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Chapter 5: QUARTER QUELL

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Jules grabs the backpack closest to her and takes off into the thick of the swamp. Watt sprints toward the cornucopia, against direct orders. He’s old and slow, but by sheer luck, the rest of his side is as old and slow as him. Cannons are already going off as he grabs a short sword from the weapon’s stock and slashes it across a District 3 tribute’s throat.

In the mentor booth, Foxface slides her eyes to Beetee and Wiress. It’s been barely a minute and one of their tributes is already dead. They don’t react.

9 tributes die in the bloodbath, but Jules and Watt are not among them.

Foxface figures out the Quarter Quell twist about halfway through the day. Their shadows should be short, since the sun should be above them at midday, but it’s barely mid-morning. And when the day should be drawing to a close, the sun is just reaching the center of the arena’s sky. She isn’t sure any of the tributes know why they’re so tired and hungry after just a few hours, but it’s clear as day from the mentor station; burning sun in the arena and evening dusk in the Capitol.

Stretching back in her seat, Milla begins to gather her belongings. Foxface protests that the day isn’t over in the arena, they can’t leave now. Jules is crying again and Watt hasn’t found any shelter! None of this matters to Milla. They’ve got work elsewhere. Day 1 always has raucous parties in the evening that are heaving with potential sponsors.

So, as their tributes grow disoriented in the midnight sun, Foxface gets dressed up.

 

***

 

In a garish tangerine-orange dress that clashes with hair, she enters the Esquiline Clubhouse. The atrium has crystal windows, sparkling pools, and towering green trees. Avoxes serve food on platters and, hanging on the wall, is a huge live-screen of the game. She spots a few mentors mingling around, those of the Career districts at the center of circles as well as Haymitch and Chaff drinking in the corner, though they seem more focused on the drink than the mingling. By a spiral staircase, Plutarch Heavensbee and Finnick Odair talk closely. Their smiles gleam menacingly in the darkness.

It’s not too difficult to attract potential sponsors, since partygoers are eager to meet the latest victor and listen to her talk about last year’s Games, especially how she killed Cato. Foxface obliges, with sharp eyes and short, sharp words. She easily steers conversation to this year’s games, how her tributes shouldn’t be underestimated. Watt reminds her of herself, really. Cunning, smart, swift, and underestimated. She chooses her words precisely, saying as little as she can to keep her audience hanging on.

And before she’s even realized, she’s slipped into her audience persona.

It’s like a dress she puts on, for parties like this. It's not really her, it's just shiny, metal armor, protecting her, and she’s safe when she hides within it.

 

***

 

Sponsors. Clients. Capitol. Victors. Gamemakers. 

It all gets mixed up in Foxface’s head sometimes - what Snow makes her do, what the sponsors make her do, when hands slide up her skirts in the private rooms of the Capitol. She still has trouble sleeping, but instead of laying awake in her room, haunted by it all, she finds a party. She’s out every night, so high that she doesn’t know where she is or who she’s dancing with. But it’s alright, because this is what she’s supposed to do. She’s a victor now.

By day 5, half the tributes are dead.

Jules and Watt are still alive, in their separate positions in the arena. They look sleep deprived and terrified, but so does every tribute. The sun finally set at the beginning of day 2 and came up on day 4, but by then, the tributes were beginning to work it out, so the gamemakers changed it again. The sun sets early on day 5, after just 7 hours, leaving many tributes without shelter. Both of District 1’s tributes get ripped apart by alligator mutts hiding in the swamplands and District 8’s funnyguy is impaled by a stalagmite in the cave system.

 

***

Foxface shows up to the Mentor Control Room hungover and pukes in a trashcan.

It's mostly liquid from the night before. She wipes the back of her mouth, wishing the throbbing in her head would go away. But when she looks around, utterly mortified, the most reaction she gets is a few sympathetic shrugs and a wink from Haymitch, who then takes a long swig from his hip flask. They've all been there before, she guesses. Milla just sighs, telling her to go clean herself up upstairs and calling over an avox to deal with the mess. 

