Spectating a Spectacle [Onyx]

The gob of phlegm that leaves my lips with a muffled tuh noise looks like a yellow pearl as it smoothly arcs through the air before landing with a splatter on the cafeteria floor. Three benches across, a delicate black-haired boy looks at me with revulsion. I lean forwards and growl at him, baring my teeth and running my hands through my hair so it stands up wildly. He faces the front again without another word. On all sides, I am surrounded by fearful murmurs and the small, hot bodies from which they timidly emerge. Words drift pass me but I pay little attention to them - the gist is always the same: how brave and strong from the youngest aspirational Careers, my strategy would be better from the older, cockier ones. The kids like me - although I consider myself even more extreme than them - simply think rather them than me.

I have never cared for the Games, or the unnecessary violence that they promote. When I set out to injure someone (which is rare, as I always prefer the tactics of confusion and frustration to all-out pain) it's only ever because they deserve it, or in self-defence. Of course, I can understand the investment of those with close ties to the Games (it strikes me as interesting that not a single Fray has turned up for school today), but the young only-children, or those naive few who have never encountered death of any kind, who still sit at the front with their eyes wide and wild and their mouths open in a grin have always disgusted me. Have a little self-respect. As if to prove my point, I turn to face the teacher closes to me and raise my voice. "This is fucking BORING. Aren't you gonna let us do a little learning today?" Although I don't recognise her, it's clear that she knows that "kids like me" thrive on retaliation, so she tightens her lips and turns away. I laugh, loudly, and am pleased when I see her cheeks flush in helplessness.

Perhaps it's wrong of me to prey on the weak - but after all, it's their fault for being so easy to antagonise. I am an instrument of chaos, though not with such intense delusions to think that means anything more than the fact that I'm bigger and tougher than most of my schoolmates. Many have tried to get me to open up - to admit the "damaged past" that turned me into the sour and sarcastic person I am today. Undoubtedly, the past is there - but if I were to let anyone ever reach it, they'd have to go through a whole Pandora's Box of pain and wrath first. All I'm doing by pushing them away is letting them know what's to come if they resist it. It's a mercy. Right?

As if on queue, the sweet smell of perfume announces the presence of new company in the seat next to me. I don't turn my head towards her, but I raise my eyebrows inquisitively, inviting her to speak. When she does, it's with a sickeningly tiny voice. "Who do you have your money on this year?" I laugh, and turn towards her now, my face menacing but engaged. "I don't bet. Betting's for chumps who never learnt how to steal." I allow myself to look my counterpart up and down, appreciating the way her clothes sit flatteringly on her light frame slowly, and my mouth pulls into a leering smirk. "You, on the other hand, don't look like the sort to place a bet, princess," (although she looks like she'd have the money to) "which makes me wonder why you're even asking." Impulsively, I roll my head from side to side, luxuriating in the cracks that ripple up my spine and into my neck. When I open my eyes again, slowly, I see that the stranger is still looking at me intently. My smile drops and I look at her darkly, conspiratorially. "If you are as bored as I am, though," my voice is low and playful, "let's have a little fun."

Glancing up over her shoulder, I see the teacher I harrassed earlier once again glaring at me. The intensity leaves my face in an instant and I lean back causally in my chair, pretending like the conversation I had just been having was no more interesting than the weather outside. With one denim sleeve, I roughly wipe my nose and sniff deeply. Who gets a cold in the middle of the fucking summer, anyway? Cupping my hands around my mouth, I amplify a loud "BOO!" of rejection towards the screen. Fuck the Games, and fuck the teachers, too. If this new girl, who I turn back to with a flash of a smile as I wait for her response, is up for a little fun, perhaps I won't have to stay in this school for much longer.

When I see our least favourite teacher returning this way, flanked this time by two surly-looking white-cased neanderthals, I roll my eyes so hard I momentarily think they're going to disappear into my head. Beside me, my new companion curses under her breath, but I'm too exasperated by being tattled on to laugh, as I usually would. Instead, I let out a long groan of frustration and run my hands through my hair again, allowing my body to slump forwards until my head is between my knees. Often, childish resistance works better on these types of societal scum than any sort of sense or reason.

