Azure Sorrenhill watched his relentless interviewer in the mirror. She paced the room behind him, creating a repetitive rhythm on the tiled floor with her high-heeled boots. As he stifled a yawn behind a trembling hand, his mother fired questions at him like bullets.

“What do you think about the reaping, Azure?”

She barked each command like a training sergeant. Azure knew that his mother was capable of caring words – she spoke to her tributes as if they were delicate pieces of porcelain – but they were rarely spoken in a green room. 

“The reaping is an important duty,” he recited, the practiced wording dripping from his tongue with ease. “We need to attend the celebration to support Panem. Our tributes will get to compete for the greatest honour that Panem can offer.”

Azure flinched as his stylist pulled his hair too tightly. It was his own fault – he had tilted his head whilst talking, which his mother was constantly telling him not to do. Penelope still murmured an apology as she weaved the glistening  tinsel into his curled hair. When she turned to select another strand, Azure shook his head gently and watched as his reflection’s hair sparkled in the bright, overhead lights. It would be captivating on stage.

“Good answer,” praised his mother. She stopped pacing and turned to look directly at him. Azure watched through the mirror as her eyes raked over his hunched figure. He corrected his posture as she asked, “now, what do you think of the song?”

His face caught the light as well as his hair. Azure blinked away the reflecting lights that filled his vision. Penelope had studded tiny, sparkling gemstones around his eyes and whilst the strong glue was burning his skin, the effect was pretty enough that he did not care. The tears from his watering eyes simply looked like more diamonds.

“The song, Azure,” stated his mother.

Azure was dragged back into the interview by the harsh tone. He was not meant to be asked about the song. It was not in the list of topics his mother had scripted for him the day before. Wide-eyed, Azure began to stammer across an unrehearsed reply.

“The song,” he began, remembering that repetition would buy him time to think. “Well, it’s…it’s a lot of fun and I…well, it’s about the Games, isn’t it? And they’re a lot of fun too, and it’s all about…it’s about…”

His mother sighed heavily. Whilst she rarely voiced her disappointment, she made it obvious to anyone in the room. Azure hung his head as the practice interview collapsed. The burning blush on his cheeks fought through the thick powder on his face. The tapping of her heels echoed across the silence as she turned her attention from son to stylist.

“The tinsel is taking the focus away from his face,” she announced, nodding as she spoke so  her reflection agreed with her. She ran her fingers through her son’s hair without asking for permission and winced as her elaborate nails caught on the brittle ends. “You should have applied a conditioning treatment too. It looks absolutely lifeless right now.”

Penelope listened dutifully. “I understand that Brianha,” she replied, with gritted teeth forced into a bright smile. “You know that we can’t use the conditioning treatment if we want the hair to hold a curl. The blue dye is responsible for making it look a little lifeless today.”

Azure looked at his reflection through his mother’s eyes. He agreed. His hair looked as lifeless as he felt, and the glittering gems emphasised the deep shadows that had taken up residence beneath his eyes. It was painfully early – or entertainingly late, if you enjoyed a party – but he was familiar with schedule never conforming to the usual expectations of time. It was not an excuse to look careless.

His mother moved her hand from his hair to his chin, lifting his head up with an extended finger. He complied.

“The tinsel,” she began, but Penelope silenced her with a forced laugh.

“I’ve styled Azzie enough to know what we’re doing,” she interrupted brightly, “and you need to be on your way, or you’ll be late.”

“I don’t want him anywhere near that stage unless he is ready. That includes the rehearsal – every appearance is an impression, after all. And speaking of being ready…”

As his mother moved her hand away, Azure let his face fall. The tedious tapping of toe on tile returned; she walked over to the large pile of luggage strewn across a plastic chair in the corner of the room. They never travelled light. Their avox, Orion, was often left in charge like one of District Ten’s pack mules.

It took a minute for his mother to find what she was looking for. She returned with a hardbacked book. “Hold this,” she ordered, as she forced it into Azure’s hands.