 

***

 

Foxface takes the elevator to District 5's apartment, where she brushes her teeth and showers, scrubbing her arms until they're red raw and painful.  On the way back down, the elevator pauses and the doors open.

Finnick Odair flashes her a charming smile.  “You don’t mind if I join, Five?”

“No.” She shifts towards the wall, to give him a bit of space. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and the elevator walls are cool metal. There’s something eerily familiar about this situation, but she can’t remember, like it’s just out of her grasp.

Finnick is relaxed, throwing her a signature blinding grin and she quickly looks away. He laughs at that.

“You know,” he says in mellow tones, “I get the weirdest feeling you don’t like me.”

“I don’t know you,” replies Foxface, confused.

The elevator dings as it arrives on the correct floor. He grins. “Are you sure?”

 

***

 

By day 8, Watt is eating tree bark, but Milla will not send help.  She’s chosen Jules. Foxface should have seen it coming; a tribute is not a competitor without a memorable story, something that makes them worth keeping alive. What does Watt have? A few sour jokes in an interview and a short sword. Jules is coping in the arena, giving her a character arc from scared, nervous woman to fighter.

Watt gets a quick death, at the hands of the District 10 tribute. His face is shown on the Memoriam for the Fallen that night and, for the first time in the arena, Jules begins to cry. Foxface and Milla watch the screens in silence, unwilling to acknowledge what’s happening, because this was a choice they made. They’re as bad as the gamemakers.

Foxface excuses herself from the Control Room, gets dressed up, and goes clubbing

 

***

 

That night, Foxface sleeps with Varus.

It wasn’t a plan, but they ended up in the same club, trying to get the same sponsors to care about their tributes. Neither of them were getting anywhere, so they both went to the bar for another drink. They dance. When the music changes to something slower, pulsing, she leans forward to press her lips against him. They drag each other to a dark corner of the club and he pushes her against the wall, his hands warm against her hips, as they kiss deeper and more clumsily. They break apart for air and, wordlessly, go upstairs together.

He’s attractive, but she isn’t sure that’s why she does it. She thinks she’s just curious, because she’s never been with someone who wasn’t - one way or another - paying for it. Sex means very little to her these days, but it’s so much more awkward when it’s on equal footing. Awkward, but nice. 

She’s not naive enough to think that he actually wants her ; she’s just something to make the night less lonely, like he is for her.

And when he puts his hands in her hair and she asks him not to, he obliges.

 

***

 

Jules can’t hunt, fight, or lay traps, but she’s made it to the final 7 tributes, mostly because she has the luxury of sponsors. She has Foxface.

Every night, she flits through the parties of private residences and clubhouses, where she smiles, she speaks, and she does whatever they want. She’s getting quite good at it, really. Cashmere takes her to upscale parties in the nicest parts of town and Haymitch teases her about not holding her drink properly, when they meet. She’s constantly hungover; her head always hurts and she can’t remember the last time she slept for more than a few hours, but she’s getting used to the feeling.

She’s getting used to all of it, in fact. She knows which clubs are boring and which are fun. She keeps up with the latest trends and understands the complicated drinking games. That costume she used to put on, just to get through the parties - Foxface, the sly, elusive victor - is slowly becoming her skin.

 

***

 

Sejanus Sickle hosts at his mansion and Foxface dances under kaleidoscopic lights. She’s brought Mesalla with her - not a friend, but a fellow partygoer. Mesalla presses a drink into her hands. This one is purple and sparkly; she downs it in one and hangs her arms over Mesalla’s shoulders as they move together, hips to hips.

No clients tonight. Every touch is her choice.

She lets her head tilt back, looking into the bright lights above. 

Pink, blue, and white strobes twist around on the ceiling. It spots her vision. Everything begins to feel light and formless. Her limbs float. The music vibrates in her chest, sending shivers down to her toes, and she falls into it. Suddenly, there are hands on her arms, pulling against gravity as her body sinks down. It was a good feeling - she’d rather just sink - but she lets herself be carried out of the sea of bodies. She lurches from step to step, struggling to move her feet, and Mesalla has to drag her to the couches at the back of the room.

