Hunger Games: Lyme's First Tribute [1/4]

[lorata]

Title: Nobody Decent
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, character death, hints of background abuse (past)
Characters: Lyme, Brutus, President Snow, D2 OCs (Nero, Callista, Artemisia)
Summary: District 2 Victor Lyme, two years fresh from the Arena, gets her first tribute to mentor. Her vow to remain aloof to avoid getting attached lasts until she finds Artemisia: wicked, irreverent, blase and a little unhinged, whose childhood photos showed bruises her Games training never put there.
Author's Notes: Misha backstory, since I love Misha and have only really written her in the AUs. It's also really neat to see bb mentor Lyme in over head, since I usually write her as a badass veteran.



Lyme is the first Victor in recent District 2 history to wait only the minimum one year before applying to be a mentor. The Capitol got wind of it as soon as she put her name in at the training centre, of course, and there's been buzz over Two's latest and youngest mentor and the level of dedication that the new Victors are showing. Lyme smiles and gives sound-bite interviews about her duty and being excited to see action again even from a distance, because she knows her job and she's not stupid enough to tell them that every day she does nothing it feels like more names added to her debt.

Normally, the Centre tell her, the mentors choose their tributes on their own, without anyone watching. It's a private moment, meant for reflection and honest evaluation, and each mentor has their own system that they slowly perfect over the years. They can share it or they can keep it a secret, it doesn't really matter, but the important thing is that each mentor gets to choose in their own way.

At least -- after the first time. This year Lyme has to sit with Nero to oversee her choice. A spark of the old irritation wells up that she's not allowed to have this moment without her mentor, hulking and silent, looking over her shoulder, but this wasn't his call. The higher-ups made it and Nero's giving her as much space as he can, leaving her to go through the files while he waits in the kitchen and only coming in after she's made her decision.

Nero said when he chose her that it felt like someone reached into his chest and ripped a piece of him out, and he knew he'd never get it back unless she won the Games. It sounded melodramatic and overemotional and not a little terrifying -- Lyme isn't here to find replacements for the children she already knows she's refusing to have, she's here to save lives and that's it -- and she holds onto that. She asked Brutus, and he said he chose Emory because he knew they'd work well together and he thought she could get the job done; that sounds good to Lyme. Feelings are messy, and anyway, they can come later. Right now it's about who can bring it home, and who Lyme can put back together when it's done.

That holds until she flips over one of the pages and takes a hard jolt to the gut. ARTEMISIA J. says the name under the photograph, a picture of a girl with a hard, arrogant expression, her chin tilted up like she's challenging the camera. A quick flick through shows incidents of insubordination and a propensity to act like she didn't care, right until she sauntered up to the task and scored the highest marks. Her personal file with pre-Residential details makes note of bruises that didn't come from training and a casual disregard of authority because whatever the Centre might dish out, she'd seen worse.

(Lyme takes a deep breath and chases back the shadows of fingers on her shoulder. It's over, she's safe, it's fine.)

Lyme remembers Artemisia, vaguely. They sparred before Lyme went in -- one of the handful of younger girls and boys that Lyme as the Volunteer candidate was told to take down, knock them back a bit and fuel their desire to try harder -- and she recalls an easy grace and an underlying viciousness that impressed her even back with the upcoming Arena gnawing on her mind. From what she remembers it's not surprising Artemisia made it this far.

What's surprising is that when Lyme moves to set her file aside and check the next candidate, she can't. Her fingers stay glued to the manila folder and the pages inside, and Lyme ends up flipping back all the way through to the youngest photos, where the girl's smile is darker and nastier and she's not as good at hiding it under a mask of nonchalance. Her breath sticks hard in her chest and her focus tunnels, and when Lyme finally forces herself to examine the others it feels as though she's looking at them through a gauze screen. The only one that matters is the girl with the hard-knock eyes and the fuck-you smile.

"Nero," Lyme calls out, swallowing and wetting her lips and trying to sound normal. "I think I've got one."

Nero ambles over and drops onto the couch, which creaks vaguely but doesn't snap. Lyme's hands shake as she gives him the file, and he runs through it with a decade's worth of efficiency, meaning it's all of five seconds before his eyebrows creep up his forehead. "Are you sure?"

"She's got the best scores," Lyme says, because she did check. She might've been blindsided but that doesn't mean she's going to pick a tribute based on photographs and personal anecdotes. "Nailed her kill tests and acting, and they've never seen anyone better with a sword on both sides."

