Title: The Girl with the Ax
Author: animatedbrowneyes
Section: (1/5)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.
Decided to do a crossover, like everyone's been doing. I hope it satisfies. I dedicate it to my friends: spacedsensation, slyhart, ridakulous, teadalek, and littleoldrabbit, for listening to my babbling about this for four long months. Enjoy!
A woodpecker digs a new cavity in a tree just outside my window as the sun rises into the sky, startling me from my drowsy stupor. I blink, rubbing away the fatigue in my eyes with the heel of my hand. I stifle a yawn and shuffle to my dresser just as I hear my mother ambling down the hallway to wake me up. She always does it out of habit, even though she knows I never sleep a wink during the night prior to Reaping Day.
"Quinnie," my mother greets as she peers inside my room, brow creased with worry.
Reaping Day always makes her age a little more every year. She looks haggard and pale, tendrils of blonde hair loose around her head and dark circles underneath her eyes―she must've spent the night wide awake, unable to get any rest. I know I must look similar.
"I'll be downstairs in a second," I tell her quietly. She nods, like always, and disappears.
Fortunately, I have only two more slim opportunities to be reaped―signing up for tesserae has not been an issue for me, so my name is just entered in the standard, cumulative fashion―while my older sister, Charlotte, is safe at twenty two. Charlotte's children are only two and three right now, so she has some time to relax before she becomes a spitting image of our mother, Judy, and our grandmother before her.
Eventually, I choose a simple dress, deciding that red will be a suitable option. In a moment of vanity, I grab a headband from my wardrobe, unsurprised at the smile that lifts my lips as I study my reflection in the mirror. I may look younger than my sixteen years, but that's not the reason for the smile. I look a lot like my...friend from school, Rachel Berry, and the image alone makes my smile widen.
I lift a hand to my lips, fingers tracing the edges. They still burn as excitement stirs in my veins at the memory of a stolen kiss.
Was that just last night? It seems so long ago.
I want another one, but somehow, I doubt it'll happen again soon.
I shake my head, clearing the rush of puzzling thoughts, and skip down to the kitchen.
Mom passes me a bowl of oatmeal as soon as I sit down, and Dad sneaks glances at me over his newspaper, but I pretend not to notice. Charlotte and John―her husband―sit opposite me, their sons still sleeping upstairs. They're watching me, too, but I studiously ignore everyone. I feel a sudden breath of hot air near my feet and look down, finding my old dog, Daphne, staring up at me with woeful eyes, like she knows what the possibility of this day holds. She climbs up into my lap, lowering her chin to rest on the table. I pet her ears consolingly.
Breakfast goes slowly. I like dawdling. Nothing happens until two o'clock, anyway.
Mom reorganizes the dishes in the cabinet, acting like she isn't counting down the hours as she keeps her back to me.
Dad rereads his newspaper twice, occasionally shifting in his seat, chair creaking noisily.
Charlotte and John speak in low voices as he brushes his hand along hers, almost absentmindedly.
The clock ticks on, and when it's nearing ten, I sigh and Daphne clambers dutifully to the floor.
"I'll be outside," I say softly. Dad nods before anyone can argue, and I hasten out of the door.
I hate Reaping Days. I hate making everyone nervous. I hate the way my mother looks at me like she'll never see me again. It could happen, obviously, but it doesn't make the time of relief go faster. I hate how my father, a notorious chatterbox, suddenly becomes a mute. I hate how Charlotte looks torn between volunteering―forbidden, now, because of her age, thank goodness―and hugging me until I can't breathe. I hate John's lingering looks and his blank eyes, as if envisioning one of his boys climbing the stage with their name plucked from the glass ball. I hate the disturbing hush that falls on District 7 on this day, because if my district is quiet, there is something really wrong.
I loathe the Hunger Games and most of all, I loathe Capitol and its control over all of Panem. Sometimes I wish the rebels succeeded during the Dark Days and obliterated the regime we're currently stuck with. There would be no Games. There would be no favoritism for the wealthier districts, because everyone would be equal. There wouldn't be twenty-three kids being slaughtered once a year on television. There wouldn't be a glorified murderer―once an innocent child, but no more―accepting a crown from a nation expected to idolize them.
I shouldn't think of these things. Being angry over something very unchangeable is ridiculous and disappointing.
A twig snaps and I look up, mood lifting a bit.
"You look lovely," I quip.
Finn Hudson flourishes his hand to me in an elegant bow, goofy grin on his face. "Thanks."
He, like everyone else, is wearing his best and not his shabby school attire. A thin layer of sawdust has settled on his vest, though. That can't be helped. It's everywhere―in the air, on the ground, in our homes. I imagine it'll end up on my clothes at some point today.
Finn climbs over the small fence that separates our backyards and sits on the log beside me, knocking our knees together.
"Nice," he comments, surveying my outfit. "You look like an apple. You know how I love apples?"
