Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Quell - Solarelle

Solarelle

They can chant and cheer all they want. It's not real. They might be looking at us but they don't see us. They just see pretty clothes and faces that may as well be on the screen already. It feels odd to be looking down on the Capitol when it's usually the other way around, but I guess we're a step above them now. We have a higher purpose.

Death. Death and entertainment.

That's what I signed myself up for. And somewhere the two people who made it necessary are watching, and I wonder what they're thinking now. Oh, they cried in the Justice Building. Sobbed their hearts out. They begged me to take it back but I couldn't and I didn't want to, anyway. They had their chance to be good parents, they've had a chance for fifteen years, and they've not taken it. And now I'm taking my life into my own hands and I don't care how long that lasts. It's mine.

The forced smile comes easily, at least.

Ahead of us the chariots are drawing into a line, the crowd roaring even louder as each one stops. How are they doing that? There's no obvious way of controlling the horses, unless they're exceptionally well trained or robots. I glance at them but there's no real way for me to tell and it doesn't matter anyway.

Dark, blood red. Rich royal purple. Deep green. Bold blue. Our light green chariot pulls up next to them, dwarfed by the strong, majestic building in front of us. For a moment I allow myself to be impressed. I had thought our smooth Justice Building was impressive. But this is at least three times the size in width alone, and the surface looks as though it should shine. Massive flags are draped down the front, covering the windows, before each chariot as they line up. Huge full-length portraits of people blare off them against a backdrop of the district colour and it takes me a moment to work out what they're for. There's no uniting factor apart from that they all look to be reaping age, and all have a crown perched on their foreheads.

They're past winners. The most recent winner from each district, at a guess. They must have been taken shortly after they won for them all to be this young; I know for a fact that the District Eight winner must be at least thirty now because I don't remember him winning, but the sullen boy glaring down from the lilac banner can't be more than sixteen.

Faraday Wilson, wearing a simple black shirt and his trademark startled expression, the crown slightly lopsided, stares over the crowd, bemused. I vaguely remember his victory, the celebrations, the talk of another revolution even though it seemed to me like he was the last person to start one. It was something to do with somebody else, that's all I was told. I don't know what happened to the revolution.

The winner from District Thirteen is a girl with her hair hacked severely short and a dead look in her eyes.

As the last chariot, bearing the two tributes from Thirteen somewhere in the middle of all the fabric, rolls up to a stop, the Capitol crowd go silent and the spotlights swivel to the balcony, draped in gold cloth with the number '100' embroidered into it along with many little gold threads. If I squint, I can just about make out that it's writing. They must be the names of the past winners. Clearly, no expense has been spared for this Quell.

"Cool!" Volt mutters next to me, somewhat reluctantly. I suppose it is, if you're lucky enough to be Capitol and you like this sort of thing.

I'm not and I don't.

This whole thing makes me feel very small. My dress alone swamps me, material hanging from my arms and pointless drapes flowing from around my shoulders right to the back of the chariot. It's a needless waste. According to the stylists, whose names I don't care to remember, I'm supposed to look like the moon to Volt's sun. Soft and quiet and graceful.