He glanced at the cover, partly to see what he was being given and partly to avoid his face in the mirror. It was a typical, attention-grabbing window into the plot that lay across the pages: a young couple surrounded by the city’s silhouette, looking to each other as if nothing else mattered. The title was written in bright white lettering across the top, in a font which was almost as large as the author’s name.

“What’s it called?” asked Azure, turning the book over to stare at the mass of lettering that sat on the back.

“Victor of my Heart,” replied his mother. She accompanied the answer with a chuckle. “Feste Fadius churned it out.  I doubt it’s the peak of literature, but he offered you a copy and he’ll pay well if you’re photographed with it.”

Azure held the book in his lap, deciding that he would not put it down.

His mother turned back to Penelope and glared at the tinsel still tangled in her hands. “This is the biggest stage that he has ever performed on,” she warned with a dangerous growl in her voice.

“And he will look beautiful for it,” reassured Penelope. She did not meet the woman’s heavily painted eyes, but her grin excused her from most social infractions. “You need to be ready before District Four finish picking their tributes.”

Azure knew that his mother often saw time as a suggestion but even she carried herself to the tight schedule of the reaping. Casting one final concerned eye across her son, she turned and beat a rhythm out to the corridor.

For a second, Penelope allowed her smile to fall as she took a deep, steadying breath. It returned brighter than it had been before. She leaned across Azure to continue weaving the tinsel into his hair and he sighed deeply, comforted by her lavender scent. It was tainted with something acidic – Azure decided it was probably coffee, knowing his stylist’s fondness for anything caffeinated. 

“We’re all allowed to be tense on a big, big day such as this,” she announced.

It was a comment made for Azure’s benefit, and he matched it with his own forced smile. The gemstones cut into the delicate skin of his eyes. 

“I think you’re doing a wonderful job,” he replied, in the famous, sickly-sweet tone that he practiced. His stylist knew him too well to fall for it. She chuckled as she pretended to brush the compliment away.

“It’s your big day, not mine,” she scolded. “I can hardly believe it. Azzie Sorrenhill, face of the Hunger Games themselves!”

Azure felt the uncomfortable electricity jolt as Penelope began to touch his hair again. He did not like the feeling. He never said no. “I’m not really the face of it. The tributes are more important than me.”

“Those creatures aren’t really important. You’re all anyone is going to be talking about, anyway. What did your mother say when they finally asked you to do it?”

Ignoring the colour which had already been painted there, Azure began to gnaw at the skin on his lip. “She was very excited,” he began but even with all his training, he could not sound convincing. Azure bailed from the statement and landed in the truth. “She complained to anyone who’d listen. She wanted them to hire me last year.”

“When you were twelve?”

Azure nodded. He tried to find the glistening light in his hair again, but the tinsel fell flat. “She argued I was the perfect age for the Games, but they said I wouldn’t have looked vicious enough.”

“Well, I’ve seen the advertisements, and you look perfect,” reassured Penelope, with a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. Azure did not mind that took. “You’ll look the same today once we’re done with you.”

The familiar fluttering in his stomach returned. Azure did not want to remind anyone of the advertisement campaign that had been plastered across the city. The paint they had used on his face had burned a red rash across his cheek until long into the next week. The sword they had wanted him to hold had been too heavy for him to lift. The photoshoot’s accompaniment had been his mother’s harsh tone, arguing that a twelve-year-old tribute was better than a thirteen-year-old one.

Penelope lost herself in the myriad of coloured bottles that she carried with her in a lilac bag. She chose one that sprayed a rose-scented liquid, used to set make-up and hair in place with an unmovable mist. The process of turning a boy into an idol was long but it was practiced. She artistically arranged a strand of hair to fall across Azure’s face, giving him something to hide behind.

“What are we thinking?” she asked.

Azure liked bright lights and sparkling things. The shimmer in his hair would catch everyone’s attention on the stage. It added something different to his endless parade of childlike curls framing his face.

“No tinsel,” he decided, with a firm shake of his head. “My mother said I’d look better without it.”

Penelope tilted her head in confusion. “You sure?” she said, offering a change of mind. “It matches your eyes, you know. And I know how much you love-“

“I’m sure, Penelope,” snapped Azure. “I know what I want.”

