Chapter Text
“Move your knight to take his bishop,” I instruct, pointing to the spot on the board that I refer to.
“Well what if I want to move my rook to take that pawn instead?” Ronan challenges me.
“If you do that, then Grant will do that, and then you’ll have to respond here, and then he’ll do that and you’ll basically be done for,” I explain, gesturing rapidly around the pieces.
“But I can work with that,” Ronan protests, stubborn as usual.
“Fine,” I relent, knowing that I can’t force him to do anything.
The game is over in minutes, Grant reigns supreme once again. After months of the two of us trying to teach Ronan to play chess a bit better, we both are on the borderline of giving up. Ronan’s smart enough to learn strategy, but almost always allows himself to overestimate his ability to get out of a sticky situation. What was at first entertaining has now become tiresome. Ronan’s sour face is proof that nobody’s heart is really in it anymore.
“Maybe next time, Ronan.” Grant, as usual, doesn’t have the heart to criticize his friend.
We retire to the less contentious activity of idly playing cards. Ronan nearly always beats us at poker, so it’s sure to restore his good mood. Blight joins us to play as our dealer, ready to show his face now that his best friend isn’t sorely losing at chess.
Our group dynamic is very different here, chit chat begins almost as soon as our first round does. It’s been almost a year since Grant and I started learning how to play from the two older men, so it doesn’t take nearly as much focus as it used to. At least the conceptual part of the game doesn’t.
“Fara quite obviously has some combo that is going to wipe us out,” Ronan says, raising his eyebrows at Grant.
“You don’t know that,” I assert.
“You’re still doing that thing with your nose when you have a good hand and try to fake us out,” he argues.
“At least she stopped giggling when she had a bad hand.” Grant procures a goofy smile. “Or the blushing when she wasn’t confident which way it would go.”
“I’m not doing anything anymore!” I insist crossly, covering my nose with my hands.
“You’re getting better, but I can still read you like a book.” Blight chimes in, putting the final nail in the coffin.
The two other men fold, and I’m left to lay my royal flush on the table.
“Fine!” I admit. “I really am trying, though.”
“We know,” Ronan assures me, putting his hand on my back to rub soothingly. “Blight is right, you are getting better.”
Playing cards is fun, but there’s an incredibly important undertone to the games we choose. Ronan insisted on teaching us to play poker when he learned how bad Grant and I were at lying. He asserts that we must learn to handle ourselves better in order to handle any sensitive information he might pass along about our brewing rebellion.
He’s always been careful not to cut us too close into the fold, and I suspect it’s not only because of our inability to lie. The same goes for Finnick, who seems to be receiving about as little as we are. We all suspect that it has more to do with our age than anything else. That fact has resulted in a comedic overstating of our maturity in every possible scenario. Around Ronan and Blight, each conversation is sure to contain a mention from Grant that age twenty-five is actually when researchers believe the brain is fully developed; Finnick often asserts that twenty-two is the age when fishermen are allowed to apply to be crew captains; and I’m left to meagerly assert that I’m a very mature eighteen-year-old.
Quite immune to our goal of wearing him down with annoyance, Ronan seems quite amused by our efforts. Despite our efforts, our line of communication tends still to be incredibly one-sided. To his credit, Ronan is always careful to ensure that we all receive ample praise for our efforts. While the other two find it to be patronizing, I quite look forward to Ronan’s kindness when I deliver particularly pertinent pieces of intel. That fact tends to counter my claim that I’m extremely mature.
When Ronan finally beats me and Grant in our game of poker, I excuse myself for my afternoon workout. In private spaces, Finnick likes to joke that it took the threat of a revolution to get me to commit to even minimal levels of physical fitness. While the looming idea of rebellion does serve to spark my interest in taking care of myself, I tend to think that it has more to do with the fact that I finally have mentors who I respect more than school gym teachers.
A few months ago, I took Finnick’s advice to train in self defense and fitness. I told our group the half-truth that I just wanted to learn how to handle myself for safety reasons. All of the victors seemed to be of the same mind - that Cashmere would be the best fit coach for me. All, that is, except Gloss. He turned out to be spot-on with his assumption that she would be far too impatient to be a good match.
After only a day, Cashmere had to give up. She’d only been a successful teacher to me in the past because she was teaching concepts and behaviors under the lens of sex work. While I felt like a fish out of water in my job at first, she reflects that I’d learned very quickly in the grand scheme of things. I have no such talent for anything of the exclusively physical variety.
In a most surprising turn of events, Gloss has been the only one with the temperament to handle my ineptitude. His ability to remain unbothered by even the most extreme circumstances works to his advantage. So it’s him who waits for me in the training center when I step out of the elevator.
“You’re late,” he comments, entirely unfazed as usual.
