to hear it being said so plainly. It sounds so simple. A week. Just a fucking week.
And then the arena.
“Well. That gives us the framework," Effie says. Then she looks at Haymitch.
The man raises a brow.
Effie clears her throat, seemingly uncertain. “I’d assumed as the most experienced party, you’d perhaps like to lead our discussion."
Haymitch huffs. “Thought this was your war council,” he says.
That doesn’t seem to be what Effie seems to have expected, but she doesn’t appear all that upset. “Well,” she starts, smoothing her hands across her folder again. “I'm quite happy to proceed, if everybody is agreeable?” she asks the round.
Might as well have asked Cole for his opinion straight out. “Sure,” he says out loud.
Effie checks her folder before she takes a deep inhale. And then she launches into it.
Escort responsibilities. Mentor responsibilities. The considerable overlap between the two. Individual team schedules. Appointments. Sponsor parties. Social gatherings.
There seems to be no end to it.
Cole mostly just nods along, despite her being unable to see it, focused as she is on her folder.
"—definitely attend the post-score reception,” Effie rattles off, barely looking up.
"Skip it,” Haymitch interjects.
Cole looks at Haymitch, who’s already staring at him, while Effie lifts her eyes from the page.
"As I understand it, it's one of the most crucial events in terms of sponsor recruitment at the Tribute Center," she says. "Even the Gamemakers will attend."
"They’re not the ones who might be falling apart at the results,” Haymitch retorts. "Besides, scores come out, everybody starts hounding the same people twice as hard. Sponsors already got every other team telling 'em why their kid's the one to watch, and half of 'em are more interested in getting drunk with a Gamemaker anyway. You'll get further once it quiets down.”
Cole swallows. From the corner of his eye, he can see the note Effie jots down. ‘Prioritizing tribute welfare over sponsors.’
Hell.
And still, it continues.
Every so often Cole will be asked for input.
Like when Effie inquires, “Do you generally prefer morning or afternoon appointments?”
“Fuck if I know,” Cole says, because frankly, that’s about the most honest answer he can offer.
Effie blinks at him, almost physically jerking back.
Haymitch snorts.
The woman clears her throat. "Uhm. Well. I suppose that was to be expected.” She glances at Cole again, like she might want to add something before she restrains herself.
Then there are things Cole never had to think about. Like how, once the tributes have entered the arena, Effie's work will shift largely toward sponsors and networking, while he and Haymitch will spend most of their time watching them from the mentor observation suites at Games Headquarters.
“Get comfortable,” Haymitch mutters at that point. “You’ll spend more time in that fucking room than your own.”
Then there are terms Cole’s completely lost with that Haymitch doesn’t even blink at, like ‘sponsor mediation’ or ‘gift authorization.'
And even though he tries to absorb it all, somehow, Cole’s still distracted.
And it’s stupid. Because it all circles back to Haymitch. Haymitch and his drinking. And it’s predictable. Really, there’s no surprise in it. Cole shouldn’t be surprised. And he isn’t. But he’d thought—
Maybe Haymitch forgot to ask him.
But usually he’s pretty reliable when it comes to—
“—generally. And at fourteen hundred, the Cerulean Gala, of course, is a must-visit. It’s the one whose attendees count among the most prominent—"
Then again.
It’s the day of the reaping.
Maybe he wanted to be alone.
"Assuming they've still got someone to sponsor,” Haymitch says.
Cole stills. He realizes he should probably tap the ash off his smoke. Taking drags comes automatically, but the rest doesn’t.
At one point, between him and Haymitch talking in the dining car and returning to it, an Avox had exchanged the ashlittered plate and put a crystal ashtray onto the table.
Haymitch had nudged it closer to him earlier without looking.
Now Effie is glancing down at her notes before she raises her head again. “Well, it won’t hurt to plan for every eventuality,” she says after a beat. “I for one intend to stay optimistic.”
Haymitch huffs through his nose and reaches for a glass and pours himself some water from a pitcher Effie had arranged for.
Water.
Not wine.
And it should be strange that it’s that moment when Cole abruptly remembers that it’s still Haymitch’s birthday.
Today.
Of all days.
Cole’s chair creaks when he leans back, gazing at Haymitch across the table.
What a fucking pair they make. Haymitch on Reaping Day and Cole on the day his tributes will be shoved into an arena.
"Are you taking notes?”
“What?” Cole says, suddenly realizing that Haymitch is looking at him as well. He cut off Effie mid-sentence too.
Haymitch’s lip quirks slightly. "Well, either you start taking notes or you start paying attention.”
