15II
PROLOGUE CONTINUED
"Maybe, just maybe, the President- the most feared and empowered man in all of Panem- was like us. Like me. Just a normal person who hides behind a facade of power and materialism."
When I was homeschooled by my late mother, she would sometimes read me old history books telling of the nations of the past. Some stories would tell of times of grandeur, some of tragedy, and more still of primal human urges that fueled wars even bloodier than the Rebellion fifty-seven years ago. One of the old landmasses she read to me about was a barren place named Antarctica. She said that it was so cold there that no one could ever hope of colonizing it. It was ice and glacier as far as the eye could see and longer.
I imagine that President Pollux's drawing room was as cold as Antarctica must've been.
Goosebumps begin to rise on my forearms as I wander aimlessly through uncountable rows of bookshelves. Many of the books are stacked precariously against overwhelmed paperweights, and many have fallen to the floor and opened, displaying their sepia pages and worlds made in ink. There seemed to be no method to the madness, either… or at least any that I could tell. The names of the authors were nowhere near in alphabetical order, the glossy covers of cherished novels were scratched and scuffed, and the shelves themselves, although ornate and pristine, didn't match at all. It never crossed my mind that the President might've been this disorganized, if disorganized at all. Some foolish, childish part of my conscience eased guard as I observed the ledges overflowing with loose papers and crumpled drafts of ideas long gone, no uniform in sight. Maybe, just maybe, the President- the most feared and empowered man in all of Panem- was like us. Like me. Just a normal person who hides behind a facade of power and materialism.
"It's not every day that I receive visitors," a deep, amused lilt rang out behind me. "And when I do, I must say I've never seen one sift through my bookshelves."
Icy, long-nailed fingers scrape down my spine as the President-the President of Panem- lumbers towards me. His gait is uneven and awkward, undoubtedly from his prosthetic foot obtained in a battle with a fellow candidate for presidency.
His somewhat comical stance doesn't make him even a bit less intimidating, though.
President Pollux' platinum blonde hair is slicked back so sharply it makes the corners of the skin on his forehead stretch. His eyes- so blue they appear gray- stare ahead at some fixed point in the distance that only he can see. If I didn't know better, he might've even been Aquila's father. He's adorned in a stuffy, pristine black tuxedo with a tiny little golden crown pin on his lapel.
Many prissy Capitol girls would have commented on his pin. They might've said things like, "oh, how cute!" or "could I get one for my dress?" but I, raised to be ever perceptive and almost poetic by my father, knew the true symbolism behind it. He is in power. He is the dictator of his future and ours. This man had an aura of power about him that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
"I a-apologize, President Pollux," I immediately dropped into my well-practiced curtsy.
"No need to apologize," the President's shoulder brushed mine as he stood on his heels to pull a book from the top of the bookshelf I was examining. He blew across the cover and a thin layer of dust whipped into the air, tearing a cough from my chest. "Yes, have you read this book? I think you might find it interesting. I recall how much you loved pre-Panem history when you were but a child."
He shoves the book into my hand, and on a reflex, my fingers close around it. The book is old and with so many creases in its cover that I fear turning it around would break the binding. When the President turns his back to me to study his watch, I delicately place the book back where it came from.
"Well, please do sit. I was under the impression we would be discussing this year's arena."
"I would, sir," I hate how quiet and soft my voice is compared to his. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being inferior. Which happens a lot. "Although I don't see any chairs."
"Ah, right you are." President Pollux's lips tugged down into a frown. He snapped his fingers, and the loud, crisp sound ricocheted off the walls.
A young woman clad in pure white robes steps out of the shadows from behind me. Upon a quick, subconscious observation, everything about her screams servitude: from her simple servant's braid to her plain, makeup-free face.
As a Head Gamemaker, I've visited the Districts before. I liked to take inspiration from the subtleties of their world- the gentle crash of waves in District Four, the everpresent hum of electricity in District Eight- and wearing no makeup there is the norm. In the Capitol, however, makeup was almost as essential as food and water.
"Don't mind the Avox," President Pollux sends me a small smile before turning to gesture at the servant. "Go fetch me two chairs."
The Avox nods hurriedly and disappears the way she came, in shadows. I stand on the balls of my heels and crane my neck after her, bewildered that a person could move so noiselessly... so unnoticeable.
"She's a peculiar Avox, that one," President Pollux murmurs. "Her story is most unique."
"How so?"
"She's from the Capitol."
"What?" Avoxes are never from the Capitol. Never. Avoxes are moronic individuals who have rebelled against the Presidency and are forced into mute servitude for their crimes. No citizen of the Capitol in their right mind would ever consider such a thing. We're spoiled from the day we're born to the day we die. There's simply no reason to rebel.
"Indeed. Her name was once Aurora Whicker."
Not a second later, the Avox in question returns with two folding chairs. She unfolds them, reaches into her robe pocket, and unfurls a velvet blanket over the President's seat. Of course. The President deserves only the best of comforts.
"That will be all. You're dismissed."
She gives him a quick nod, curtsies, and hurries off.
"Now, let's discuss your plans for this year. See if they are… worth Panem's time."
I ease myself down into a chair, half because the President gestured towards it and half because I feel that my knees will buckle from my trembling. I blow a strand of my shocking pink hair out of my eyes and hand over my collection of papers.
"The arena this year will be very costly, but the budget will not be breached in vain. My team and I have worked tirelessly to prepare a show that will be unforgettable."
The President doesn't answer and instead continues to flip through my papers with an impeccable, terrifying deadpan. I take a deep inhale and continue.
"Endless ocean will span throughout a giant, circular arena. The tributes will be launched on a center island about seven miles in the circumference. I'll call it Bloodbath Island," my heart flutters as the President gives me a tiny nod. "Rock spires will surround Bloodbath Island to serve as weapons for those unfortunate enough to not acquire anything from the Cornucopia. Furious waves strong enough to take down even the strongest swimmers will serve to keep the weak in until they can build some sort of raft, allowing the Careers more time to hunt them down. Far away from the Bloodbath island will be four barrier islands containing necessities that tributes need in the arena: food, shelter, fresh water."
"How will we get them together for the big show?" The President finally looks up from the papers.
A sadistic smile cuts across my face, surprising even me in its ferocity. "That's where the new mutts come in, sir."