“Ronan got his feelings hurt playing chess so I had to stay back and let him beat me at poker to make him feel better,” I explain.
“Understandable. Take a few minutes to warm up and then we can step into the ring and box.”
I groan. “Can’t we climb the rock wall instead?”
“No, because you’re actually getting better at climbing. Once you make progress in fighting we can move on.” He speaks as if I’ve told a particularly unfunny joke.
“I think we can just give up on it,” I huff, nonetheless beginning to stretch. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be any good at fighting.”
“What would you do if someone attacked you?” Gloss sits to stretch beside me.
“Die, I guess,” I respond with cheek. “But the only ones attacking me are my clients, not random people on the street.”
“Wouldn’t it give you peace of mind to know that you could stop them if it went too far?” Even with the serious sentiment, Gloss somehow still infuses snark into his words. “I never seem to have issues with clients getting dangerous,” he adds as an afterthought.
“I wonder why?” I inquire dryly.
Gloss is one of the most formidable-looking people I’ve ever met. With the height of Ronan and the build of Finnick, he greatly overshadows all of us in terms of sheer size. His dark black hair and beard cast his whole image as rugged and intimidating. It’s a good thing that he’s got no temper to speak of, considering he could probably snap my neck just by looking at me.
Not willing to humor any more of my complaints, he offers me a hand up. I have no choice but to join him in the ring. I ready myself for our usual gauntlet of training drills, assuming a neutral position to await instructions. My head hits the padded floor quicker than I can realize what’s happened. Gloss pulls back from his leg-sweep and lowers himself to the floor as well.
“I’ve actually decided that we’re going to start on the ground today,” he explains.
“You could have just told me to sit down,” I say, rubbing the back of my skull.
“That wouldn’t have been as fun. Plus I figured it might wake you up. We’re going to try something a little different. Have you ever tried Jiu-Jitsu?”
“You know damn well I’ve never tried Jiu-Jitsu.” I don’t bother looking over at him.
“Well, you will today. Jiu-Jitsu is the little person’s fighting style. Even Gaia beats me at this.”
His words don’t have the desired effect. Gaia might be tiny at just over five feet tall, but she’s a veritable ball of aggression. I don’t doubt that Gaia could and would whoop my ass on any given occasion. I don’t think that her success with this suggests that I’ll be any good at it.
“I’m not a little person.” I continue to be deliberately obtuse. “I’m pretty tall actually.”
“You’re the little person when you’re up against me.” His word is final.
What started as a lot of laying down turns into getting yanked around the floor by the hem of my clothing. The concept is simply enough: gain leverage and keep it. It’s just as exerting as the other methods we’ve tried, but it’s definitely easier for me to understand. Just like rock climbing, this turns out to draw heavily from self knowledge of anatomy. Having intuition about the nature of joints and the physics of movement lends to the ability to exploit them. Pushing with a straight arm is much easier than pulling with a bent one.
When I start to gain confidence in my ability to maneuver on the floor, Gloss starts to turn up the heat. He first shows me how to get away from a basic pin, making it look easy every time he pushes me off. When we reverse and I have to push him off, I end up getting choked out before I can ever get away. Even when he allows me to try one round where he only uses his legs to fight, I end up with my head locked between his thighs.
The only thing that keeps me from getting too frustrated to continue is his constant humor.
“If you were in that position in the real world you could just bite the guy’s dick off.” He says, releasing me from his legs.
“Great idea, I’m about to start winning some fights today.” I wipe my sweaty forehead and grin.
“If you bite my dick I will kick you in the face,” he asserts.
“That won’t magically heal you though, you better watch your ass,” I insist.
“You little shit.”
He takes me by surprise and pins me in an instant. I pretend to move to lick his face and he lets go in a hurry.
“That is not Jiu-Jitsu. Cut it out.”
“But it’s working.” I arch a brow.
For the next few moves he teaches me, he takes care to keep my face far away from any part of his body he cares about. I try my best to seriously learn from our session, all jokes and gags aside. I’m not good by any stretch of the word, but I can at least recognize and understand the advice Gloss gives me. We pause for breaks frequently, giving me time to catch my breath before diving back into it. I can tell that Gloss is satisfied with me by the time we call it quits.
“Do you have anything else to do today?” He asks as we dismount the padded floor.
“Not until later this evening, why?” I feel the beginnings of regret bubbling in my stomach.
“I really think today would be a good day to go over some weaponry basics.”
“No,” I say very clearly.
“You don’t even have to pick them up, you could just-”
“No,” I say again. “I told you at the very beginning of all this that I didn’t want to use weapons.”
“Hear me out for a minute. I know you’re anti-violence or whatever, but a weapon on its own doesn’t kill people.” Gloss cards a hand through his sweaty hair.