Cole feels a flush creeping up his collar. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Haymitch’s eyes linger on him for a long beat before he gestures at Effie to go on.
The worst part is, Haymitch is drunk. Cole knows he is.
And the bastard still hasn’t missed a thing, including, apparently, the fact that Cole has.
Fuck.
“Given our relative inexperience in this particular domain, I believe it would be prudent to attend the opening breakfast reception and make the bulk of our introductions there. The sixth leaves us comparatively open for mentor appearances while the Tributes are occupied with training—”
"No, it doesn't,” Haymitch interrupts her.
Effie blinks.
Haymitch shifts in his chair to look at Cole. "Tell her."
Cole stares blankly at him.
Haymitch sighs. "Your cigarette people,” he says slowly, like he’s waiting for Cole to catch up.
“Oh,” Cole says. “That.”
“Yes?” Effie asks.
“I’ve got a photoshoot. For a brand deal,” Cole says.
VESPER has dedicated a whole two days to get the snapshots for their cigarette promos. It completely slipped his mind.
Effie already thumbs through her folder and clicks a pen. “When exactly are you going to be unavailable?”
“Uh, when the tributes are going to be in the training facilities,” Cole says.
“The whole three days?” Effie asks, downright aghast.
“No. The first two.”
“The sixth and the seventh then,” Effie mutters and scribbles into her folder, looking considerably displeased at learning this information. Then she looks up again. “Do we happen to have a time?”
“I’ll have to check,” Cole says.
“Please do,” Effie replies.
Cole finds himself drifting off again once Effie starts in on the potential Parade outfits and the drafts sent to her by the stylists. They’ll pick whatever they want anyhow. No use worrying over that.
“You’ll burn the tablecloth,” Haymitch says.
“What?” Cole looks up.
Haymitch glances down at where his cigarette has almost slipped to touch the pristine white fabric.
Cole feels his face heat up. He takes another drag and puts the smoke out. Five minutes later he’s rolling a fresh one.
Effie continues talking.
Every so often, Haymitch will speak up and rebut her by pointing out bluntly and without sugarcoating things like, “Might not be able to step away from the surveillance suite,” or "May not have gotten any sleep yet; can’t expect us to show up primped for a party,” or even, “I’d love to get that massage you booked. Really relaxing to think of that kid wasting away in an arena during that."
Eventually, Effie wraps up their self-proclaimed war council with a gasp and a look at the clock. “Goodness, it’s almost time for dinner. I better go fetch Miss Caldwell.”
All in all, it took nearly an hour. By the end of it, Effie has found something to occupy damn near every minute of the week, except the 10th to account for styling before the tribute interviews with Flickerman.
She stands and gestures at Haymitch and Cole. “Would one of you be so kind as to accompany me to inform Mr. Whitcomb? I believe he might feel more comfortable if another gentleman were to knock first.”
“Yeah,” Haymitch says. Then he heaves himself up. "Wouldn't want to traumatize the poor kid,” he drawls, before, surprisingly, he turns to look at Cole. “Come on.”
Cole raises his brows at him. “It takes two people to fetch somebody?”
"Next year I'm going to make you do it by yourself."
Oh.
Cole gets up.
In the end it's anticlimactic. A knock on the door, then five seconds before Orrin opens. He looks like he showered. And like he cried. His eyes are red.
“Dinner,” Haymitch says and turns away.
Cole stares at Orrin for a second longer before he follows Haymitch. Nobody talks on the way. Except for Effie, who seems to have decided now’s the time to give a history lesson on the train.
In the dining car, Cole sits down next to Haymitch while the Tributes slide into chairs that couldn’t be farther apart.
Effie seems oblivious. It’s looking to become the status quo.
She starts relaying the schedule even before the first course is served.
Cole cracks open a bottle of wine.
The tributes eat like they’ve never seen food before. Especially the girl. Effie looks appalled at their lack of table manners.
After the third time Cole tops himself off, Haymitch grabs the wine bottle, refilling his own glass, before he sets it down on his unoccupied side.
Point taken.
If he tries to top himself off again, Cole resolves to steal his glass out of principle. And to shine some light on his hypocrisy.
But before it comes to that, the girl at the other end of the table speaks up.
“Well,” Evalee starts, just after the plates of their latest course have been taken away. “Lay it on us.”
She’s looking expectantly at them.
Haymitch shoots Cole a look that seems to say, ‘Go on,’ before he leans back in his chair, his wine glass in hand.
Cole swallows. Reminds himself that he wanted to try. Tries to remember the things he would’ve wanted to know. The things they should know. Effie already relayed the schedule. Which means—
“The next couple of days are going to be overwhelming,” Cole starts. “The crowds. The stylists. The people you’ll meet. There’ll be cameras everywhere.”