“Alright then - we’ll be done when I’m finished.” Still managing to smile, Penelope collected her scissors and began to cut the strands of silver from his hair. Her eye caught something they had both missed. “Wait – not quite.”

Azure looked at his reflection. Was his lip tint smudged? Had his eyes watered so much that they had dislodged the gemstones? Was his outfit not fitting correctly? When he truly looked at himself, he saw many concerns but none that could be addressed quickly by his stylist.

“Your visus,” warned Penelope, pointing to the blue strap that adorned his wrist.

“Oh,” mumbled Azure. He often forgot to take the device from his wrist before going on stage. Penelope – or his mother, if he was unlucky – showered him with reminders. He deftly undid the silicone strap and placed his visus on the shelf beneath the mirror. Azure paused and then reached out to turn it so that the screen faced the wall. He detested the idea of the camera watching him without him knowing.

“We should take a picture for Pageant,” reminded Penelope. Briefly, she checked her own visus with a tap of her wrist. “Your followers always like to see your outfit.”

Azure considered her instruction and then shook his head. He did not mind disagreeing with Penelope. She never scolded him for it. “Later,” he promised, as a compromise.

“Alright.” Penelope ruffled his hair, which no longer shone. “We’ll do it later.”

***

Azure clutched his book – cover facing outward – like a comfort blanket. The space beside the stage was a busied hive of activity; black-clad stagehands rushed around pushing props whilst journalists snuck forbidden photographs on their visus cameras. They mainly ignored Azure in favour of trying to capture Goldie Flickerman’s dress.

Gently, Orion nudged Azure’s hand so that he did not cover the title of the book. The servant often served as eyes and ears when there was no one left to supervise.

“Thank you,” muttered Azure, keeping his voice low so that no one would realise he had thanked an avox. Orion replied with a nod.

In the midst of the whirlwind, a familiar voice rang above the hustle. “Azzie!” it cried, and Azure was swept into a tight hug before he recognised the comforting face. Immediately, he fell into ease at the embrace. Orion stepped aside and averted his eyes.

Goldie Flickerman – Mistress of Ceremonies, and host of the Hunger Games – kept Azure’s shoulders in her hands as she pulled away. Her face was glowing from the sheen of sweat that had settled in the hot stage lights, and she still wore a comfortable, loose-fitting dress rather than her hosting gown. As always, her hair was still bright and soft. It smelled of strawberries. The perfume rubbed off on Azure as he left the hug, and he felt the familiar protest from his skin where it touched.

“I’ve heard that your mother is prepping you for an interview,” she said with a wry smile. “There probably won’t be time. The reaping is scheduled down to the second, you see, but if there’s a gap then I’ll only ask who you’re rooting for.”

“I’m rooting for the Capitol, of course,” replied Azure, almost truthful. “I think this could finally be our year.”

“Good boy.” Goldie planted a soft kiss on the top of Azure’s hair – her usual greeting. “You’re getting so much better at this. They’re going to love you.”

Whilst Azure did not agree, he accepted the compliment. His mentor was the one person who had helped him navigate his new confusing world rather than just expecting him to understand it. Rather than shout at him for tripping and stammering through half-finished answers in dreaded interviews, Goldie fed him lines and opportunities like she did for the tributes. She made him shine in a stumbling darkness. Her approval meant more than anything his mother might say.

She draped an arm across Azure’s trembling shoulders, steadying him. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

Distantly, Azure was aware of the shutter sound of a visus camera – a journalist finding something to talk about. The picture would be on Pageant before the reaping finished. Azure straightened his back and found his smile again. Hopefully, the fake expression would begin to ease the uncertainty that was brewing in the pit of his stomach.

“No,” he answered. “I’ve performed at the stadium before, and the audience isn’t too big. It’ll just be like filming Project Capitol again.”

“I’m not talking about the performance.” Goldie lowered her voice, keeping it hidden from listening journalists and opportunistic stagehands. “Are you nervous about the reaping, Azure?”