"Shut up," I say with a chuckle. Finn never fails to get at least one genuine laugh out of me. He's the reigning class clown at school and makes even the most boring lectures amusing. Since we have been neighbors since birth, he's my best friend in the entire district.
Except Rachel. But that's separate story entirely.
Finn merely winks in response and we lapse into silence.
"I'm never used to this," he says after awhile, shooting me an empathetic glance. "The anticipation is...awful."
"Must be worse for the tesserae kids," I remark, and Finn nods.
"Puck's entered, like, fifty times," he murmurs, sounding sad. I nod, already well-aware of our friend's living situation.
"What about Hannah?"
"Three."
A terrible vision of Puck's little sister being thrown into the Games jumps into my head instantly and makes me nauseated.
"She won't get picked," I mumble half-reassuringly, half-uneasily. "The odds are against it."
Finn's shrug is troubled. "Don't count on that. Remember Hadrian Stone from ten years ago? He was thirteen and only entered twice."
I nod reluctantly.
"Anyone's up for grabs," he says, blunt but true. "Odds aren't in anyone's favor."
I walk inside around twelve and eat lunch (again, in near silence, but more oppressing this time) and flounce back to my seat in the backyard with Finn as soon as I finish. His mother waves to me from the window and I return it. Carole Hudson is a single mother, ever since her husband was killed in an accident at the sawmill. She's done well enough alone, on her own, earning wages as a seamstress and laundress, because it's a job that will never go under nor unwanted here. Finn delivers the parcels and gets a tip for it, usually, so he always has pocket money, like I do.
My father is a manager at the sawmill where Finn's father used to work and my mother works as a clerk in the mayor's office.
In other words, we don't really want for anything or have long, hungry months like people in other districts do. We're a lucky few.
Finn and I lay on our backs on the grass and point out clouds to pass the time, because as he's correct. The anticipation is the worst part.
He tries to make us both less nervous with jokes, and for the most part, it works. He's good at distracting things like that.
"Look...a tree."
"Finn, really?"
"What?" He laughs before I roll my eyes, shading them from the sunlight. "It's a maple. You love maple syrup."
"You're ridiculous," I grumble. Trees are all we learn about in school and he brings it up even when we're not there. Moron.
"Okay, okay, sorry..."
He pauses for too long and I don't have to look at him to know that a wicked grin is climbing on his boyish features.
"Quinn, look! It's a sycamore this time! Isn't that neat?"
"No."
By the time two o'clock rolls around, my anxiety is back on high and I find myself being shepherded into the square. I sign in and slip into the herd of sixteen year olds and see Santana Lopez saunter up to stand at my left, with Brittany Pierce at her heels. I briefly squeeze Santana's hand, aware that she despises Reaping Day more than I do. Her sister, Lucinda, was picked a number of years ago and came back to 7 in a box.
The parents and other adults are instructed to stand near the alleys and surround us, separated from their children by a thick rope.
Finn, Puck, and Rachel find us and my attention on the events is briefly diverted by Rachel's small smile in my direction.
She's dressed in a blue frock with her hair pulled back from her face. She looks cute, as usual. My eyes linger a little too long, sweeping over her until Rachel's blushing maroon. I must be, too, but I just send her a grin and turn around, hearing her scoff of disgruntlement.
Maybe we can spend some time together after the reaping. I wish I could speak with her now, but I should be patient.
However, patience has never been one of my fortes, especially if it's in Rachel's case.
Finn observes my expression and elbows me in the ribs, wordlessly telling me to look ahead because the Peacekeepers are watching us.
My cheer at seeing Rachel fades as soon as the mayor steps up to the stage, tapping the microphone with his finger.
Mayor Janus eyes the cameras positioned around the city and starts his customary address about Panem's past. Meanwhile, I let my gaze settle on our Capitol representative, Leo Milon. His signature smile is perfectly in place, along with his green suit flecked with gold spirals to match his styled mane of honey colored hair. Leo is the one who always picks the tributes from the glass ball, so I've never been particularly fond of him. He seems insincere and unconcerned, as if his drawings of names doesn't affect anyone's lives and it's just a bit of good fun.
Right. Helping in a barbaric system that annually kills kids must be a great time.
I frown, knowing it's a waste of time (and treason) to think about such things. I push my cynicism aside to focus on the presentation.
The mayor concludes with a nod and raises his hand at the dutiful applause, returns to his seat, and waves Leo over to speak.
The two victors―mentors, now―of our district sit next to the mayor, expressionless and silent. They don't look at the children, as if they can ignore their job until the last possible moment.
Leo's enthusiasm is horrid as he smiles at the crowd, oblivious to our distaste.
Sometimes I wonder if Leo, or any Capitol envoys, are aware of how much we abhor them. Probably not.
I catch Puck's eye for a second as he turns from the sun's glare. He makes a face at me and I grimace.