Nero hums and examines one of the pages without looking up. "I'm not arguing that she's the best on paper, but she also looks like she'd be better off with a veteran. Girl like that is gonna be hard to handle on the other side, and she might not even listen to you before."

Lyme glares. "And so, what, stick her with Odin? He'd just try to drown her in his glory talk, if he picked her at all, and even if he did he wouldn't get her. I do."

Nero doesn't say anything, just looks at her with a fond expression that used to make Lyme want to carve out his eyes and now makes her flush and turn away. "I do know that feeling," he says, his tone light and amused. "I'm not going to argue with you, but the committee will need to be convinced, so let's practice. Tell me why you want her, and leave the feelings out of it. We save those for after."

Lyme nods. It's a good point -- Nero wouldn't have managed to get assigned to her if he'd come in and started babbling about feeling their connection or whatever -- and it will help her organize her thoughts. "Okay," she says. "How about trends, then. The 50s haven't been very showy, polls say audiences are getting bored, and all of Artemisia's kills and her Field Exam show she's flashy and exciting..."

It takes two hours of arguing and negotiation, but finally Lyme leaves the selection committee with a form stamped APPROVED in big red letters. She holds the file against her chest all the way back to the Village in the passenger seat of Nero's truck, and she does her best to chase away the flutters in her stomach. When the head trainer and the Program director signed their names at the bottom of the paper -- when Lyme bent and scribbled the same -- she couldn't chase the shudder that ran through her, that she'd chosen this fierce, brilliant girl only to send her to her death.

It's normal to think that, Nero tells her, but it's not true. Nothing's certain except possibility. No reason to believe a tribute can't make it home until the moment they don't.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding," Brutus bursts out, looking up from Artemisia's file. "She looks insane!"

Lyme bares her teeth and only barely holds back from punching him. Just because Brutus likes his noble children of the quarries doesn't mean everyone has to; Lyme thinks Emory is boring and Emory thinks Lyme is borderline, and that's just fine. "She's good," she says. "And all you have to do is help me help her win. I get her after that."

Brutus runs a hand over his head. It's the two of them together this year, with Ronan as their behind-the-scenes advisor, but the final decision is Lyme's, since she's the one who will be in charge of recovery. "Okay then," Brutus says. "There's a lot to work with, anyway, so I guess there's that."

"Damn right there is," Lyme snaps, snatching Artemisia's file away and trying not to feel like Brutus just called her baby ugly. "There are tons of angles we could take with her."

"I think we can safely drop 'honour' from the possibilities," Brutus says dryly, but he holds up both hands in apology and mock-defeat when Lyme snarls. "Kidding, kidding. Let's start making a list."

A few minutes before the Reaping in Two is scheduled to start, a runner brings Lyme and Callista the results from the districts in the time zones further east. Nothing but names and ages, and even that is considered a major privilege to have ahead of time; Lyme scans the list while waiting for the cue to take the stage but nothing jumps out. An eighteen-year-old girl from Nine, a seventeen-year-old boy from Six, and a thirteen-year-old from Twelve, but they'll have to wait for the rest as the sun moves west. It's the usual spread of ages beyond that, which at least means no surprises and that's something.

Callista glances at Lyme as they wait behind the heavy oak doors of the Justice Building. "You'll be fine," she says. Lyme has no idea what she's talking about until the older woman quirks a smile and flicks a finger at Lyme's hands, and oh. She's shredded the paper with the list into tiny pieces, and Lyme flushes hot and looks around for an aide to hand it to. "Just drop it," Callista says with a wave of her hand. "It will give the cleaning staff a thrill, someone will likely have it framed."

That -- no. Lyme isn't all about the rules and propriety like Brutus or Emory, but she shoves the torn fragments into her pocket anyway while Callista rolls her eyes. She's fine, she's not nervous, it's just -- she's on the stage. Last year she stood next to Nero in the Victors' Box, and even that -- watching the process from above, not from the square with the rest of the population -- had given her the shakes. Now she's going to be up with the mayor and the director and the line of ceremonial Peacekeepers because this is it. She's not just a Victor anymore; as soon as the Reaping is over and the tributes stand on stage, she'll be a mentor.

It's a hell of a thing.

"Here," Callista says, and holds out a packet of mints. "It'll help, I promise."

Lyme swallows the automatic protest that she's fine, because Callista has been doing this since Lyme was a kid and she's not likely to be impressed by a first-year mentor's posturing. She takes a mint and holds it under her tongue, and the splash of cool flavour sends a jolt through her while simultaneously calming her nerves. Lyme shoots Callista a startled look.