The ear-splitting music quietens, as she is dropped onto a velvet settee. Her head lolls against the back of the settee and, above her, colors and shapes form and reform. Huh, she thinks, she’s high. It isn’t unusual for her, but she doesn’t really remember taking anything tonight. She remarks this to Mesalla - the words coming out in an unintelligible, jumbled groan - and Mesalla pats her thigh reassuringly. Her eyes gleam under the passing, strobing lights and she leans forward to ask, does Tarquinia Ravenstill get drunk like this?

Parsing through the words, Foxface can’t find what she’s asking. Tarquinia Ravenstill is the daughter of a decades-gone and irrelevant former president and she is only known nowadays for rumors of poor personal choices. To Foxface, she’s just a client, the old woman with sharp nails and jewels on every finger. 

She tries to explain this to Mesalla, but the words are hard to say.

She's always drunk, always dancing in the Capitol. 

Foxface groans again, putting her hands to her face, trying to get rid of the black spots, but they’re still there when she closes her eyes. The colors are twisting on the ceiling, out of control, knotting each other up. It feels worse than the usual drunkenness. It feels like she can’t move her limbs, can’t control her words. Her mind drifts to the meadow, to the knife, to the helplessness in his eyes.

Cato. Here again. We never left. Cato, if I could just talk to you.

Mesalla gasps, suddenly, and Foxface feels the attention shift from her.

She cracks open her eyes, seeing a barely-dressed man standing in front of her. His skin is glowing golden in the light and he smiles, dazzling, at her. Mesalla has yet to pick her jaw up off the floor and, distantly, Foxface thinks that the rumors are true: Finnick Odair is unbelievably, devastatingly gorgeous.

“Hey, Five,” he says, in a warm, smooth voice. “Didn’t see you earlier.”

She lifts a hand, acknowledging his presence and closes her eyes again. 

Her head feels heavy, like it’s about to roll off her neck and she settles it on the back of the settee again. Mesalla fills the gap, making her introductions and pithy remarks about the party. Every word out of Finnick’s mouth is flirtatious and teasing - a come on, but not an invitation into his bed. He must find it entertaining to toy with people like this. Foxface might, if she had the Capitol wrapped around her finger like him.

He sits on the arm of the couch, so close to Foxface that her bare arm touches his thigh. She shifts away, but he doesn’t even glance over, probably so used to touching - unwanted, admiring, possessive touching.

When she stands, suddenly and unexpected, she wobbles. Finnick laughs at her, but kindly steadies her with a hand - touching her, again.

This time, she decides to go with it.

Not bothering to look him in the eyes, Foxface tilts her head and fits their lips together. She’s experienced in this sort of thing now, knowing when to part their lips and deepen the kiss. He lets her lead. Far away, Mesalla squawkes inelegantly. 

Foxface steps closer to Finnick and slides her arms around his neck. It’s nice, she decides, because his lips are warm and his arms wrap around her back. It’s almost like a hug. He lifts her by the thighs, carries her to some private room in the Neverending hallways of the Sickle Mansion - probably already knowing his way around - and puts her down on the bed.

He shuts the door behind him. 

Foxface rearranges her dress, trying to find the release around the back, but Finnick is fiddling around with something in the ensuite and she hears the faucet run. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in her hands and empties a small packet of green powder in. It fizzles, then dissolves. He nudges her: drink up. All night, she’s been drinking whatever’s put in her hand - why stop now?

It tastes salty and terrible, but she finishes the entire glass. He looks relieved.

“You and I are gonna’ be in all the tabloids tomorrow,” he tells her. “Mesalla’s a journalist, did you know?”

She hums. Her and her fellow partygoers aren’t friends. They don’t need or want to know each other except for the most basic outline. Finnick looks thoughtfully at her, like he’s inspecting her. She does her best to keep her eyes from glazing over. He laughs at her again, but this one seems more real - just a breath of hot air. Foxface is vaguely aware that they should be undressed and tangled in bed together by now; it doesn’t seem to be going that way.