Leo chatters that it's time and claps excitedly―his sentence reverberates in my mind, over and over again, like some disconcerting recording―and meanders to the identical glass containers, hands laden with gaudy rings that sparkle in the sunlight.
The silence is heavy with unspoken terror as he reaches down into the bin with dozens of scraps of paper with the names of the girls.
Holding my breath doesn't quell the uncomfortable, uncertain feeling in my stomach.
Leo's hand is rifling through the slips. He plucks one and lifts it up to his eyes, microphone sparking a little with static.
He clears his throat, delicately, the sound echoing around the square, and reads the name aloud at the same moment bird squawks. My eyes fly to it at once, spotting the bright plumage before it vanishes behind a building. I crane my neck to look.
Someone suddenly pushes me forward, and I stumble over my shoes.
I look around in confusion. Who did he call? I must've missed it. Santana's staring at me from her spot in utter despair, pained gaze hardening like ice but then looking away from me, struggling to compose herself. Brittany's eyes, as blue as the sky, are brimming with tears. Finn and Rachel are gaping, sharing looks of anguish. Puck's tugging me by the wrist and pushing me to the stage, nudging my shoulders a bit forcefully.
The crowds shifts restlessly, thousands of eyes burning holes in my back, low, sympathetic murmurs reaching my ears.
The conclusion hits me like a slap and all I can do is swallow the huge lump in my throat and walk to the podium that seems miles away.
Why can't I walk properly?
My pace is robotic and jerky and I can see a flash of myself on the big screens hovering above, looking pale and flummoxed.
Leo's beaming and gestures in welcome for me to stand beside him as I blink and blink and blink, disoriented and dumbfounded. Me? Me? Surely not. There has to be a mistake. I'm only entered several times in the running―if anything, it's someone else, someone with more opportunities to be selected, someone more desperate and more accessible to be reaped than I. Not me. Not me. I can distinctly remember writing my name in accordance to my age. Four slips. Four slips with Quinn Fabray in my swooping handwriting and nothing else. Me? It can't be.
It can't, my mind screams. Not me. Not me. It's just an error! Leo must be kidding or playing some despicable joke.
Me?
Me?
I remain still, hands clasped together as my brain attempts to absorb the impossible and my heart pounds quickly on my ribs.
I am a tribute, like so many others before me.
I am a tribute.
I am entered in the Hunger Games so I can join in a fight to the death on live TV for our entire world to watch.
My teeth descend to gnaw on my lower lip, biting it hard to suppress the temptation to panic.
Rachel's staring right at me, but I don't meet her eyes. I can't.
My mouth tastes like metal and I lick my lips. Remain calm, I tell myself.
Leo's smile never falters as he trots to the globe filled to the brim with scrawly male scripts and I force a breath of air through my lungs.
I can't even see my family from my position, but I can sense their distress as if they were standing right next to me.
My mother's worst fear is confirmed. She must be in hysterics. I don't envy Dad at the moment.
"Finn Hudson," Leo announces suddenly, peering through the mass of bodies crammed into lines by age.
My worry and thoughts screech to a sharp stop and then immediately start up again, directionless, miserable, and aghast.
Finn? Finn? I try to comprehend this turn of events but there's no time. This is happening now.
No, no, no!
Finn and I will be tributes together in the arena. My best friend could be my enemy. You never really know until it matters.
I banish that belief without a second thought. Finn would never hurt me.
...right?
The odds must hate us. Two sixteen year olds and old friends, too? I don't know what to make of today's twist on my luck.
My eyes land on the solemn figure of my childhood companion―taller than most and muscular, with soft brown eyes and a normally animated face that's now dark and cold with despondency and a clear feeling of helplessness―ascending the stage, jaw tight and shoulders rigid.
Blood drains from my face as Leo's fervent applause provokes a minimal, half-hearted ovation that ends abruptly.
Finn and I manage to steal a horrified glance at each other, and follow Leo and our mentors to the Justice Building.
One hour. Finn and I―separately―are allowed a single hour to say our goodbyes. Whether they'll be permanent ones or temporary ones is up to the other tributes in the Games with us, but I refuse to think about that right now and sit quietly until my family shows up.
Predictably, my mother can't even talk without bursting into a new round of tears, so she just holds my hand.
Dad is throwing random strategies at me left and right, but I'll never use them. I'll have some real training soon to learn how to kill.
My heart plummets.
The mere thought of killing someone's son, daughter, brother, or sister has me about to be sick. Sure, I'd watched the Games since before I understood what they were and what they stand for―a punishment for surviving rebels, because what's worst than watching your children die in pain but also outliving them―yet the idea of taking someone's life seemed so far away, as if it was a nightmare I would never be plagued with. I wouldn't have dreamed that this could've happened to me. I am sixteen and a low entry individual without a need for tesserae. The chances of me being picked are so narrow, but here I sit, feeling my sister slide an arm across my shoulders and watching the clock tick down.