"I have them made special," Callista says with a razor smile, and she hands Lyme the tin. "Don't take more than one every two hours and you'll be fine."

"Thanks," Lyme says dubiously, slipping the tin of drugged mints into her other pocket, but then the doors pull open from the other side and the first glare of sunlight blasts through the widening crack. This is it. Lyme straightens her shoulders, raises her head and flattens out her fingers, uncurling her nervous fists before walking out onto the stage to the roar of applause.

Artemisia steps forward for a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old with her hair tied up in braided pigtails, lazily raising her hand and calling out the sacred phrase like she's a student answering a teacher's question only because no one else in the room wants to bother answering. The cameras magnify her careless grin, her saunter up to the stage, and -- best of all -- the wink she actually tosses off at the terrified girl she's replacing as she strolls past.

Brutus' flat-eyed stare bludgeons Lyme all the way from the Victors' Box without her having to look at him, but he can go fuck himself. This is just the Reaping; tributes are allowed to be cocky now, it's when it's closer to the Arena that the Gamemakers start looking for ways to strike them down. Lyme was confident too -- they all were. The stage is a relief after the edginess of the morning, standing in the square with sweat trickling over the skin and tuning out the speeches; better than the week before with the last-minute prep sessions and interminable waiting.

Artemisia speeds up as she makes her way closer to the stage, and by the end she takes the stairs two at a time, executing a perfect spin-turn on one foot and coming to stand with her hands clasped behind her back, expression artfully crafted into one of lofty obedience. As soon as the escort asks her name she breaks into a sharp-toothed grin, and she digs her fingers into the soft, painted hand that shakes hers in congratulation.

"You should congratulate the viewers, not me," Artemisia drawls in a husky voice that will captivate and enthral audiences without promising a spectacle of nothing but sex. "They're the ones who are going to get one hell of a show."

This time Lyme does flick her gaze to Brutus, who somehow gives the impression of raising an eyebrow without actually moving his face.

Callista's boy is sharp and small and mean, with muscles like whipcord and hands that itch for knives. He never stops twitching, grinning out at the crowd and all but bouncing on his heels, and his wild, almost frenetic energy contrasts sharply with Artemisia's cool, almost languid arrogance. They're a good set, opposing temperaments but with the same promise of blood; even two years out, Lyme has to repress a shudder when they smile.

The Capitol will be salivating, straining at the wait for this pair to taste first blood. Jasper bares his teeth in a smile that terrifies a child near the stage; Artemisia tilts her head and raises one hand in front of her face, examining her fingernails and rubbing away a speck of dirt with her thumb.

The numbers for One, Seven and Ten come in while Artemisia and Jasper wait in their rooms in the Justice Building. Lyme glances over the spread -- a twelve and a sixteen from Ten, a fourteen and fifteen from Seven, and the usual eighteen/sixteen split from One -- without much surprise. She's going over the travel arrangements with Philomena when Brutus comes in to find her, expression somber.

"What?" Lyme asks, angling herself away from him. If he's here to lecture her on how she needs to take Artemisia down a peg, she already knows that --

"We've got trouble," he says. "Dark horse from Six. Sponsor goldmine, half the live Reaping coverage is on him."

"From Six?" Lyme blinks. Six's Victors tend to come from nowhere; not even Phillips, their youngest, ten years out next year and the only Victor not to turn to the syringe, didn't make much of an impression until he blinded another tribute with glitter and bashed his skull in with a rolling pin. She can't remember the last time a Six was anything special at the Reaping. "Volunteer?"

"Not exactly," Brutus says, and hands over a portable video player.

Lyme lets the footage roll and forgets to breathe until it's over. She looks up at Brutus, eyes wide, and he stares back with his mouth set in a grim line. "It's just the Reaping," Lyme says, handing the player back to Brutus, who shoves it under his arm.

"Yep," he says, but his boy lost a tribute to a dark horse from Ten just last year, and it shows in the hard set of his shoulders. "Still, we've gotta talk to those kids. They can't just swagger their way through this, not anymore. Right now they're setting themselves up to be second place in someone else's finale."

A wash of anger, possessive and terrifying in its strength, washes through Lyme and grips her so hard she nearly stumbles. "It's early," she says, gritting her teeth. "We have time. I'm not losing to a sob story."

Brutus gives her a sidelong look, but then he recovers himself and socks her in the arm. "Good," he says. "We've got half an hour to the train, may as well get started."

