A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Afternoon

Lunch is quiet. The canteen, gleaming metallic and reminiscent of school canteens across the Capitol, echoes with the sound of clinking cutlery and forced small talk. Underneath the rich smell of the stew lingers a hint of sweat; several of the tributes are red-faced with effort and one or two have sprouted bruises. The doors are guarded by Peacekeepers. Silent Avoxes man the sides cart and hand out plates of food as the last few trickle in from the Hall of Victors. A space there has already been prepared for the single survivor of the next few weeks. They have all seen it. Now, more than ever, the pressure is starting to show.

"I can sit here, right?"

Kula looks up, takes in the vision of Blaze already sliding into the chair opposite him, and turns back to his food. The stew is good. The sauce is nice and thick and the smell alone is enough to calm the butterflies in his stomach and make him feel full, but he's going to need his strength. He spears a piece of beef and chews on it thoughtfully.

"You're Kula, yeah?"

He nods. The stew is a bit spare on meat. This has become a motif of the last six or so months, now that more than half of any kind of commodity has to go into the districts. They have less of everything. Cynically, he wonders how the tribute outfits are new. He hates them. They feel like they're clinging to his bones. Maybe if he had some muscles for them to show off he would like them more, but he doesn't and the color doesn't do him any favors. Awkward, angular faces such as his should not wear black. Which was precisely why he dyed his hair black in the first place, and it was worth looking in the mirror and seeing something that looked to be only just human to see the expression on his mother's face when he got back from the salon.

"Blaze Iffamia."

He stares at the extended hand. A glossy dark vine curls around the middle finger. The skin is taut and rough. Blaze withdraws it.

"So you don't like shaking hands, huh?" Her voice isn't unpleasant but it's a few decibels louder than just normal talking and it feels like everybody is staring at her and therefore, by extension, at him. He swallows the meat and stabs at a chunk of potato. "Hey, you're not an Avox, why aren't you talking?"

He peers through his fringe at her as he finishes his mouthful. Short and stocky. Read: powerful. Not in the delicate, elusive sense like the stuck-up pair from Ferrous, but physically powerful. Energy seems to fizz from her and she fidgets constantly. Sixteen. Perhaps seventeen. No older than that. Her hair is bright purple but shows through auburn at the roots. He knows a lot of girls like this, girls who would have been pretty if they'd left themselves alone. But you've got to be with the 'in' crowd or you're a nobody.

For a moment he sees his parents opposite him. His father, squat and jowly, frowning. His mother pretending to bawl into the handkerchief embroidered with the family crest made up by his grandfather, her huge green eyes fixed on him and dry but full of disappointment. He had those eyes but he has obliterated them. Destroyed them with glowing orange contacts. It's so easy. And that's the great thing about the Capitol; if you don't want it, you don't have to have it. He had his mother's eyes so he got rid of them. He has his father's hair so he colors over that.

There won't be any contacts or hair-dye in the arena.

"Don't see the point," he says.

"Even Apollo is more talkative than you," she grumbles. He wonders when she got the chance to talk to the Amethyst boy. He's been trying to pay attention to everybody so he knows what he's up against but he didn't see her talking to him and Blaze is hard to miss. So far he's noted down the Avox Milo, the girl from Quartz and that big group who seem to have taken it upon themselves to replace the Careers. Trust the high sectors. He could, if he wanted to, sneak into them and plant the seeds of doubt and watch them explode, but it'd be risky.