I know I must get a grip soon. A shot of me being sad or crying my eyes out means no sponsors and less of a stake for survival.
Charlotte's three year old bops my knee with his pudgy hand and examines my face with innocent curiosity, confused at my sorrow.
Someone could kill you one day. Someday, you might be in the Games. Your mother will tell you about her sister's death in the arena...
"Quinn," John speaks up, as Mom's making my hand lose close to losing all its circulation.
I look up and examine him. We don't really converse often, because he's not much of a talker, but he seems to be in deep thought.
"Don't give up on this yet," he says, grave. "You're better than that."
How did he manage to understand my thoughts so fast?
Mom opens her mouth to chime in a harried, wild agreement, but Dad shakes his head, letting John continue.
"District Seven isn't at a disadvantage," he says reasonably. "You know how to use an axe. You're not a Career, but not to be ignored."
"I know," I say. John smiles, but it's a sad one. He's wishing (so am I) that maybe we could've gotten to know each other better.
Charlotte tucks a strand of blonde hair―a shade lighter than her own―behind my ear, expression stern.
"Stay cool," my sister orders, easily the calmest one here. She's always been the level-headed type. I should learn that from her. "Going into there with the wrong mindset isn't helpful."
Charlotte's bid at serenity can't last. She knows my chances are sparse. They all do. That's why there are tears.
"Find allies, too," Dad urges, drawing me from my musings, gaze intent on my face. "Be alone only if you have to."
"Okay."
I struggle to find something say in return, something that'll appease them or soothe their nerves, but nothing comes to my mind. What would I say, anyway? Thanks for the time I've spent with them? Thanks for the roof over my head and the relatively easy life in District 7? Thanks for letting me have an allowance and have sweets and stay up late occasionally and have friends over whenever I please? Thanks for the love?
My throat hurts and my voice is missing.
This could be the very last time I'm in the presence of people who care about me. I could be dead in all but a week or two.
When there's five minutes left, there's a knock on the door and Rachel―my eyes widen―pokes her head in the door and coughs.
"Umm...may I speak to Quinn, please? Alone?"
Knowing that Rachel will use up the duration of this hour, my family plants kisses on my forehead and leaves in a silent, mournful line. I want to burst out something else, besides an I-love-you, because that doesn't seem to be enough, but I'm rooted to my seat and then, they're gone.
They're gone, they're gone, they're gone. And I didn't say a word of gratitude or affection to anyone.
I bit my lip again. Toughening up time has to be now. I can't crumble to pieces when I get upset anymore. Not if I want to live.
Rachel is watching my two nephews waddle down the hallway, but she shuts the door with a snap and turns back to me.
The intense look in her eyes brings me to last night, before I went home to feign sleep and start the countdown until morning.
"Careful, Quinn," Rachel insisted, ever the worrier. "That doesn't look safe."
She was walking me home―wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, so I relented―from dinner at her house as the sky was darkening quickly.
"It's fine," I laughed, arms extended as I balanced on a low wooden fence like a gymnast. "Relax."
She shook her head, failing to slow the smile that spreads across her face. I could always make her smile.
"Please get down?" She asked with one of her patented puppy-dog looks. "I don't want you to get hurt."
I grumbled something incomprehensible that earns me a giggle and I made a show of climbing down, landing in front of her.
"There," I said, acting disgruntled.
"Don't pout," she teased, taking a step toward me and slinking her arms around my neck in a tight hug.
I hugged back automatically, feeling her breath, warm against my collarbone.
"Nervous yet?" I wondered, watching lights across the street extinguish, the occupants of a house heading to bed.
"I get nervous about two weeks beforehand," Rachel replied quietly. "I get anxious, always at that mark."
Huh. I never notice the time passing between the next Games until the date is a day away on my calendar.
Rachel's grip tightened.
"I'm scared," she admitted, almost inaudibly. "What if it's you?"
I didn't answer. I wouldn't know what I would do if it is me. Or her. Rachel pulled back a bit, eyes bright.
"What if it's me?" She queried.
"I'd sponsor you," I answered, blanching in terror at the thought of her being Reaped. She was too fragile for it. Too small. Too innocent. Her in the arena would result in a scared little songstress, running from Careers and being hunted down within a day or two. "Santana, Brittany, Puck, Finn and I...we would all do it."
"That's not the point," she mumbled, disregarding my words. "What if it's me picked tomorrow and then I never see you again?"
My face burned. Rachel and I had only just acknowledged this...'extra' caring about each other sometime ago. Not like caring about Santana or Brittany or Finn or Puck because this was very...different. Deeper. More personal, more vexatious. Stronger, more invigorating. I couldn't remember where it actually started, to be honest. She couldn't either. I just assumed it grew and grew until it was simply impossible to ignore.
We hadn't done anything about it, so it had just stuck around with us, making our conversations shy and hesitant. I didn't mind.