Looking down at the ground between my widely set knees, I think about what my father (though he's more of a landlord since remarrying his possessive bitch of a second wife) would do if I behaved like this in the house. Two cigarette burns to the forearm, perhaps. A slap across the face for good measure. I always keep myself as composed as possible while I'm in their presence, though the storm continues to turn and tumble inside me. It's not because I care about their opinions - rather that I do have some understanding that my current life could get worse than it already is. Looking at the girl who sits next to me, I can already see it could be a lot better than I have it, yet my parents have the ability to throw me out completely. Although I usually spend my weekends sleeping in a Detention Centre as it is, I'd have to start balancing my crimes much better if I wanted to make that a permanent residence. And where's the fun in that?

The thought of all the fun I have sends a smile rippling across my face like slow lightning, and as I sit doubled over, my hands slip silently into my boots. I hear my companion introduce herself to the armed lawmen, and the tense fear in her voice is enough to tell me that her eyes are firmly on their batons, not on their faces. Certainly, she has probably never been in a situation like this before. Let's hope she's good with surprises. Gigi Wildrop, it's a pretty name, though not particularly interesting. I never expected to recognise it, anyway - we clearly exist in very different circles. While her and their attention is on each other, my hands retreat from my boots clutching two small items, still unnoticed. Good. When I am sure I have them both hidden safely in my palms, the one closest to Gigi cool and rectangular, the one I now rest casually on the windowsill dry and thin, I sit back up sharply, and make dulcet eye contact with the Peacekeepers who loom over us.

"Officers," my voice is full of fake admiration, "how may we be of assistance this wonderful day?" I turn to the window briefly and look out at the weather, careful as I gesture with my hand not to reveal the secret I hold to my enemies, or my ally. While I am still looking away, a voice I probably recognise floats to me from inside one of those white helmets. "Why is it always you, Trivitt?" I turn back, feigning shock and hurt, and out of the corner of my eye I think I start to see regret in Gigi's face. Bet you wish you chose a different girl to try and befriend now, princess. "Moi?" The Capitolite jargon that my stepmother uses has always make me laugh sourly, but in this context it conveys exactly the right level on insolence that I want to. "But what did I do, officer? Besides, aren't we on first name terms by now?"

I know I'm walking a dangerous line but, as usual, I can't help myself. Talking, however, is the least of my worries compared to the game I'm about to start playing with the silver treasure that I keep hidden. While our discourse extends steadily but futilely, only conjuring sour looks from the Careers in front of us who just want to enjoy the scenes of chaos developing in the projection, my hand edges slowly towards Gigi's open bag. Thankfully, neither she, nor the Peacekeepers, nor that slippery-mouthed teacher notice. With a soft but heavy tumble, it lands inside the bag. I distract her from the fact that she might have noticed it by sleazily placing my now empty hand around her shoulders, before continuing to speak. "I was just having a conversation with my friend here, perhaps you know her, too? Not because she's a criminal, of course," I laugh deeply but never look away from the Peacekeepers, "but because her parents certainly pay your salary. Or your bribes."

On this last, the Peacekeeper I'm addressing tightens his hand around his baton. I think I hear Gigi gasp. Both responses make me grin genuinely. Casually, I try and imagine what this girl's face might look like if my trick goes wrong for her. Her face split nearly in half by the swinging end of a black baton. Blood running from so many wounds she looks more like a colander than a human being. It's hard to picture, but not impossible. Not worth thinking about until the game is up, either way. Besides, the first act hasn't even started yet. Instead, I think about the silver lighter now sitting happily amongst Gigi's make up and books, the perfect planted piece of evidence that will make this adventure a double-act rather than a solo piece. I think about the flash paper, laced with gunpowder, that practically hums with its potential for destruction in my other hand - the hand that now hovers unseen by the base of the curtains. The stage is set, and the lights are about to come up.

I snap my fingers, and suddenly the wall is engulfed in flames.