A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Morning

The twigs split between her fingers, and for a moment she's distracted by her hands. They don't look like hers. The skin, usually creamy and pale, is masked by a thin layer of mud and blood. Where it does show, it is weak purple and blotchy. Some of her nails are cracked; the rest are too long and she doesn't even dare to bite at them to take them down to size because dirt is caked under them right up to the tops. They don't look like hers at all, but when she thinks about clenching into a fist, it's these fingers that move. When she can feel the rough damp bark, it's because these hands are the ones touching it. Except she can't feel the bark, because in her momentary distraction she's dropped it.

Thalia sighs, picks up the sticks, and tries again. Back at home, Shell will be watching and sighing, one hand held to her forehead in a mimicry of exasperation. After all, she has seen her do this before. The Capitol is littered with people who have seen her do this before; the wealthiest who can afford to take a trip out to the reenactments, the schools who organise it as a treat, and the next band down, who watch in the superHD screens, real time, so they can pretend to be part of the first group. They've all seen her do it. They're all watching her now.

And she can't. Not without a tiny trigger-switch placed just so under the bark, so that after a convincing amount of time (usually calculated to within the second so that it's as close to the original as possible) she can hit it and send a controlled spark flickering into the fire. For a moment, using some strange magic-eye trick she learned in acting school, she steps back and sees herself from outside. What she sees sends a shiver down her spine: Thalia Glitz in the role of a tribute, crouched over an embryonic fire and starting to sob with desperation. For a reenactment, even one of the high-end ones, this looks good. The girl she's playing is about her age and height, but she has more of the common touch about her. Her hair is lank and makes her face look even longer than normal. Her hands look like district hands, covered in dirt and gore. Her face is saggy even beyond the ability of the circuit's expert stylists. The shivers happen in sudden bursts, all of a sudden grabbing hold of her body and shaking it untl she can grab hold of herself again. Very few of the circuit's hundred or so actors can do that properly, but Thalia must have learned it recently. It's very convincing.

Of course it's convincing. It's real. It looks exactly like the reenactments, right down to the fact that everything is real. From the ragged knots in her hair to the shaking in her hands to the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, it's all real. This time the penalty for a forgotten line or a wrong move isn't a lost commission or a bad report. The penalty will be her life.

Lost in her own misery, she hardly notices Caitlin crawling out of the Cornucopia and shuffling over, yawning with the effort of being on watch. The Garnet girl stops and takes in the damp morning light, breathing deeply, and still Thalia doesn't see it, and so she jumps a mile when Caitlin stretches her arms wide and says, "Any news on that fire yet, Thalia?"

"No." Perhaps she should have tried to lie - to act, she reminds herself, not to lie - and said she was on it, but there's something about Caitlin's face that's hard to lie to. Journos. Shell loves them, she plays them like toys, but it's something that Thalia's never got the hang of. That's why you're the talent, sweetie, and I'm the agent. So Caitlin makes Thalia nervous. Even when her appearance is haggard her eyes are still glinting, and it's hard not to get the feeling that in her head she's writing this all up into a story and that every action, however small, will be reproduced in sharp focus. At least, Thalia thinks, she's not going to be the main story. Everybody knows who's stealing the show here.

Except the others, who have no idea. The other tributes. When did they stop being teenagers, peers, and become tributes? When did she stop trying to pretend?

"I thought you said you'd done it before."

"I have," she says, sharper than she'd intended because Caitlin's tone is searching, accusing. It doesn't last. "On the circuit. There are matches or something under the wood to make sure it lights at the right time."