That made tomorrow seem harder than it was. Forming attachments like this weren't advisable unless you were older than eighteen.
"I don't know," I murmured truthfully. I didn't. I would most likely bawl my eyes out, but I didn't say that aloud.
Deciphering my expression, Rachel exhaled gust of air, appearing to steady herself.
"Would you miss me?" She questioned so softly, I nearly missed it.
"Of course I would," I urged, harsher than I expected, but that didn't faze her. Instead, her lips curled up into a tremulous smile.
She stood up a little higher on tiptoe as I tried to guess what she was thinking, curled a hand behind my neck, and kissed me.
I let my eyes close as a fluttery feeling emanated from our connected lips. I kissed back, eagerly, until she stepped away.
"Just in case," she told me breathlessly, eyes shining, and planted a kiss on my cheek, the gentle pressure on my skin like a zap of electricity.
"We have to say goodbye," Rachel says, voice sounding more brisk than upset. She's probably hiding her tears until after I leave.
Good. I can't bear her grief on my shoulders. Not hers too. I must keep myself together.
"Yeah," I acquiesce numbly. "Right."
I don't move. I don't know what to do. Kiss her? Hug her? Ask if she'll never forget me? I won't be coming back to 7 alive.
I drift between hoping to come back for her and knowing I can't. I don't know which one is more plausible.
She's not moving from her spot either, but is unclasping a necklace from her throat, a gold R as the charm on the chain. I recognize it immediately. She's always had it, ever since we were little. Her father is the mayor's assistant and occasionally, they're invited to Capitol for business events. Her father picked up the trinket and gave it to her as a gift. She treasures it more than anything else she owns.
"Here," she says, letting the charm and chain flow like water into my palm. "Use this as a token."
A token? Oh! I forgot all about procuring one from my family. This is good. This will remind me of home. Too much, but I can manage.
"Thank you," I murmur, grateful. At least I have this to keep with me in the Games. She'll get it back when I come home in a coffin, at least.
I know I won't last long in the arena. I need to accept that fact sooner rather than later. Resigning to my own death is a difficult task.
Finn might make it, though. The thought comforts me. My best friend could return to his mother and friends, safe and sound.
Rachel strides over silently and retrieves the token, uncoiling the chain, fastening the catch around my neck, and straightening it out.
"There," she whispers, kneeling so she's in front of my seat on the couch, hand lifting to cup my chin.
She studies my eyes and I swallow a lump in my throat. These minutes are painful and hurt but I want them to last as long as possible.
I want a second kiss. I need one. Before I'm taken away from her and the option is revoked.
"I'll be waiting for you," Rachel informs me.
I avert my gaze, seizing the rush of longing and silly daydreams and pushing them from my mind. I won't be back. She must know this. I'm not that strong and I don't train from infancy like Career kids do. I don't have a shred of hope to hold on to, nothing tangible to believe in.
She's guessed my thoughts, though.
"Don't," she says, tone firm. Her words penetrate more than Charlotte's. Listening carefully, I watch her features in earnest.
"You, Quinn Fabray," she continues, hand reaching up to cradle my cheek and brush her thumb across the flesh, "are better than that. You're one of the smartest girls in District Seven and I don't go a day without hearing something witty from you. You've watched the Hunger Games just as long as the other tributes. You understand the basic strategies. You understand the danger."
"Do you really believe that?" I ask desperately. Rachel's insistence that I'll be okay is suddenly crucial. I need it and her kiss. Something.
"I do. And with me and our friends as sponsors, we'll get you to win. Or Finn. Either one."
"What about him? He's in this with me. Please tell me there's money for Finn, too," I beg. Rachel nods.
"Puck and Brittany will sponsor him. Santana and I will sponsor you. They're all telling him everything as we speak."
"That's too much," I argue, recalling my conversation with Finn just this morning. "Puck can't afford it."
"He disagrees. I really don't want to fight him on it," Rachel sighs. "Let us do this. Let us get one of you back."
I inhale a shuddering breath and nod, and nod again.
Rachel's eyes flit to the clock. One minute left. One minute left of safety and security. One minute left of Rachel and that's it, no more.
"Kiss me," I beseech in a whisper. "Please."
Her smile is beautiful. She nods.
The hand cupping my chin keeps me still as she draws closer and I shut my eyes, greedy and impatient for her.
Her kiss is like a shot of adrenaline and I relish the chance to have something so sweet, even if our minutes together are dwindling.
I savor everything that is Rachel Berry as much as I can in the time I have left with her. The softness of her touch. The desperate yet gentle force of her lips on mine. The taste of them, too―something candied and exquisite. The content but sad sigh that escapes her mouth as she pulls away, placing a kiss on my forehead, more intimate than the one on the cheek that I received yesterday. She lets her fingers graze my cheek.
"Don't give up, Quinn," she says, not unkindly. "Okay?"
