A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Introductions - Caitlin

Caitlin

"You are not to practice against each other. Top-class instructors have been provided in order for you to test your skills. Please speak to them if you would like to try proper combat. There will be penalties for those who attack their fellow tributes."

This attempt at getting us to feel some kind of camaraderie falls flat. Twenty six eyes in various colors stare up at the woman and wonder the exact same thing: are you mad?

Cas waves his hand in the air and then talks anyway, his voice a dull drone, one hand toying with his spikes. "Question. Since you took away our sponsorship, what sort of penalties are we talking about here?"

All credit to the woman, her thin smile doesn't falter. She fixes Cas in a look that I'd guess is supposed to be meaningful but actually looks weak. It's written all over her face that she hoped that nobody would ask that. "The matter is still under consideration, Mr Penn," she explains, and Cas rolls his eyes and looks away. "At the moment the most likely proposal is that your pedestal will be placed further away from the Cornucopia."

"So what you're saying is" - I know I'd resolved to stay quiet and stay out of the way but when glaring faults like this come up it's my job to point them out - "what you're saying is that you're going to give anybody who wants to run away from the bloodbath less far to run? And the chance to earn it by getting a head start in here now? What if I was just to decapitate Columbia right now?"

I've picked the name out of thin air for no real reason but opposite me the Platinum girl, the one with the unnaturally white skin and red lips and black hair, glares at me. Her eyes are yellow and cat-slitted. They won't scare me. Not when I can see that she looks scared herself.

"Try it, hack," she snarls. "See where it gets you."

I give her the once-over, as I would to an interviewee. She would be good to interview, I bet. Underneath that charismatic exterior that is a trademark of the Platinum models, most of whom probably don't have enough brain cells to think of anything intelligent to say, is this temper; at a guess I'd say that she resents being thought of as weak and will do anything to make sure that she isn't. People like that can say stupid things when they're riled.

Like calling me a hack, for a start.

"Not everybody from Garnet is a hack tabloid blogger," I explain, calmly. "I prefer to work in politics."

"Are you going to interview me, then?"

I know who it is even before I've turned to look. There's no mistaking that voice, full of quiet, confident authority. All the other brief mutters that have sprung up during our little interlude go silent. Probus Fidelis ignores the eyes on him and concentrates on me. I look him up and down. Tall, a little on the lanky side. Almost a spitting image of the President herself, though that won't put me off, right down to the fierce grey eyes. His personality shines from him and extends around the nearby area; confident, secure, sardonic. Someone who needs interviewing with care because if you're not careful they'll start picking holes in your questions, but as a reward they give you good answers. The sort of person I like to interview. Unfortunately, now is not the time.

"I'm not here to interview you."

"Then you can stop summing me up as though you are." When my jaw practically drops open, he smiles and continues, "I've met journalists before, Miss Knope. And your face gives you away."

With that, he turns his attention back to the woman we've all forgotten, standing at the front with her mobile screen and looking patient. Everybody's attention turns with it. Conversation ended, just like that. I make a note of it in my head for my autobiography: Probus Fidelis was powerful not just in position but as a personality, powerful enough to stop a conversation with one look.