Whilst the country’s judgemental eyes were cast across their mandatory programming, his opening performance would be the first thing they saw. Azure’s focus lay there. The annual choosing of tributes was hardly an event. At best, it was an excuse to throw a party. The crowds would gather as they were instructed to, the chosen tributes would be celebrated in the short time before the arena, and then their names would be forgotten as the inevitable happened. It was only criminals or outer-circle children who were pulled from the ball. They did not matter.

“I don’t have any entries,” answered Azure, honestly.

“Are you sure?” asked Goldie. 

Azure did not have a single criminal conviction. He did not have any debt. He had a loyal family. There was not a single ball with his name in the reaping machine. He nodded.

Goldie smiled. It was not her stage smile, which was practiced and impersonal. Her vibrant eyes created a friendly half-moon shape as she pulled Azure closer. “I expected nothing less,” she murmured, “but may the odds be in your favour anyway, Azzie.”

She stepped back and observed Azure as if meeting him for the first time. He lowered his shoulders and lowered his hand, just in case it had crept back up the cover of the book.

“That’s a strange choice of reading material,” commented Goldie, raising an eyebrow as she caught the picture on the cover. When she held out her hand, Azure handed over the book immediately.

“Feste Fadius-“ he began, in explanation.

“I should have known. He’s been paying anyone with an ounce of influence to carry this sordid thing around. I don’t think he’s even read what was written for him. I don’t think your mother did either, if she’s given it to you.”

Azure glanced across and tried to make out the description on the back, but the letters all merged together into one indecipherable mess. “Why?” he asked. “What’s it about?”

“The Games, naturally. I believe a young escort falls in love with her tribute. They have a rapid affair and then her heart is broken when her lover is killed by a brutish boy from Eleven. She realises that her pain is a punishment for forgetting that district people are savages, so she falls right into the arms of a sensible, Capitol-born stylist and they live happily ever after. It’s absolutely inappropriate rubbish, Azzie, and whoever wrote it used the word darling far too much.”

Goldie waved Orion out of the shadows, handing the forbidden book to the avox. “Keep this far away from Azure, and please make sure that he’s never photographed with it,” she ordered. “I’ll send a message to Briahna and let her know that she should probably be looking into the items she would like her son to promote.”

Obedient, Orion nodded as he tucked the book into the fold of his red robe and retreated from the conversation.

“You are worth more than whatever that clown was willing to pay,” reassured Goldie, patting Azure delicately on his back. “Now, are you warmed up properly?”

***

With a hand to his ear, Azure tried to listen to the voice crackling through his personalised, blue earpiece. It was difficult over the roaring that filled his head.

He could see the red-haired man wearing a microphone and holding a portable screen, monitoring the rehearsal from the stand. “Azure,” he said. “Could you hear the backing track there? You were rather pitchy, I’m afraid.”

The disappointment hung across the empty stadium like a stifling fog. The doors needed to be opened to the large crowd outside; there was no time for a second, redeeming attempt.

“Yes,” admitted Azure, hating the sound of his own voice in his ear. “I could hear it.”

“I see. Your timing was off, too. You were a whole beat behind your backing performers. Well, last rehearsals and all that!”

The old superstition was of little comfort in the stadium. Azure knew that his mother would not allow a bad rehearsal, whether it was said to bring luck or not. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, but no one was listening anymore.

Azure edged from the bright lighting to the darkness of backstage. Goldie was not waiting to reassure him. Orion had also disappeared, likely to hide the book that he had been given to hold. The journalists had been forced out by tetchy stagehands. When no one stopped him, he continued walking.

With the show on the horizon, the corridors were a hive of activity. People were too busy to pay any attention to Azure. He kept his head down and shuffled past them, ignoring the tightening in his chest as he trod along wearing carpets and navigating torn paper and paint. He found a corridor that peeled away to a bright green door adorned with a flashing light.

He threw the force of his body against the metal bar of the fire escape, hoping that it did not send an alarm blaring through the busy building. It did not. The door opened into a shaded alley beside a busy main avenue. The crowd flowed across the pavement like a roaring river, too preoccupied to notice the boy watching them from the dark.