"I won't," I promise, only half-believing it. "I swear."
A knock on the door ends our conversation and my heart sinks further into despair.
Rachel follows me and the three silent Peacekeepers that escort me to the Capitol-bound train. The station is only a short walk from the Justice Building, so the entire district lingers in the distance, watching me leave and shaking their heads. Camera crews are positioned on all sides, focusing on my trek to the station. As I walk, I compose myself with a deep, soothing breath. I can't look pathetic on television. I refuse to.
"Remember what I said!" Rachel cries as I'm climbing the platform and entering the train. The doors slide shut behind me with a hiss.
There's only enough time to turn around, fingers pressed against the glass, to look at the group huddled near the station. My parents. Charlotte. John and my nephews. Puck. Santana. Brittany. Carole. They're all waving frantically but I catch Rachel's eye and nod once.
She understands, finally brushing what looks like a tear from her eyes. Puck drapes an arm across her shoulders, gaze fixated on me.
The train pulls away, slowly at first, and I watch the worried crowd of those who love Finn and I vanish in a blur of color.
"We'll see them again," someone remarks. I jump and see him, watching me from a chair, mouth quirked up in his trademark smile.
"We?" I parrot. Finn shrugs, scratching his ear. He must be thinking what I am―ending this friendship here and now.
"One of us. Stay positive," he says, baffling me immensely. "If anyone in there will win this besides me, it's you."
What? Finn has just as much of a chance as I do and yet, he's almost implying that he doesn't care either way. I don't get it.
"That's what Rachel said," I manage. Shouldn't we be demolishing this camaraderie? This attachment means nothing anymore.
"Rachel's right," Finn allows, uneasy. He's still processing, but I can see the fear radiating from him. "Giving up isn't an option, okay?"
"Okay."
Leo needlessly reintroduces himself, showing his perfect teeth as he shakes our hands. My eyes keep drifting from his awful hair to his emerald suit with gold spirals and I can tell by the tilt of Finn's mouth that he's holding back laughter. Capitol fashion is so strange.
"Separate rooms," our representative informs us. "Be ready for dinner in an hour."
Leo trots―or prances, I can't really decide what applies to him more―down to the dining car, and Finn rolls his eyes.
"See you in a bit," he says and follows an attendant down the hall to get changed into something nice. Another Capitol worker crooks a finger at me and he brings me to my room, sweeping the door open with a flourish and then, once I'm settled, helpfully disappears.
I pivot on my heels and examine the elegant furnishing with wonder. My home is comfortable but this is luxury at its finest.
My animosity at our system boils up again so I shake my head to clear it and go to the wardrobe, staring unhappily at the row of skirts in every color imaginable, finely woven and a much higher quality than mine. All hanging and ready for me to wear and I just don't care.
I won't pick a new outfit, I decide, catching sight of myself in the full length mirror. I don't need it.
However, a red knit hat, way in the back of the dresser, catches my eye and I grab it, removing my headband and putting it on a table.
Rachel has one almost exactly like it and my heart warms considerably.
I smile without a grimace and place it over my ears, arranging my hair so it looks good, and then go into the bathroom to wash up.
The attendant retrieves me in silence after an hour has passed and leads the way to dinner. I realize I'm starving.
Leo and Finn are already the table, and Finn's shoveling everything on his plate into his mouth and flashes me a grin. I snort.
"Gross."
Finn says something incoherent and gulps down his food in one sickening slurp. "Really good," he gasps. Leo recoils.
I load my own plate and Leo initiates a stale and awkward, one-sided conversation that results in a story of how he got to work in this Games business. Finn and I pretend to listen and I avoid inhaling my food like Finn is, even though it's the best I've ever tasted.
Us following Leo into another compartment, this one lined with cushy couches, succeeds supper, and we make ourselves comfortable.
Leo turns on the tape of the reapings and leans forward in his seat, scrutinizing our counterparts, and starts with District 1.
A girl shorter than I with a self-satisfied smile and a lean, handsome boy with a matching smirk are selected, and the tape cuts to 2.
A new Career duo is picked and I urge my mind to remember their faces.
The tributes from 3, 4, 5, and 6 are called and then, it's us.
Finn and I watch ourselves and I cringe at the obvious discomfort on my face as I walk to the stage. Finn looks just as bad.
"Well," Leo says bracingly, scribbling something on a notepad in a voice dripping with forced cheer, "I can work with this."
"How?" Finn demands with uncharacteristic coldness.
Leo shrugs. "It'll come to me," he says dismissively, pressing a button to resume the tape. "Don't you worry about it, son."
Finn's face darkens immediately so I tap his wrist with my fingers, raising my eyebrows in warning. Instigating an argument with one of our keys to survival is inadvisable. We need Leo's good humor and Finn knows this. My touch reminds him and he frowns at the ceiling.
The last five districts are called and the program concludes with some announcer's blathering about the possibility of a great Games.
