god, i hate shakespeare [ rotten ]

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

He finds it hard to believe a book offers him anything worthwhile in the Games. But it offers him a taste of home, which, admittedly, he’s much more interested in. Thompson knows that his chances of winning a fight are small. So why not indulge himself in intellectual knowledge rather than physical? The new addition must mean something unless they’re just looking to sort out the brain from the brawn.

Which is also possible. Make the betting easy, you know?

When the boy steps into the hall, it’s much larger than he’d expect for a typical stay in the capitol. The tall ceilings, the curving gold and white; this was like some sort of fantasy novel that the Harvard home had stored away in their tower. It’s all open (for the most part); three levels, getting softer in volume as academics get higher. Thompson feels attracted to the grandeur of the entire building. He finds it hard to imagine that any other spot in the training center was worth it. To a boy with little to say but lots to write, he likes that it’s all on paper for him.

He takes his time scouring the books. He enjoys the smell of new, a relatively new scent in an upbringing of flea markets, trade shows, and hand-me-downs. The way that the books feel so crisp to hold, resistant to open. The pages are comfortable in their form. They’re untouched by the world, and he’s jealous of that vulnerability. His hands trace every bind, every page, every inscription on the hardcovers.

Eventually, his hands find a cover that intrigues him. Something about some outlaw who lives in the woods. Thompson follows the staircases back down to the bottom floor. The boy wishes there were other places to hide and read and avoid all sorts of interaction with people. What’s the purpose of reading with a group? He’d rather keep that information, the jewels of literature to himself. It’s their choice to read it. After all, if they were that interested, they could have claimed the piece themselves. His thought lingers as if there aren’t hundreds, thousands of literary pieces surrounding them.

On the bottom floor, a boy sits in the corner. Maybe that was the designated tribute area, and regardless, the proximity may help form some sort of association with each other. He approaches but doesn’t claim a seat yet. It was better to ask before being seen an inconvenience. ”Can I sit here?" He holds the book in his hands, shifting awkwardly from side to side. ”I’m uh, Thompson, or Thomas, whatever you want to call me." Besides loser of course. He hopes that this other tribute hasn’t seen his national failure.

[august vance d7b [Bella]]

August wonders, if his mentor were to find out he has spent his entire first day in the library instead of learning to fight, would Mackenzie kill him before the other tributes have a chance to?

Probably not. The guy seemed super chill and kind on the train, but still the unlikely image makes August smirk a little in his hiding place in the overstuffed bean bag chair, tucked away in a corner of the library’s ground floor. He ended up here out of sheer curiosity this morning, and was compelled to stay by the pervasive silence of the immense hall. After all of the stress and noise of the previous day, sitting here in silence was maybe the closest thing he’d get to rest without actually taking a nap.

This morning was spent with his nose buried deep in a book of fairy tales. Not the ones with the happy endings – but it still took his mind off things to imagine himself deep in some dark, primeval wood somewhere with little to worry about except the forces of good and evil, and the mundane monotony of manual labor. That seemed to be the way many of these characters lived, anyway.

He was absorbed in that book for so long that he started to feel a little guilty thinking about what his sisters might think of his escapism. Tallulah’s voice, way too pragmatic for a twelve-year-old, rang in his ears. She would always say these things that sounded wise but, upon further examination, didn’t actually make any sense. If you’re going to sit on your ass, at least learn something! she barked in his head. So he’d switched to books about plant identification, getting lost in the photos of flowers and detailed close-ups of tree bark patterns, knowing there was no guarantee he’d remember any of this when the time came to apply it. Memorization has never been his strong suit.

August is scratching his head over the difference between yew berries –poisonous– and lingonberries – not poisonous— getting oddly hungry from thinking about it, when he’s approached by the tribute from Two. The boy is younger, and for some reason his face is ringing a bell. As he lowers the book and blinks to refocus, August notices the slight pang of a headache threatening at his temples.

”Can I sit here?” he asks, seeming hesitant. He introduces himself as Thompson-or-Thomas. August feels that he’s the last person that anyone should be nervous around. He reaches over and pats the bean bag chair next to him.

”Yeah! Yeah, of course!” he says, offering a generous smile. ”I’m August. I’m glad you bothered me actually, I’ve been staring at this book so long the poisonous berries are starting to look delicious. I think that means I need a break.” He holds up the cover to demonstrate, then places the book on a neighboring coffee table. ”Not that you bothered me, I mean,” he adds, not wanting to make the kid anxious.

August can’t take his eyes off the boy’s face–he just looks so oddly familiar, like a face from a movie or TV. Was he one of the mayor’s kids? But no, he had heard there was only one of them here, the girl from Six.

”This is going to sound so weird, but I feel like I’ve seen you before. Were you on TV at some point?”

[d11a tsiuri dermott ☕ minie]

I had a confession, one ironically suited for the vast land of books and stories.

It was not as if I had not attended school, everyone had to. It’s just that teachers knew that most of us did not come from families that could afford to send their kids to school for as long the capitol would want us to attend. It was unspoken in eleven that only the wealthiest of the district had the luxury of attendance past the age of 14. Most of the boys in my neighborhood already worked the fields. I had gotten lucky, a job in town.

A place falling apart brick by brick. Nothing that entered there had ever been whole. Still, it was a better fate than a deteriorating body in the heat of the fields.

What I am trying to say is that, well, I cannot exactly read. A skill that I, like a lot of kids just like me, never needed outside of the classroom. We didn’t have books on our shelves at home. The idea was a fantasy enough, a tale that I would have believed to find between the pages of what the library had to offer.