Azure tried to fill his chest with the cool, outside air. It was thick with burning fuel and sickly plants, like the lilies his mother kept on their dining room table. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps. As his head spun, he leaned against the cool brick.

The shaded alley allowed a moment of respite where he could fall into obscurity. Azure’s name had been on everyone’s lips since his appearance on Project Capitol, a grinning eleven-year-old amongst forty-nine other people trying to be famous. The audience still recognised him. As they walked past, the crowd pointed up to a sign that glowed through the morning’s haze. Azure could see it from where it stood, as if it was the sun on a foggy day.

Attending the reaping is duty, it screamed, but winning the Games is honour.

His own face sat alongside the slogan. At least, Azure believed it was meant to be his face. It did not look like his reflection in the mirror, but it never did after he was granted a celebrity’s exception from the city’s ban on manipulated images. 

Azure remembered taking the photograph. His cheeks were smeared with mud in artistic streaks, making him look as barbaric as any common district boy. The cream had crusted under the hot lighting and needed to be reapplied every few minutes, despite the fact it burned his skin. The sword that he had been given to hold had been too heavy for him to swing – an assistant had stood, hidden from the camera, and lifted the point of the blade so that Azure could hold it against his own cheek. He was meant to look like a skilled tribute. On the sign, it almost looked convincing.

“I’m so glad they finally saw your potential,” announced an unwelcome voice. Azure turned. His mother was leaning against the wall with him. She dragged an unwelcome hand across his shoulder and pulled him further into the shadow. “They should have had you model for it as soon as you turned twelve. I don’t understand why they decided you looked too young. A tribute is supposed to look young.”

Azure obeyed the pull on his shoulder. His mother turned him to look at her. She nodded in approval at the lack of tinsel in his bouncing hair and licked her thumb to wipe away a smudge of imperfection in his eyeliner. With a final inspection, she tucked the stray curl from his face behind his ear.

“You’re a better role model than any of those recent victors,” she continued. “It wouldn’t do for someone from the districts to be advertising the Games. Did you hear what they said about you at the end of that photoshoot? They called you an absolute gem of Panem.”

“I know,” replied Azure, quietly. “I was there.”

His mother ignored him. “They said that your endorsement would even have people taking out tesserae if they could! I imagine they’ll keep you on until you’re eighteen. They might take you to train as an escort, then. Or you could be a stylist, like me! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You have such an eye for it.”

With a firm hand on her son’s back, Azure’s mother steered him from the street and back into the stifling corridors. The arriving crowd was already audible through the thick walls. Azure’s heart began to beat with wings like a butterfly in the Capitol’s zoological park.

She dragged him by the wrist when he began to show reluctance. He was taken back to his styling room where she sat him down on a chair and ordered him to stay with a harsh stare.
Azure had his own rebellion. When his mother turned away, he slid onto the floor where he leaned against the legs of the hard seat. He busied himself by untying and retying the laces on his shoes. Slowly, the room filled with his mother’s empty chatter.

“We’ll have to re-do each and every look we designed, of course,” she explained. Azure allowed her voice to fade into an annoying accompaniment to the tense atmosphere. She continued, “but I don’t mind when we have something so special. Twins, Azure! And they’re beautiful looking things too, all muscular and tanned like the tributes from District Four always are. Maia is going to take the boy, and I’ll have the girl. We want them to match in absolutely everything that they wear.”

Azure tried not to listen, twirling the rough, white shoelace around his finger. His mother demanded his attention. She always spoke about her tributes as if some district children could be an exception. She made them shine. She trained them to be civil. One day, she would have a victor.

From the floor, Azure could see their avox sat behind the open door. Orion was stifling a smile at the silly rebellion, nodding to Azure’s new seat on the greying tiles. An avox was not allowed to smile, or laugh, or do anything that was not bowing their head in exception. Azure did not mind Orion taking liberties, and they were taken freely.

When Orion’s hand lowered from his face, it went to the fold of his robe behind his back. Azure could see the bright cover of the forbidden book. Orion, as an avox, was forbidden to read. Azure, as a performer, had never learned. They shared a silent bargain where Azure swiftly passed on any book he was given to the servant, allowing Orion to devour stories without being caught buying his own. This gifted book was another secret transaction.