The train pulls away from the crowds and they all head inside. Lyme hangs back, watching the kids to get an idea of who they are on their own, without flashbulbs exploding in their faces. Artemisia sprawls on the couch in the main train car, one leg up on the windowsill and one arm behind her head. She's pulled a knife out of nowhere and flips it between her fingers; across the aisle Jasper does the same, fanning out a thin collection of blades between his knuckles and making them disappear.

"Showoff," Artemisia calls over at him, slipping her knife between her index and middle fingers and flipping him off with the blade. "You know more knives won't make up for having a tiny dick."

"Bigger than yours," Jasper shoots back.

Artemisia shows her teeth. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Jasper flings a knife at her, but Callista swoops into the room right as he lets it fly, plucking the weapon out of the air and tucking it into her elaborate updo. Artemisia grins at Callista and tips an invisible hat at her, and Lyme fights down a stab of jealousy before striding into the room, Brutus on her heels.

Artemisia flicks a glance at Lyme and grins, swinging her foot over the edge of the couch. "Hey, it's my mentor," she says, voice tinged with mocking and more than a dash of insubordination, but that's all right. Lyme flat-out scowled at Nero for almost the entire train ride. "How'd I look out there?"

This is it. Lyme swallows her nerves and tries not to feel the years separating her fledgling experience from Callista's. "Like you didn't give a shit," she says. "Not bad for the Reaping, but if you're going to keep people's attention you've got to give them a reason to care. Acting like you could just as easily stay home and eat ice cream out of the carton isn't going to impress anyone."

They taught her how to strike the proper balance between authority and heavy-handedness, but Lyme still holds her breath until Artemisia lets out a scoffing sort of laugh and drops back against the cushions. "Good thing I have two experienced mentors to help me out, lucky me," she says, and Brutus clicks his tongue.

"That's right," Lyme says mildly, refusing to take the bait. Not long ago she was a cocky tribute looking to get a rise out of her mentor, too, recent enough to remember the urge but not so close that Lyme can't tell exactly what Artemisia is doing. "But there's a wrinkle this year and it's going to change the way you play."

Artemisia frowns -- Jasper shoves his knives into a pocket and sits forward, elbows on his knees -- and Lyme turns to Callista. This will be better off coming from the senior mentor, and Ronan is off talking with Philomena in another compartment.

Callista doesn't bother with preamble; she turns on the television and spools up the Reaping footage, fast-forwarding through the districts until they hit Six. The main square is dark and murky, the pale sun filtering weakly through yellow smog; behind the Justice Building, tall smokestacks spew out clouds of smoke from the factories. The Six stop on Lyme's Victory Tour gave her a low, hacking cough that sat in her chest for weeks afterward, the falling snow grey and filthy before it touched the ground.

"Nice vacation spot," Artemisia says, leaning back and pulling one leg up to her chest, lacing her fingers over her knee. Brutus gives her a dagger glare, and the girl responds with a wide, shit-eating smile.

"We're not watching this for the scenery," Callista says, and Artemisia sinks down in her seat like she's just been scolded by a favourite teacher. "Pay attention."

Lyme saw it on the portable player earlier, but it's something else in high definition on a four-foot screen. The girl they call to the stage is unremarkable, bones poking out at all angles underneath her morphling-yellowed skin, and Artemisia shifts in her seat and pulls a face. "Wait," Lyme says, and the girl tilts her head, expression sharpening. Lyme feels a flash of pride; Artemisia might act like she doesn't give a shit, but she wouldn't be on this train if that were true.

And then, the boys.

The escort calls a seventeen-year-old who stiffens and curls his fists, expression resolving almost instantly into a determined glare. He hasn't bothered to clean up for the Reaping, scrubbing off the factory grit like so many of his fellow citizens, either because it's too expensive to waste the water or it's the only kind of rebellion an outlier has. Regardless, the cameras love him already; tall and dark with bright blue eyes, a strong jaw and high cheekbones that will look even more handsome with an artistic layer of Arena grime.

Jasper's eyes narrow, and Artemisia snorts and wrinkles her nose. "That's it?" she scoffs, waving a hand. "So he's pretty. Not all outliers look like they fell off the back of a truck."

"Wait," Lyme says again, drawing out the word, and this time Artemisia drops both legs over the side of the couch and sits up to watch.

The boys stand aside, leaving a wide, empty swath down the centre of the square. The boy stalks forward, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and he's halfway there when a pretty, blue-eyed girl bursts out of the crowd and runs after him -- or tries. The swell of her stomach against the fabric of her dress keeps her from making it more than a few steps, and the boy heads back to her. A pair of Peacekeepers starts to step in, but the escort onstage coos and tells them to give the adorable couple a moment.