“It can be the second that it’s in somebody’s hand. That’s a moot point.”
“I don’t mean to debate about semantics here. The fact is that you and everyone else around you are safer if you have a basic understanding of weapons. Of both the dangers and benefits they possess.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
The second I express doubt, Gloss knows he’s found his way in.
“You can just listen to me lecture for now, you like that kind of stuff,” he insists. “At the end of it, you can teach me anything you want. I know there’s a few stations around here that you’ve got to know something about.”
He gestures at the training facility around us. Though much of it has been updated and refined since my own games a year and a half ago, many of the same pre-games training stations are still erected. Why they leave them open year-round for the Victors I have no idea, but it certainly is an interesting proposition.
“Fine. But I’m holding you to those selling points. I don’t have to do anything with the weapons and I get to teach you about robotics at the end.” I point an accusatory finger in his direction.
“Whatever you say, tech . Hmmm no, not quite.” He shakes his head distastefully.
He’s been trying for the past few weeks to coin a suitable nickname for me, claiming that my full name is too prim and proper and that my shortened name is boring. I allow him to do so freely, it has no bearing on me other than being particularly insulting at times. I’m just happy he’s moved on from pointing out my “most pronounced” physical features. Things like freckles and legs weren’t too bad, but the more crude references were a rough period to get through.
True to his word, Gloss doesn’t push me outside of my comfort zone during his lesson. I find myself hesitantly accepting the fact that the history of warfare and weaponry is an interesting topic. He certainly has an impressive arsenal of knowledge on it, so I indulge him by asking questions.
When I become fixated on the topic of metal alloy customizability, he tosses one of the spears at me to hold. It’s heavy, definitely heavier than I could see myself ever choosing to wield. It’s got a matte finish everywhere except the very tip, which shines with careful polishing. Gloss tells me this one is made from bronze, then passes me one made from steel which is considerably lighter.
There’s obvious trade-offs in weapons manufacturing materials. The bronze is durable but heavy, and the steel is lighter but much more expensive to craft. If I remember correctly, steel is composed of iron and carbon with trace amounts of manganese, chromium, and vanadium. While the added components aren’t classified in the category of rare-earth elements, they certainly aren’t the easiest to obtain. Especially when one considers that the primary allocation for these metals in Panem is in electronics. Our reliance on our technology drives consumption at an entirely unsustainable rate.
My grandmother’s primary area of research was rare-earth element extraction. Though I have very few memories of her, the ones I do possess all contain lengthy explanations of rare metal recyclability and extraction from waste material. Once we stopped speaking, I never bothered to follow her advancements. I’m led to suspect that it hadn’t gained a whole lot of traction considering the mines in District 1 are still active in my most recent recollections.
It’s tough to be sure about my assumption considering the unfortunate fact that the mere presence of unwealthy mine workers in District 1 is quite taboo. Perhaps even too taboo for the clinically unbothered man I share company with now. I decide to take my chances when we move on to the robotics station for my lesson.
“How much do you know about the mines in District 1?” I raise the question casually.
“Not much. The mining sector is small and about as far as you could get from where I lived.” He’s not phased in the slightest.
“So they’re still operating?”
“Fuck if I know, I don’t exactly keep up with the mining practices of a tiny town on the outskirts of my district. I’m not you,” he teases.
“Okay, fine, forget I asked,” I playfully respond.
I move on to teach Gloss the basics of circuitry. He’s a surprisingly quick learner, and we’re able to make substantial progress over the course of an hour. It seems a bit unfair considering this was supposed to be my payback for being a hopeless disaster as a pupil. I don’t allow myself to get too hung up on it, instead making sure to dish out praise where it’s deserved. When we’re done, I make a note to return to the station in my spare time. I can feel myself getting rusty on my design skills.
By the time I get back to the District 4 floor, Genetty is already there waiting for me. During the 73rd Hunger Games, my team of three shrunk to one with the necessity of styling new tributes. Genetty volunteered to devote part time work to the tribute team and part time work to me so that I wouldn’t have to get used to another person invading my privacy. It’s a decision that has endeared me to her fiercely, despite the fact that she remains a nominal political adversary. Her offer to become my full-time stylist still stands, but Giovani adamantly rejects it. He remains stubborn about the fact that he will be the only one who designs my clothes, no matter how much overtime he has to put in.
The dress that Genetty brought for me is quite obviously his work. Giovani’s most obvious tell is that he always lines the insides with a thin layer of nylon after hearing me mention my preference for the material once. I greatly appreciate his attention to detail, as it makes my clothes much more resistant to ripping. Aside from giving me something intact to wear back from appointments, it also provides the immense pleasure of entertainment from watching grown men getting flustered by their inability to tear a dress.