Orrin swallows, and Evalee shifts in her chair, twirling her butter knife between her fingers.
“That’s all well and good,” the latter says, "but that’s not going to help us in the arena now, is it?”
“The games don’t start in the arena,” Cole says.
Evalee frowns, and Orrin sits up straighter.
“How you’ll be perceived now determines your chances,” Cole explains. “Public interest, sponsors, it’s all the same.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” Evalee says.
Cole stills.
“It is,” Haymitch says. “Doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
Cole briefly glances at Haymitch, who looks back steadily. Feeling slightly reassured, he turns back to face the Tributes. “You’ll want people to like you,” he says.
“Or be interested in you,” Haymitch adds.
“The Tribute Parade is the first official point on the agenda,” Cole says. “But you’ll appear in public before. When you get off the train. There’ll be people watching.”
It’s an understatement. Cole remembers women holding their babies over the barrier like autograph cards. Remembers the masses of people all but crushing each other trying to catch a glimpse of them. The screaming. The cheering.
“So, what? You want us to smile and wave?” Evalee scoffs.
“Yes,” Cole says.
That takes the wind out of Evalee’s sails.
“Okay,” Orrin says, blowing out a breath. “I can do that.”
Evalee snorts, sliding her confrontational gaze toward him. “Of course you would,” she drawls.
Orrin tenses incrementally.
Cole glances between the two tributes. He hadn’t considered whether they knew each other. If they do… well. Fucked up is one way to call it.
“Try not to look like you despise every single one of them, and we’ll call it success,” Haymitch says.
Effie gasps.
Cole ignores her. “The stylists are going to be a drag as well,” he adds. “You won’t like it.”
“Doubt I’ll like anything about it,” Evalee mutters.
Haymitch huffs amusedly into his wine glass.
“And you should try to put on some weight,” Cole tells them, deciding to skirt past the uttered truth. There’s no comfort in confirming it. “Food might be scarce in the arena.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” Orrin says, looking toward the door where two Avoxes appear to dish out the dessert course.
It’s some sort of pudding piled high with strawberries and raspberries, topped with white chocolate. It looks and smells delicious.
Orrin smiles at the Avox setting down the plate in front of him, muttering thanks.
“Don’t thank him,” Effie exclaims, scandalized. Seemingly, she's willing to leave Cole to speak even if she disagrees with him, but that’s the line apparently.
Both tributes turn to stare at her.
Not a single one of the Avoxes so much as blinks.
Haymitch leans back with dark eyes and takes a long, resigned sip of his wine.
Effie exhales and sits up straighter in her chair, receiving her own plate with mute grace. “They’re traitors. They’re meant to serve to make up for their crimes. It’d be hardly a penance now if they were thanked for it.”
Cole finds Haymitch had the right idea. He reaches for his wine glass and takes a deep gulp.
The mood is subdued after that. Both Tributes eye the Avoxes in a new light, sneaking glances every so often.
Even the food doesn’t seem to be able to quite lift their spirits any longer. Orrin is hesitant to even touch his dessert, while Evalee seems to view the whole thing a bit more pragmatically, digging in with gusto.
Cole considers telling him he’ll get more use out of eating it than staging a mute rebellion but finds the tribute will be told what to do often enough the next couple of days.
He downs his wine instead.
Dinner concludes in silence.
Cole rolls himself a cigarette, while the Avoxes take away the plates. He remembers last year, and so when Effie rises, he half expects her to get her claws into the Tributes now, to take their measure, and to have them parade around and pick apart the way they conduct themselves while walking and talking and their looks. But instead, she announces that they’ll be playing the reaping broadcast soon.
Apparently, this year they’ll be watching it live instead of the replays.
Cole brings his cigarettes. Haymitch brings a wine bottle.
They settle around the large TV in the entertainment center in the adjacent train car, the Tributes taking point with Effie in between on the bench right in front of the screen while Cole slides into an adjacent booth from where he’s still got a decent view. Haymitch joins him, sliding onto the bench until they're right next to each other.
When Cole glances over, Haymitch's is already looking at him.
Effie keeps chattering on about the programs.
It would be the height of irony for Haymitch to ask Cole how he’s holding up with their two tributes in the same train car, but Cole senses the unspoken question anyhow.
He shrugs.
Haymitch studies his face for another beat before he turns toward the TV. His ankle knocks into Cole’s foot.
Cole doesn’t move away.