It's an exception right out of the gate -- this is what the Justice Building visits are for -- but it's also not hard to see why they allow it; in ratings terms it's pure gold. The boy cradles his girl's face in his hands, speaking to her in a low, urgent tone, and he wipes her tears with his thumbs and kisses her forehead. He places one hand over her stomach and crouches down to whisper a few words, then finally the Peacekeepers gesture and he tears himself away, walking up to the stage with his head held high.

Onstage he ignores the attempts to banter and stares straight ahead, and he doesn't have the training to locate the cameras but they swoop to find him so his gaze jabs the viewers like a spear.

Callista pauses the feed on his face. "I don't think I need to show you the commentary track," she says in a deceptively placid tone that reminds Lyme of the flash of sunlight on a blade before it descends. "I've been going over the unofficial channels, and all the coverage is going to Six thus far. Two has received barely a mention. The official broadcast this evening will be nonpartisan, of course, but as for everything else -- this is the narrative we have to beat, people. Sauntering around like you're too good for the competition isn't going to cut it."

Artemisia growls. "This is bullshit!" she bursts out, and Brutus' eyebrows draw together but Lyme knows a few things about picking her battles, and she lets it slide. "We train our whole lives for this! Meanwhile some jackass is too stupid to use a condom and now he gets all the airtime? That's not fucking fair!"

"It's not fair, but it's happened," Lyme says, and Artemisia whirls and sticks her with a furious glare. "There's no point trying to argue. People love romance and they love babies. We just have to give them something better."

"It's almost too bad he can't win, because it would be hilarious," Jasper says, and Lyme raises an eyebrow while Artemisia makes a scornful sound that sounds like it was dredged up from her toes. "No, seriously, think about it! He'd be all Arena-crazy, right? First time the baby woke him up crying he'd probably strangle it before he opened his eyes, and his girlfriend too. Best headline ever. If it can't be me I totally hope that happens."

"You're a sick fuck, you know that," Artemisia says, eyeballing him as though she can't decide on being impressed or disturbed.

Brutus' face twists into a grimace, and he turns his back as he pretends to examine the beverage cart, likely staring at all the booze he'd love to pour down his throat right now but can't. Lyme lets out a hard breath, horrified despite thinking she'd heard everything, but Callista merely takes a smooth step over to her tribute and cuffs him hard in the head.

"That's enough," Callista says, and she's still speaking calmly but her voice sharpens. Jasper shuts his mouth without a protest. "If the children have finished their tantrums and playtime and don't require a diaper change, I'd like to actually get to work."

Artemisia settles, and even Jasper subsides with little more than a wrinkled nose and exaggerated flop into his seat. Callista has never saved a tribute but her authority fills the car anyhow, and maybe one day Lyme will be able to come close to that.

"Good," the older woman says, nodding. "Shall we?"

Artemisia and Jasper return from the parade flushed and laughing, jostling each other and talking smack as they occasionally stop to send twin terrifying stare-downs at the outlying tributes. "How did it go?" Lyme asked, even though she watched it herself from the sidelines, eyes glued to the screens showing Artemisia's face with its savage, brilliant grin. This year their stylist dressed them as a pair of mountain hawks, complete with wings, feathered helmets, and bronze and white face paint.

"Asshole here called dibs on every single tribute," Artemisia says, rolling her eyes and shoving Jasper into the Five chariot. "Apparently he gets everyone and we all are just gonna sit back and enjoy the show. Boy, you're not half pretty enough for that."

"That's just because you haven't seen me with my makeup on," Jasper retorts, and he mimes a stab at her stomach and swipes invisible blood across his cheekbones. Artemisia snorts and strangles him with her imaginary intestine, and Lyme swallows the sour taste in her mouth.

"Enough," Lyme says, because Callista can't be the one to break up the shenanigans all the time. "Let's get upstairs."

"You're just jealous because you could never pull off this stunning ensemble," Artemisia says, lifting her arms and letting the feathered cape fall across her shoulders.

Lyme takes a page from Brutus' book and doesn't react, not even to roll her eyes. "That's definitely it," she says, and Artemisia snickers. "Upstairs, we've got debriefing to do."

They pass the Sixes on their way to the elevator, and this year they're dressed from neck to ankles in shining silver like the finish on the expensive Capitol automobiles. It could either be bodysuits or just poured straight on them, and Six Boy's blue eyes stand out in his freshly-washed face with grim determination as he helps his wobbling, jaundiced district partner down from the chariot. Artemisia's attention flickers over to them, and she bares her teeth in a snarl.