There’s no need for careful alteration for the client I’m visiting tonight though. After countless times at the Crane manor, I know not to expect too much destructive behavior. Seneca fancies himself too dignified for the rough sex I often find elsewhere. With him it always starts with a game, moves to the bedroom, and contains a large amount of conversation afterwards. Though my first experience at his estate was horribly traumatic, each subsequent returning visit has become easier. I find myself at a point where I’m actually relieved to see his name on a booking rather than another.
Tonight is no different. He allows me to choose the game, so I pick out monopoly. He usually wins at it, which always leaves him prone to talking longer later. I began the tactic a while ago, much to Ronan’s elation. According to Ronan, it’s quite possibly the best thing I’ve been able to do. Having the Head Gamemaker wrapped around my finger certainly has its benefits where the act of gleaning information is concerned. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, Seneca actually shows me ideas and designs for future arenas. He says he’ll only continue to do this as long as I don’t take up the role of District 4 mentor, though he must know that I’d pass any pertinent information along to the current mentors regardless.
Once he’s won at monopoly and he’s reached his happy ending, he’s more eager than ever to show me his most recent work. This time it’s not designs he shows me, but a notebook full of scrawled text. He brings it over to the bed and I move to rest my head on his bare chest so that he can read it to me. He sighs at the contact, but it takes all of the effort in my body not to shrink away. Though he’s one of my better clients, it doesn’t mean that I’ve gotten rid of the ever-present layer of disgust that shrouds my appointments. Every time I find myself endeared towards the small efforts he makes for my comfort, I hurriedly recall his many transgressions. As if the physical transactional nature of our relationship isn't enough, he keeps evidence of my stays in the form of photographs that he stores in his night stand.
“These are just rough drafts of ideas, I haven’t actually selected any winners yet. It’ll be President Snow who does most of the decision making anyway.” He bites his thumb nail as he often does when he ponders unfinished work.
“What type of ideas?” I ask.
“Quarter Quell ideas, of course. I know it seems pretty far into the future for someone like you, but for us Game Makers it’s been an ever present looming date.” He’s sweetly condescending, as usual.
“Well, read them out and I’ll give you honest feedback,” I urge, feeling my pulse spike at the value of information I’m about to possess.
“You always are honest. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” He leans down to kiss my forehead. I cringe away only after he’s back to thumbing through his journal. He clears his throat. “Here’s my top ten so far. Tributes will be selected in numbers proportional to their district number as a reminder that each district holds a particular function for Panem.” He waits for my approval.
“Wait.” I sit up. “Aren’t those details supposed to be predetermined and sealed away in some box of envelopes from the founders?”
“Faraday.” He looks at me incredulously. “You can’t honestly believe that we choose to take direction from men who wrote those that long ago. They have no idea of what our current political climate is or what we find entertaining.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I lay my head back down onto him, but every one of my senses is on high alert.
“So what do you think of that one?” he asks.
“Increasing the number of tributes that much makes it seem repetitive of the second ‘Quell’s doubled batch.” I don’t really care that it’s derivative, I just can’t bear to think of that many more children being sent to their deathbeds.
“Shit, you’re right. How did I not see that?” Seneca curses. “How about this one: only pairs of siblings can be selected to represent their district to signify that nation loyalty runs deeper than familial bond.”
“That one’s better.” But my heart turns as I say it, wondering if I’ve just condemned siblings to fight to the death against each other. “But still not great. You’d get less variety of tribute alliances, not as entertaining for the viewers.” I change my answer to rectify my fear.
“Hmm, maybe. I’m very fond of that one.”
It continues like this for the next hour. He shares more than his aforementioned ten ideas with me, choosing to go on to brainstorm countless others. He’s most partial to the idea of the sibling tribute pairs, though it’s a close competitor with having previous victors choose the tributes. Every option he presents is appalling enough that I find myself protesting every one. He catches on to my squeamishness towards the end of our time.
“If this is too much for you, we don’t have to keep going.” He shuts his journal and places it on the bedside table.
“No, no! I enjoy hearing your ideas, I really do. It’s interesting to see the way your mind works.” I try desperately not to lose my most valuable source of information.
“We can be done for tonight at least. I know it must be hard to hear me talk about the games so callously when you were a part of them only a short time ago.”
He walks me to the door without any more talk of the third Quarter Quell. He kisses me goodbye and says that he hopes to see me again next week. I do my best to keep a hopeful smile on my face until my cab pulls away. When it does, I lose myself to the chore of mentally cataloging our entire interaction.
I head straight for Ronan’s room when I get back. He opens the door after my first knock. He knows to expect me. He has a glass of water waiting on his nightstand for me, which is an incredibly thoughtful touch. I drink the liquid quickly and sit beside him.
“I have news.”