Azure waited until his mother turned her back to continue talking to her own reflection. He edged closer to the avox boy and held out a hand. Orion swiftly nudged the book across the tile.

“I think it’s really showing a different side to you,” said Azure’s mother. 

Azure pushed the book beneath the chair behind him. He returned his hands to his laces, tying them into his signature shape of a star.

When he did not respond, she turned to her son with impatience. “Don’t you, Azure?”

He waited. His mother waited with him. The interview continued. Biting his tongue, Azure constructed a lie. “I was thinking about the note I missed earlier,” he replied. “What did you say?”

The story of his disastrous rehearsal was spreading. His mother’s face pinched at the memory. If she was not even bothering to criticise him, it was worse than Azure thought it had been.

“The song,” she repeated, stretching out each vowel as if performing a vocal warm-up. “I’ve heard they’ve even recorded a piano version to play over the saddest moments. I’m glad they gave it to you. It’s different to anything you’ve ever sung before, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Azure, as expected.

He did not smile about it like his mother did. The tune was easy enough to practice and perform, but Azure detested each lyric. The inspirational speech about giving everything for victory was very different to his usual bubble-gum pieces about first crushes and unrequited love. It was not entirely different – the opening theme to Project Capitol had been eerily similar, and each boy had performed that as a solo so that the audience could pick their favourite – but it was the theme song for the 95th Annual Hunger Games. It would be played at the opening ceremony, at the beginning of every evening broadcast, and at the victor’s interview. It meant something. Azure was not familiar with meaning something.

At the obvious reluctance, his mother shook her head. “After this performance, you are going to be known over Panem,” she stressed. “It won’t just be the Capitol screaming for you anymore. You will have the entire country in the palm of your hand, and you know what President Dux said.”

President Dux had said many different things, and each were dangled over him like a treat to a dog whenever Azure showed signs of wanting to stop. She had approached him as soon as he had been eliminated from Project Capitol. He was not allowed to forget it, no matter how tired he grew of distracting other people from their own lives.

***

The roar of the gathered crowd was deafening as Azure waited backstage. Penelope hovered with him, armed with a cannister of lavender spray that could tame any rebellious curls. He was beginning to live in a perpetual cloud of cosmetics.

Beside him, there was a young woman who looked more on edge than he felt. Her face was grey beneath a cosmetic mask, matching the silver hair that was pulled from her face by a bedazzled headpiece. It was tradition for the valedictorian of the Capitol’s Media Academy to serve as the escort for the city’s tribute, but it meant stepping onto the country’s largest stage with very little notice. Azure did not envy her.

The backstage screen showed the live broadcast, allowing the gathered crowd of stagehands to see that the show was running smoothly. It was nearly the Capitol’s turn; District Thirteen’s solemn gathering had already begun, and a uniform-clad girl waited beside their escort. There seemed to be confusion with their male name.

Azure rarely cared about the other reapings. He publicly celebrated the Capitol’s tributes and privately chose his own favourite to root for. Inevitably, he would perform at the celebrations for the victor. The spectacle let someone else take the city’s attention for a month and gave him space to breath. Azure looked forward to the end of his performance when he could fade into obscurity for a brief time. He just needed to get through the song.

District Thirteen’s reaping was brought to an end by a boy covered in blood. Azure watched the boy – dressed in orange, like a prisoner – struggle to climb up their staircase. Each district was the same: they could not even hold a civil celebration without demonstrating their backward natures.

The camera changed. Feste Fadius commentated alone until Goldie Flickerman could join him in the studio. She left the stage with a beaming smile. It softened to a welcoming nod when she saw Azure.

“There’s no time for an interview, Azzie,” she murmured, pulling him into a hug for good luck. “Break a leg!”

Goldie murmured similar words of encouragement to the new escort too. Azure was stepping onto the stage before he could decipher them. He tried to ignore the overly loud cheers of a very expectant audience and the tight feeling it brought back to his chest. He could not fail them.