"Save it for the Arena," Lyme warns her, and Artemisia backs down, tossing her hair over her shoulder with studied unconcern. Six doesn't even look up, and Lyme puts him out of her mind.

"If we take the back way, we'll accidentally run into a group of reporters who will be happy to see a pair of champions," Callista drawls, and Lyme jerks her head around to look at her because she didn't know that, and she's pretty sure unscheduled interviews are against the rules. Nobody told her about this in mentor training. "Accidentally," Callista repeats, and both their tributes exchange sharp-toothed smiles.

"Officially, no," Brutus says under his breath when Lyme steps in close to ask. "You'll find out a lot of stuff that ain't official, I'm sorry I didn't think about this one before. You'll catch on quick."

Lyme doesn't have time to answer, because Callista pushes open the side door and steps out into an explosion of flashbulbs. "Now really," Callista says, her voice a picture-perfect mix of surprise and amusement. "Vultures, look at you, waiting at private entrances for tributes who are tired after a long journey. Though I suppose if you've been this patient, we could spare a minute, but I'd better see a nice writeup tomorrow..."

Jasper and Artemisia sweep forward to the front, and Lyme lifts up a silent prayer that she'll be able to keep her head above water.

"Don't engage with Six," Lyme tells Artemisia at breakfast the next morning. "The more you make him your rival, the more free publicity you're giving him. Stick with the Pack today, try to hit all the combat stations."

"I know that," Artemisia says idly, peeling a banana in long, languid strokes. "He's not worth my time, I wasn't Reaped yesterday." She chuckles at her own joke, glancing around the table to see if anyone got it.

Her Centre file noted a fair bit of approval-seeking buried underneath the aggressive nonchalance, and Lyme takes a risk. "Well played," she says, letting her mouth twitch up at one corner instead of glaring or rolling her eyes, and Artemisia keeps her gaze down at her plate but she straightens her spine, just a little. "Good, if we're both on the same page that saves time. Do the rounds, but be noncommittal, don't go all out on anything. Just enough to keep them interested and give the outliers nightmares."

Artemisia looks up at her for the first time that morning and tilts her head to one side. "You want me to scare the meat?"

"Oh yes," Lyme says, and her girl's face lights up. "If you make one of them wet themselves, you can have any fruit you want for dessert tonight."

"You're on," Artemisia says, and bites her banana in half.

(It's the boy from Three. Artemisia chooses a pomegranate, and by the time she's finished her lips and fingers are stained a rich, dark red. She smiles at Lyme with crimson-smeared teeth and Lyme digs the handle of her knife into her thigh under cover of the table.)

The third night, Lyme pulls Artemisia aside after dinner. "Let's go out to the balcony," she says, cocking her head toward the door.

Artemisia and Jasper exchange looks that slide into identical knowing, nasty grins. "Looks like it's getting serious," Jasper says, and he bounces up from the table, fingers twitching with restless energy. "Callista, can I have private strategy too?"

Lyme doesn't stay behind to hear them negotiate, since they'll be having the inverse of the conversation she's gearing up for right now. She steps outside into the evening air, artificially modified inside the force field into a perfect lack of temperature that's startlingly jarring just by its sheer, pleasant engineered neutrality. Artemisia follows her, hands in her pockets, and she's all but strolling except her eyes are alert and the line of her shoulders hunched.

"Don't worry about Jasper," Artemisia says when the door closes behind them, and Lyme actually blinks. In response, the girl tilts her head to the side and studies Lyme with narrowed eyes, flicking her gaze up and down. "He plays with his food, but he'd do me clean because I'm his district partner and he's willing to make an exception. So it's not like he'd torture me."

Lyme wears the mask like she was born to do it, even though inside her chest squeezes that they've talked about this. District partners don't bring it up, they're not supposed to; never forget they're opponents, sure, but always maintain the veneer of alliance until the moment it breaks. "He won't, no, because you're going to win," she says, letting her voice go hard, brooking no dissent.

Artemisia's eyebrows creep up. "So confident."

Lyme doesn't play. She folds her arms, leans back against the balcony wall and returns a raised-eyebrows look herself, tilting her chin down and using every inch of her height advantage. "Aren't you?"

After a second, Artemisia lets out a grudging bark of a laugh. "Okay, okay. So how should I kill him, then?"