The pre-game commentary goes on for fifteen minutes. Effie chatters on and on, commenting on this year’s pick of color when it comes to Flickerman’s wig and makeup, which is apparently the source of an annual Capitol-wide betting pool — chartreuse, she says, but Cole would’ve just called it an ugly sort of neon green the shade of vomit — the outfit of the gamemaker who’s being interviewed, and her guesses about the arena and the tributes, which she thinks are going to be this year's greatest contenders. She doesn’t fail to mention that District 12’s are ‘of course’ her favorites, all the while trying to pull both Evalee and Orrin into unwelcome side-hugs to underline her words.
And then it begins.
The seal of Panem dissolves in a burst of gold, giving way to Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith once more, now seated behind a gleaming desk.
“What an extraordinary Reaping Day it has been!” Flickerman voices, beaming into the camera.
“Extraordinary indeed, Caesar,” Claudius says. “Twenty-four young men and women have been selected from across our great nation, and tonight, we’ll meet every one of them.”
“Some new names, some remarkable surprises—”
“And perhaps a future victor among them.”
Caesar’s grin widens. “Well, there certainly must be one somewhere, Claudius!”
Their laughter echoes from the speakers.
In their train car, nobody laughs. Not even Effie. She’s staring at the screen like she’s trying to take notes already.
“Now, where better to start than with District 1?”
The screen changes; both commentators faded in in the bottom corner, while the rest of the TV is overtaken by District 1’s reaping stage.
Cole recognizes the escort. She’s been doing the job for nearly 10 years. She still looks the same, except for the new surgical enhancements she’s gotten. There are gold veins creeping through her forehead now.
Two names are drawn and read in short succession, but in a district like 1 that doesn’t mean a lot. The volunteers are where it gets interesting. The original male tribute looks rather put out, where he stands on stage, apparently having intended to volunteer himself, judging by his scowl. Not that he’s on screen for long. Because then the image cuts to the teenagers all but throwing themselves forward to be the first to claim ‘the honor,' and they like to draw those scenes out on the broadcasts.
Soon, two new faces replace the ones originally on stage, and the escort turns to ask for their names.
Cole freezes.
Right there on the screen, the close-up of the girl who volunteered. Blonde. Pretty. Seventeen years old. She’s staring straight into the camera like she was trained for it while flashing a brilliant smile and waving. Her hair falls artfully over her shoulder as she tilts her head to speak into the microphone when she’s asked for an introduction.
But Cole doesn’t need to hear her name.
Because he’s seen her before. And because she’s got the same features. A bit different. A bit softer. But it’s there. In the lips. In the eyes.
“Now there’s a name our viewers might recognize,” Templesmith remarks.
“Indeed there is,” Flickerman jumps in. “Cashmere is the younger sister of Gloss, District One’s male tribute in last year’s Games.”
Cole’s already felt Haymitch move beside him, but now the rest of the people in the car have caught up. Heads turn, all staring at him.
Cole keeps his gaze stubbornly fixed on the TV.
“And quite the legacy to follow. Gloss was a tremendous audience favorite. If you remember the betting pools, he was among the frontrunners for much of the Games.
There’s a picture faded in, now in the other bottom corner. Gloss. Unsmiling. Determined. Cole’s hands flex against the table. Something rushes in his ears.
“He certainly was. And ultimately one of our final three.”
“Wasn’t he—” Orrin starts.
“Yeah,” Cole cuts him off before he can even specify his question.
“—does leave his younger sister with rather a lot to live up to.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t count her out just yet,” Flickerman says brightly. “If Cashmere is anything like her brother, I suspect we’ll be seeing quite a lot of her.”
“I suspect you’re right, Caesar. One to watch, certainly.”
They’re moving on to the male tribute now. But Orrin, Effie, and Evalee are still looking at Cole. Haymitch too. If not quite as overt.
“Is she good?” Evalee asks him.
Cole has to work to loosen his tight jaw. “Probably.”
“She isn’t the only one,” Haymitch cuts in pointedly, and he gestures toward the TV, where they’re showing off the male tribute, a guy built like a brick house going by the name Garnet.
It’s an effective reminder. Momentarily, heads turn back toward the screen.
Cole doesn’t look. He reaches for his tobacco pouch to roll himself another smoke, breathing shallowly and checking to see whether his hands are shaking.
They aren’t, but his blood is pumping hard through his veins, and he can still feel his pulse thumping in his jaw.
Then Haymitch shifts beside him, his thigh pressing firmly along Cole’s.
Cole looks up, catching Haymitch's gaze.
He doesn’t know what Haymitch expects him to say.
After a beat, Haymitch silently offers him the wine bottle.
Cole takes a swig. He keeps it after.