On that note, I had spent too many hours roaming the tall hallways of stories. Looking at the pictures of creatures that never existed. Or maybe they did, I would have not believed a tortoise to be a real creature before I had met Georgie.

Funny, isn’t it. I thought I had the world all figured out. That nothing could surprise me because I had seen the worst it had to offer, accepting my truth as the universal experience of life. Stuck in a one-track world because I had never known anything else to be different.

I felt like a little kid in a candy store. The color of the pages coming to life with the smell of something old inhabiting the room.

For a second, I let myself drown in the naivety that this could be a gift…

(..But I knew better than that.)

It was the one thing I was certain of in this world. No number of new discoveries could ever change that everything came with a price. Especially not from the capitol. So, when hesitation kicked in, I asked myself; What could they possibly want in return?

Another answer I did not have, the same with what was on the pages of the book in my hand. Facing upwards towards me with more questions running wild. At the other end of my table, two boys had congregated. One of them recognizing the other, unable to recall.

I think I had the answer to that one.

“Panem’s got talent, a few years ago?” I called out from the opposite end. A luxury the bar had that other did not was a TV playing whatever the captiol wanted at all times. We couldn’t really turn it off and trust me we tried. Whenever someone was fed up with what was playing, then that is when bottles and glasses would start to fly.

“Hi, I’m Tsiuri…mind if join you? Also a little tired of staring at the pages. ” I asked before sliding myself in the seat next to the younger of the two. I could use a good conversation, it wasn’t as if I was doing much reading.

ELEGANT

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

It’s like Thompson was stuck in the lunch room again. A panic hovers in his mind as he looks at the table, awaiting a response. Realistically, it’s nothing more than a few seconds. But it feels like ages. None of this is going to matter in a few weeks of time, unfortunately, so they could really just turn him away. A part of him is hopeful they do; that way, he escapes the potential heartbreak of losing a friend. The momentary heartbreak they could offer by saying no sounds nicer. Remind him that he is alone and ultimately will be. However, his fears are turned into cobwebs. The other boy, who he thinks is from seven, slaps the chair beside him. Thompson’s not familiar with the style of the chair, though.

”Yeah! Yeah, of course!” Excitable, like a puppy. It must suck that this is the pound he’s at though. The boy spouts into a spiel, talking like a baby learning about the wide world of speech available to them. ”I’m August. I’m glad you bothered me actually, I’ve been staring at this book so long the poisonous berries are starting to look delicious. I think that means I need a break.” August then holds the book up, shows the cover, and places it down. ”Not that you bothered me, I mean,” the older tribute adds. Thompson’s eyebrow finds itself lifted up. It’s strange to find such a nice, energetic person here. Isn’t he going to die?

Well, that’s not confirmed. The chances of August here dying are just as good as Thompson’s, realistically.

He shifts to sit at the chair, looking down to make sure he doesn’t miss it. In a situation like this back home, one of the annoying boys in his year would snatch the chair up from underneath as he tried to sit. Back meeting cushion, he’s all good, and he exhales relief. The boys’ eyes move back up to meet August’ deep brown eyes still directly looking at him. A wave of discomfort washes over him. Did Thompson have something on his face? The intense eye contact results in August speaking up once again. ”This is going to sound so weird, but I feel like I’ve seen you before. Were you on TV at some point?”

Shoot.

Thompson’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Luckily, the girl at the other end of the table fills that void. She’s right, talking about Panem’s Got Talent. Now he’s got to share the experience, he assumes, because why else would he ignore it? She introduces herself as Siri and asks to join.

”Uh, sure.” Thompson initially came to read, but he places the book down at his side. It’ll come later. Books stay, but opportunities like friends don’t. ”And, uh, yeah.” He gulps. ”I did Panem’s Got Talent.” He looks around, embarrassed about it. Thompson didn’t win. August would probably recognize him more easily if he did. ”Twice, and I’m sure you could tell how I did.” A nervous laugh comes out, because at this point, he’d be getting dogged on by the other boys.

[august vance d7b [Bella]]

August’s question is answered by the tribute from Eleven, whose name he’s not sure how to pronounce until she says it and August realizes there’s a silent letter in there somewhere. He likes names like that; secret letters lend a mysterious quality to a person, unlike August, he thinks.

”Panem’s got talent, a few years ago?” she guesses, asking to join. He nods as Thompson agrees, and she pulls up a chair. She’s stunningly pretty, with dark curly hair and a sort of natural pout to her face. Her brown eyes have an intense but tired look that August recognizes; like someone who works a lot and only sleeps a little.

Thompson puts his book down and explains, hesitantly it seems, that he was on Panem’s Got Talent twice. Now that he mentions it, August definitely remembers seeing him on screen with some kind of a band, while he watched with his sisters. He racks his memory for the details.

”Oh, yeah! I remember you! You played the flute, right?” He laughs, not at Thompson, but at how unlikely the whole thing is. ”You must be the most underpaid television star in Panem. First PGT, and now…” He realizes mentioning their next TV appearance might make the boy uncomfortable again, and hurries to add, with a self-deprecating smile, ”I think it’s really brave of you to go on twice. I’ve never even been on stage before. I’m kinda dreading the interviews, honestly.”

Suddenly bubbly and eager to make conversation, he looks to Tsiuri. ”What about you, Tsiuri? Are you hiding any secret talents? Ballet or something? We won't tell.” He shoots a conspiratory grin at Thompson.