“Let's get out of here. I know somewhere.”

“To do what?” asks Foxface feebly.

 

***

 

Via a backdoor in the Sickle mansion, he takes her to one of the tram stops of the city - not the stations for trains that connect district to Capitol, but the intercity trams. There are a few seats on the spotless platform, made of freezing cold metal. It’s so early in the morning that the carriages are mostly empty, but the trams keep shuttling in and out, loudly. Foxface gathers quickly that, despite the public nature of it, this is somewhere private.

He glances up and down the empty platform.

“Mesalla isn’t someone to consider a friend,” he warns her in a low voice. “She’s ruthless. She probably spiked your drink tonight, to get the inside scoop for her job.”

“Hmm? About what?”

“Tabloid gossip," he replies decisively. "Like - like our meetings and appointments ."

His euphemism is light and offhand, but obvious to the two of them. There is a faint, buried pinch between his eyebrows. Her heart sinks. The star of the Capitol, who should have it wrapped around his finger, is as lost as her. But, she thinks, isn’t she supposed to be smart? Didn’t she already work this out? The gamemakers own them. From the moment they’re reaped until their last moment.

They pause their conversation as a tram slides into the station. Its doors open, nobody gets off, and the doors close. The train slides away again. “Does it ever get better?” she asks. 

He hesitates and, in that, she hears the real answer.

She drags her legs up to her chest, rests her forehead on her knees, and wishes she was dead. Should’ve just eaten the nightlock berries. Should’ve just let Cato kill her. It was a fluke that she won, anyway, and she’s not even all that popular in the Capitol. She’s not as pretty as Milla or Cashmere or Finnick, either. None of the boys at school ever showed interest in her - too slight, quiet, or freakish - and the Capitol interest might die down too.

“Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones that nobody wants,” she mumbles.

His reply is instant, paired with a smug smirk. “Hey, I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

“That wasn’t what-! I wasn’t saying-” she squirms, embarrassed, “I didn’t really want to kiss you - just someone who understands what it’s all like! That’s all!”

He grins harder. “Why didn’t you find Varus again?”

Her mouth drops open and when he has the audacity to laugh at her again , she hits his shoulder. It barely makes an impact. Shaking his head, he looks out at the city before them. “C’mon, Five. Did you think that would stay secret?”

Nothing really is, in the Capitol.

 

***

 

The next day, Foxface and Finnick are in all the tabloids, reporting them as the latest fling between victors. There are pictures of them kissing, finding their way to a bedroom, and leaving together in the early hours of the morning. It’s all quite embarrassing for Foxface, given how desperate she was and how efficiently she was rejected.

Milla eyes her suspiciously at the breakfast table, but doesn’t attempt to acknowledge it.

They both know what she’s thinking: waster .

 

***

 

Jules is killed by a mudslide, putting an end to District 5’s chances.

It leaves the rest of the tributes - the interesting ones that the gamemakers see a future with - to fight to the death. Milla leans back in her chair with a heavy, tired sigh. She turns off the smaller screen in their cubicle, because there is nothing more to watch and nothing more to do, except bring their bodies back home to bury. Foxface isn’t all that surprised - the chances of mentoring a winning tribute was very low and it looks like District 2’s peacekeeper is going to win anyway - but it does not ease the weight in her chest. That night, she doesn’t go out, but curls up in her bed and tries desperately to sleep.

She tries, but there's something bugging her. Finnick. Finnick is bugging her, his eyes, his kind words hidden behind barbs. There's something there. Something that Foxface, clever as she is, will figure out eventually. All she wants, right now, is to sleep forever and to drink. 

One day, soon, though, she'll work it out. Clever as a Fox. She always does.

 

 

Notes:

This has been in google docs limbo since probably 2021/2022. I always wanted to finish it and also always knew that I would literally never have the conviction or time to finish it. So I decided today to chop it from its later chapters and make it semi-standalone. Feels weird. Feels very defeatist. But this is at least 1/3 of what I have finished and it's better to post this than nothing. :)