Leo shuts off the television and shoos us to our rooms, reminding us without fail that we have an important day tomorrow.
Finn and I leave together and stand in the hallway for a second, watching the darkness outside speeding past us.
"I don't know when I'll be able to do this again, so..." I trail off, and wrap my arms around him in a hug.
Finn's arms encircle my waist and he rests his chin on my head.
"Upside?" He prompts so I look up into his eyes. "We get to have the best food in the whole country while we're here."
"True," I admit, and he smiles.
"We've had it easy," he reasons as he releases me from his embrace. "I guess it's time for us to struggle."
"Until one of us wins," I remind him, grudgingly boarding this optimistic bandwagon for his sake and Rachel's.
"Exactly," Finn agrees. "I've been thinking..."
"Yeah?" I ask.
Finn hesitates, but gathers resolve and clears his throat. "I think we should be allies."
A similar idea has been swirling in my mind for the several hours we've been on this train. Most tributes tolerate each other's presence and train separately, barely acknowledging each other in favor of no compassion and no familiarity. They know they both must fight, so being comrades seems silly. However, returning to your district with your fellow tribute's blood on your hands is one of the most shameful things a competitor in the Games can do, at least to the majority of Panem. Predictably, Capitol adores those showdowns.
I deliberate for just a second longer and finally nod in agreement. Finn's my best friend. Of course I could never say no.
Besides, if the Careers are allies, why can't we be?
He smiles, relieved―so am I, now that I think about it―and I'm reminded of home and far away days, spending time with our friends.
He walks me to my room and I give him another hug before wishing him a good night.
I shut the door and find a seat on the king sized bed, trailing my fingers along the blankets.
For the first time today, I let myself calm down. I need to cherish these moments of silent tranquility because I won't get any more.
I get some sleepwear―long pants and a shirt―and flit to the bathroom and brush my teeth before flitting to the bed and snuggling in.
As I lay down and stare at the ceiling, I know I won't be able to sleep tonight. It's useless to try―I'm too nervous and muddled. I'm only just wrapping my head around that I will be fighting to live in an arena that I am clueless to the conditions of. I know the basics. Grab what you need at the Cornucopia and run for cover. It's ingrained in my instincts. Flee. Don't fight. Hide from Careers and wait until they track you down. Perhaps mercy will be given for you, if you're extraordinarily lucky. Other districts have stolen the crown, but Capitol's favorites have a higher probability to win. Sponsors love the aggressors and gladly assist them in uprooting the weak tributes.
Am I a weak one?
No.
I'm not starving at home. I've never been desperate. Maybe that's not a good thing. Maybe these tributes―the ones half-mad with a will to live―can outlast me in the Games. Poorer children than I must be preparing themselves to murder at this very moment, unlike me, who will most likely panic and make Finn kill them for me. Still...I'm not a Career and I'm not a scrounger. I'm something in between.
Appeased with this conclusion, I find a new object to stare at.
I'm stuck in someplace between sleeping and waking, dreaming but aware of my surroundings, and suddenly, I hear Leo's voice.
"Up and at 'em!" He chirps from behind the door, sounding like he's clapping. Again. "Time to wake up!"
I roll out of bed before his words make me recall Mom's greeting from yesterday―Mom! I blink wildly, until I realize where I am.
A train. A train to Capitol. For the Games.
I sort through the clothes available to me, pull on a white shirt and a pair of slacks, brush my hair and teeth, and wander to breakfast.
I hold a laugh inside as I find Finn cramming more food into his mouth and Leo's disgusted expression at the head of the table.
"You'll get sick if you eat too fast," I warn, amused. Finn says something incomprehensible with a throaty laugh and I snicker.
"Quinn is right," Leo interrupts, eyeing Finn disapprovingly over his grapefruit. "Did your mother raise you in a barn?"
I'm afraid Finn will explode with rage because it's happened before, but surprisingly, he shoots back something clever with ease.
"Did your mother raise you in a den?" Finn mocks, eyes running over Leo's mane and sharpened canine teeth that I only notice now.
Leo glares, as if he just realizes how ridiculous he looks with the combination of his name and hair, but he doesn't speak up so I intervene.
"All right, relax," I interject. "Finn, don't be a pig. Leo, don't...comment on it. He's a boy. They're gross."
The two males grumble and shoot each other glowers but listen to me, and after we finish eating, Leo waves in our mentors.
Julia Domna finds a seat across from me as Antony Octavio sits down across from Finn. Leo makes his exit, scribbling on his notepad. I examine them carefully, remembering their presence in 7 in town. They possess the same darting eyes and quiet strength stemming from their victories. They've learned grace and poise throughout the years and yet seem so...withdrawn. Introverted. Televised interviews show their charisma but now, in front of Finn and I, they don't really bother to hide the wear and tear from their experiences as tributes. Julia keeps her hands in her lap, face a picture of coolness but is undoubtedly wringing the tablecloth with her fingers. Antony sits straight and still, but his eyes constantly rove, searching for danger only he expects. It's comforting to know that the best and strongest of Panem get scared, too.