They make it through the first quarter, when they hit the last career district and Haymitch nudges Cole, nodding toward the District Four male on screen who’s just volunteered.
“What do you think of him?” he asks.
Cole stares at Haymitch. For a brief second he wonders whether Haymitch wants to know if he thinks the guy looks handsome. But then he connects the dots.
He turns to study the boy onscreen. “Broad shoulders. Probably strong. Likely a good swimmer.”
“Everybody’s got eyes,” Haymitch says.
Cole shoots him a look.
“What else?”
Cole watches the way the tribute stands. “Keeps favoring his left leg.”
Haymitch nods once. “There you go.”
He steals the wine bottle back.
But he keeps up with it. The questions. Things like, “What about her?" or “That one might be trouble, know why?”
At first it’s only Cole who answers, but at one point, Evalee speaks up unprompted.
“He keeps checking the crowd.”
Haymitch glances at her. “Means?”
Evalee hesitates. “Looking for somebody?”
“Or looking for cameras,” Cole says.
“Good,” Haymitch says.
Before long they’ve involved their whole group. Soon they’re running their own commentary parallel to Flickerman and Templesmith.
When Templesmith points out the looks of a tribute, Cole will speculate on the sponsors they’ll pull.
When Haymitch asks Cole to take a closer look, he’ll sometimes pick up on details he wouldn’t have by himself.
Evalee and Orrin start to interject as well with their own thoughts and questions, and even Effie starts to join in.
Cole almost forgets about the wine bottle.
And still, silence unfolds again as the broadcast creeps closer to District 12. Both Evalee and Orrin are staring at the screen with nervous focus when Flickerman gives his last commentary on the District 11 tributes. Orrin keeps bouncing his leg while the girl is chewing on her thumbnail.
Cole feels it viscerally when Templesmith finally announces, “And now, to the home of last year’s victor — District Twelve.”
“A district entering these Games with something it hasn’t had in nearly a quarter-century,” Flickerman adds. “Two mentors.”
“That’s right. Cole Cartwright will be joining Haymitch Abernathy on the mentoring team for the very first time this year.”
“And after his rather unconventional performance in last year’s arena, I think we’ll all be interested to see what Cole Cartwright brings to the other side of the Games.”
“He did have the benefit of Haymitch Abernathy’s experienced guidance,” Templesmith chortles.
Flickerman laughs as well. “Well, Claudius, if Cartwright survived that, mentoring should be easy.”
“Perhaps Abernathy’s methods are more effective than they look.”
“They did produce a victor.”
Beside him, Cole feels Haymitch’s go rigid against his thigh while the laughter of the commentators rings.
“—I believe we’re all looking forward to seeing how an additional mentor will improve District Twelve’s prospects,” Flickerman says finally.
Templesmith chuckles. “We’ll soon find out,” he says before they cut immediately into the reaping.
Effie makes a noise. “They barely mentioned me,” she says, affronted. “One would think a new escort merited at least a proper introduction.”
“File a complaint,” Haymitch says without taking his eyes off the screen.
Cole takes deep drags of his smoke.
Evalee and Orrin don’t come off especially eye-catching. There’s a comment about Orrin’s height and not a single mention of Evalee.
They did show Cole and Haymitch on the mentors' seats on stage. A throwaway line about Haymitch’s bottle and finally about Effie, who wonders out loud if her wig sits lopsidedly.
And then the broadcast fades out into the post-reaping talk show.
Somebody mutes the TV.
The silence following after feels grim.
“No twelve-year-olds this year,” Cole says.
It doesn’t make the whole thing less horrid, necessarily, but he finds himself relieved anyhow.
“Good,” Orrin mutters, seemingly of a similar opinion.
Evalee gives him a strange look. “Is it?”
Orrin frowns. “You'd rather there were?”
“I'd rather none of us were here.” She gestures impatiently at the television. “But we're not exactly picking from that option.”
Cole looks at her.
“Fourteen's the youngest,” she continues. “Most of them are sixteen or older. That's bad for us.”
Cole had noticed it too. Compared to his own Games, this year’s roster skews heavily toward the older teens.
Haymitch takes a drink. “Depends on your perspective.”
“Does it?” Evalee asks.
“Sure.” Haymitch's eyes stay on the television where the intro of the talk show has run its course. “Good news is you don't have to spend tonight sizing up twelve-year-olds.”
“And the bad?”
Cole answers before Haymitch can.
“They'd be easier to kill.”
Silence. Orrin turns to stare at Cole. Even Effie seems at a loss for words.
Cole takes another drag from his cigarette.
Haymitch looks at Cole for a long moment. Then he reaches for the wine.