The last time Lyme talked strategy in the nights before the Arena, she listened to her mentor as he told her his, even if she challenged him and asked him to explain instead of following orders like a good little Brutus. She's spent the past year learning tricks and tactics from the mentor box, but she's only ever played them out in scenarios with her instructors. This time there's a life on the line, but for the first time since joining the Program, it isn't hers.

Lyme counts off her breaths in her head to try to shove away the jitters. "You don't. You're good at manipulating people; work the Pack so that when it breaks, someone else takes him out in the split, but don't let the audience know it was you."

She doesn't say 'try', doesn't say 'if you can', because while her mind screams with all the ifs, scrabbles at her with the need for alternatives because what if the Pack aligns differently, what if the Gamemakers engineer the split themselves, what if what if what if, she can't bring that with her. Artemisia needs her mentor's confidence; needs to forget that the most terrifying part of the Arena isn't what you can control, it's what you can't. Artemisia doesn't look like the type to overthink, but kids have broken against the grain before.

Artemisia frowns. "Really?" she asks, but there's as much curiosity as there is challenge in her voice. She starts to bring her hands out of her pockets before shoving them back in, and ha. "How come?"

Lyme's mouth sours, but she fights the urge to swallow; Artemisia will see her throat move and right now she needs to be the mountains. "Because you kill your district partner or you kill the dark horse outlier with the touching story, but not both. You split the Pack, then you kill Six, then you kill whoever takes out Jasper. Make yourself the villain who redeems herself, not the monster they're rooting for someone else to kill."

This time it's Artemisia's turn to blink, though she covers it a second later with a smirk that doesn't quite stay solid. "Villain, huh?"

"Your number one opponent is a boy who keeps trying to show the trainers pictures of his pretty, pregnant girl back home," Lyme says dryly, and Artemisia's eyes flash with instinctive hatred. "Of course you're going to be the villain, that's what they want to see. They'll be cheering you on for every tribute you kill because it'll be that much more satisfying when Six finally kills you."

Artemisia bristles, yanking her hands free to curl them into fists. "The hell he will!"

"The hell he will," Lyme echoes firmly, and Artemisia lets out a short breath. "Because you're going to off him before the Final Four, give yourself enough time to turn it around. They love him now but they'll forget soon enough. If you can avenge your district partner by offing whoever killed him, so much the better."

"Huh." Artemisia rocks back on her heels. "And I've gotta do Six fast, I'm guessing."

"You do," Lyme acknowledges. "There's no way to come back from torturing a kid who's a father, the audience will scream until the Gamemakers drop a rock on you. But you don't have to make it clean."

Again she's rewarded by a startled blink, then a thoughtful stare. "Okay, I'll bite."

Lyme presses her tongue against the backs of her teeth to stop herself from wetting her lips or gnawing the inside of her cheek or any other tell that would betray her. "Clean kills are for allies, twelve-year-olds, and opponents you respect. You show respect to his girl back home by making it quick so she doesn't have to watch him suffer, but you don't respect him. He's the idiot who got a girl pregnant when they weren't safe yet, he's the one who's responsible for this situation. He's not the hero, he's a stupid kid who couldn't keep it in his pants and is hoping nobody remembers that without the Arena his precious wife and baby would've lived in poverty for the rest of their lives." She catches herself then, the rage building and flaring up into a roaring fire inside her, turning her words into red-hot weapons ready to sink through flesh. Lyme yanks herself back before she disappears into it. "Fast, but messy. That's your goal. No speeches, no grandstanding, just do it. They'll get the message."

A long pause, then Artemisia grins, slow and creeping like the spread of fresh blood across the floor. "Oh mentor, I think I like you."

Lyme actually laughs, using the burst of sound to chase away the last of the demons clawing at her skull. "Good. I chose you because --" I saw myself, because everyone else had given up on you, because you'd given up on yourself, because I know you're more than this -- "I knew you could do this, and you're going to prove me right."

Artemisia straightens and snaps off a picture-perfect salute, eyes bright with teasing but not -- quite -- mocking, not anymore. "Yes sir."

"Good," Lyme says, and her arms ache to pull this girl close and tell her it's all right, that she has someone who believes in her and sees not just Arena potential but the lifetime after it. Instead she lets a hand fall to Artemisia's shoulder, clapping hard and giving her a shake. "I'll see you in the morning."

Lyme walks past her, through the balcony door and into the Games complex, and doesn't look back to see whether Artemisia is watching.

Artemisia holds the record for swordsmanship as far back as the Centre has ever recorded; Brutus and Lyme both topped their years, but prime vs. prime with no extenuating circumstances, just a good, pure duel, Artemisia could take them both out without trying. When it's time for her private session, Lyme tells her to showcase that.

