#andromedeas

You take a sip of of your drink—you aren’t sure what it is, just that it’s alcoholic, which is all that matters—almost sighing as it travels down your throat, burning like fire. It nearly makes you feel better about the situation.

Laughter brings you back to reality. You refocus on the large television screen situated nearby, where the sound originated from. The mentors are afforded a private viewing room, which you’re using right now. You’re all clustered around the screen, watching the kids you’ve been mentoring be formally introduced to Panem.

Daniel is sitting with Caesar Flickerman. He’s dressed in a navy suit with his blonde hair slicked back. He looks sharp, but still has a boyish quality to him. His smile is wide and earnest, his eyes sparkling—though that’s just because of the studio lights.

Still, he’s a natural. Daniel’s just walked on stage, and the crowd—and Caesar—is already eating him up. You had discussed this; his strategy was to be charming, endear himself to the audience that way. And it was working without a hitch.

Much different from the first time you were sitting in that chair, years ago. You’d been forced into tight, ill-fitting clothes, awkward and bumbling. Caesar had a field day trying to endear you to anyone.

Yet here you are, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games. A trail of dead children lying in your wake.

“Think he has a chance?” Ortega asks, capturing your attention again.

You turn to her. She’s staring, like she has an idea what you’re thinking about. And she might; she has the uncanny ability to see past your caustic facade. Only one other person could do that, you can’t help think. And they’re gone.

You finally break eye contact, feeling oddly exposed. “Too soon to say,” you answer. “He’s shown some promise, though.”

You’re not lying. After years of mentoring, you’ve acquired an eye for it. For telling which kid has what it takes to make it to the end, and who will end up dead when the bloodbath begins. Not that it changes anything. Since you, your district hasn’t produced any more victors.

Daniel could change that. But you aren’t pinning your hopes on him, because you don’t have any. You never did.

The Hunger Games are simply a way to keep Panem’s citizens in line. What was the point of pouring your heart and soul into these tributes? They’re pawns, that’s all. Cogs in an uncaring, blood-thirsty machine.

Just like you and the rest of the mentors.

On screen, Daniel answers another one of Caesar’s inane questions, sparking laughter and delight from the enraptured audience. They’re loving him. Tomorrow, they will watch his blood spill on television from the safety of their homes.

You take a long swallow of the amber liquid in your glass.

Ortega huffs a laugh. “Pace yourself, tiger,” she jokes. “Or you’ll be nursing a hangover tomorrow.” She moves closer to jab you playfully with her elbow, but she lingers against your side. Hiding her concern behind jests, that’s what Ortega does best.

“Jealous because your liver can’t handle as much anymore, old woman?” you counter. Her lips pinch, threatening to form a frown; you know how self-conscious she is about her age.

Yet you targeted it anyway. All because you’re bitter about something out of her control.

You don’t know why Ortega even bothers. You’re a victor from another district, one of many mentors who drown their sorrows in drugs and alcohol. No different from the rest. (Or so they think. You move on from that line of thought quickly.) Yet she seeks you out, drawing you out of your self-imposed solitude. You aren’t thankful for it. You aren’t.

Daniel’s time with Caesar is up. The audience claps and cheers as he leaves the stage, waving, and Caesar introduces the next tribute. He’s done well, everything you asked and then some. The perfect student.

But that won’t save him from the Games. Will you have to watch him die on your screen? Or will he die on the inside, filling the void within him however he can, when he’s back from the arena?

You take another sip of your drink, tasting nothing but water. There’s only ice cubes left in your glass. You look at it as if it’s offended you.

Ortega laughs. Her arm settles across your shoulders. She’s too familiar with you for your liking, but you don’t shrug her off. “Have some water, then you can get another drink,” she says, steering you towards the food table. You let her, leaning into her side when your legs stumble. You’re more drunk than you thought.

“It’ll be your last one,” Ortega adds. “I won’t take any bitching over that. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. We all do.”

Because tomorrow is the official start of the 75th Hunger Games. The tenth since the one you won. And this year, you won’t have Anathema by your side. Fuck.

A lump forms in your throat.

When Ortega runs the palm of her hand along your arm, you realize she knows exactly what you’re thinking. How you’re feeling. It makes you hate her a little, because you don’t hate her at all.