"Nothing else?" Artemisia asks, and she's trying for casual but the gleam in her eyes is immediate and impossible to hide. "For fifteen minutes? The trainers always told us to diversify."

Lyme raises both her eyebrows and stares her down. "Are you telling me you can't make swords interesting for fifteen minutes?" she asks. "Because I'm pretty sure the girl I chose to win can do just that."

Artemisia flips a grape into the air with her thumb and catches it between her teeth. "Done and done," she says, and gives Lyme an appreciative glance.

She scores an eleven. Jasper, who thirty seconds ago was happy enough with his ten, turns to her with a dark scowl. "What did you do?" he demands.

Artemisia just shrugs and leans back against the couch cushions. "I showed them what I'm good at," she says, and she catches Lyme's eye and shutters one eyelid closed in the briefest of winks. Callista takes her boy down to the training room to blow off steam, and Lyme gives Artemisia a thumbs up.

The boy from Six nets himself an eight, and Artemisia makes a face. "He probably showed them a list of baby names and asked them to help him pick one, or something stupid like that," she says dismissively. "Or maybe he picked up heavy things and put them down, I hear that's all the rage in the factories."

"Hey," Lyme says sharply. "You know what you're not going to do, walk in there underestimating everyone and assuming they're all just going to lie down and die for you. Okay? He scored an eight, and you don't get those by telling stories about your girl back home. He's skilled enough they think he has a chance, so don't get so cocky some brain-dead morph-head takes you out."

Artemisia slinks down until she's all but swallowed by the couch cushions. "Fine," she says mulishly, but Lyme is her mentor, not her friend, not yet. "You're no fun."

"You got the highest score of the year and you're just going to whine about it?" Lyme challenges, and Artemisia's eyes flash but she sits back up. "That's what I thought. Take the night off, get your head settled. Interviews are tomorrow and we're going to lose at least two hours to Remake."

Artemisia salutes, albeit sarcastically, and saunters away into her room. Lyme shoots Brutus a dagger glare. "Don't."

"Didn't say nothin'," he says diplomatically, and Lyme whips a couch cushion at his head anyway.

Two years ago, the space between the interviews and falling asleep on that final night drove Lyme out of her room to talk with Nero. He'd made her hot chocolate and told her he believed in her, and Lyme might have spent the first months of her recovery alternately clinging to him and wishing he'd fall off a cliff but that night his words had struck a chord.

She's not -- expecting anything like that with Artemesia, exactly. It's just that the last night is when any doubts the tributes might have will surface. It's not just her, it was right there in the training manual, and the mentors are supposed to be prepared to assuage their kids' doubts and put their minds at ease, set them back on the path to Victory. If it happens Lyme will be ready, that's all.

Lyme settles herself on the sofa in the common area with a stack of sponsor paperwork in her lap, going over the agreements and the promises and the maybe-laters. Many of them are in the 'call me once she's killed five' camp, which is annoying, but if any tributes are likely to miss the Career benchmark of seven, it's not going to be her girl. Lyme goes over the files until the numbers swim in her head, but Artemisia doesn't leave her bedroom. She's nodding off and about to give it up and go to bed when the door cracks open and Artemisia pads out, barefoot and yawning in her Capitol pyjamas.

"I'm just getting a drink of water, if that's okay with you," Artemisia says from behind her hand, and Lyme nods. She's scrubbed off her makeup and has her hair pulled back in a braid, and she yawns again as the water gurgles into a tall glass, blinking sleepily. She looks young, her trademark crazed grin replaced by the normal bemusement at being awake at weird hours, and it hits Lyme right in the chest.

"How you doing?" Lyme risks when Artemisia wanders back, rubbing at her eyes with one hand.

"Fine," Artemisia says. "Not having a crisis of conscience or anything, so you don't have to pretend to bond with me so I get my head on straight." Lyme's mouth thins but she says nothing. "See you in the morning."

Lyme waits another half an hour just to be sure, then she gathers up her work and heads to bed, a hollow dread settling in the pit of her stomach. There are a million and one reasons she wants Artemisia to win, but floating to the top at this moment is that if she doesn't, the image of Artemisia yawning in her oversized t-shirt and sleep pants, looking like an ordinary teenager instead of a killer, will stick behind Lyme's eyelids for the rest of her life.

What did Nero see when he looked at her that last night two years ago? Lyme chases the thought away and pulls the pillow over her head.