Regardless of their fragility, Antony and Julia are seasoned killers. They know how to survive. They understand. They're here to help.
"Don't join the Career pack," Antony says abruptly, voice laced with certainty, plucking an orange from the bowl of fruit and turning it over in his hands. "They like to lure others in but anyone not in One, Two, or Four gets picked off first when the separation comes."
"If Claudius Templesmith calls everyone to a feast, find a good hiding spot and then go look. Don't rush in blind," Julia instructs.
"Keep track of the dead tributes," the victors intone forcefully. Julia points a knife from the table at me, making sure I get it.
"Okay," Finn squeaks. Julia sets the knife down.
"What else?" I query.
"Finding water is top priority above everything else," Julia informs us. "Then it's making camp somewhere safe."
"Trees," Antony adds sternly. "Everyone from Seven knows how to climb. Don't be stupid and sleep on the ground."
Finn and I listen closely. Antony and Julia aren't reciting this for Capitol's benefit. They're pushing all this information because they want us to succeed and scrape a win. One of us, at least.
"Anything else?" I question.
"Later," Antony says, pushing in his chair and heading to the exit. "We're pulling into Capitol and you'll be off to meet your stylists."
He and Julia vanish as quickly as they came, without further ado. I sigh and step aside to let a Capitol attendant clean up the table.
Finn, meanwhile, rushes to the window to stare in awe at the grandest location in Panem.
I trail behind him and place my hands on the glass to see better, eyes widening at the shimmering structures. As much as I dislike it, I can freely admit that Capitol is breaktaking. Buildings stretch endlessly up into the clouds and seem to tilt and teeter back in forth in the wind. A hovercraft or two float above the streets jammed with shiny cars. Efficient systems that flick on traffic lights at precisely scheduled times and allow pedestrians to cross the streets. The city is so extravagant and dazzling, it's no wonder to me know where everyone's money goes.
"Check out that lady," Finn jeers, pointing. I lean over and follow his gaze, immediately wrinkling my nose.
"Ew. Orange skin? She looks like a carrot."
Finn laughs. "Or she spent too much time in the sun."
"That's Capitol for you," I comment wryly and Finn grins.
"I hope our prep teams aren't like that," he says with a shudder. "I'd freak out."
They're a lot worse. So much worse.
I'm assigned two men and a woman as soon as I enter the Remake Center, all cluttered with twirling fringes, jangling jewelry, skin dyed in colors so bright my eyes begin to strain, and all of them emblazoned with at least one tattoo (of what I can see). They cluck and chirp amongst themselves, continuously poking at me with tools (to wax or pluck or scrub) in order to beautify my body up to their standards. I don't question it, but bite my lip (until they squawk and tell me not to, because it'll look cataclysmically bad, I guess) and keep silent until they deem me finished and fully beautified. My skin feels a bit raw, like I've stepped into blizzard without an overcoat, but it'll fade soon.
The trio―Cesario, Metellus, and Thaisa―hand me a robe and I tug it on gratefully, pulling the sleeves past my wrists.
My stylist steps into the room as the prep team departs with cheery waves, and he offers a smile.
"Quinn, correct?"
"Yes," I answer, observing him as he is observing does the same, only with a pair of astonishing blue eyes. His hair, unlike the other, flashier Capitol citizens, isn't dyed an absurd color but is gelled and carefully arranged up, almost like Finn's, except it's more of a coppery shade.
"You can call me Lysander," he declares with a quick shake of my hand. "Now, let's go show you your costume."
Costumes, right. The ones that tributes get for the chariot parade through the City Circle. Tributes wear something akin to their district's principal industry, like a fishing getup for District 4 or something elaborate with yarn or thread for District 8. The country has not only a chance to admire or scorn an ensemble, but to see each tribute once again after the reapings, before the Games start.
District 7 hasn't been too bad in past years of ceremonies. We have a few more options than District 11 or 12.
Lysander leads me to an enormous closet and grabs a garment bag, instructing me to take off my robe. I acquiesce and close my eyes, allowing him to slide on something very formfitting and lead me to a chair. I'm glad to finally be able to sit down. I relish this chance to shut my eyes for awhile―I'm tired and a little cranky, and sleeping in peace won't happen again anytime soon―and let him go to work.
I don't know how long I've been dozing in my seat, head lolling, but Lysander's now tapping me on the shoulder, looking amused.
"You're all done," he tells me, beaming excitedly as I blink, knowing I shouldn't touch a face full of makeup. "Go ahead. Look."
I smile sheepishly and do as requested, and gasp in shock.
My blonde hair―something I'm proud of to a fault―has been dyed into a hue of electrifying orange that flows down my spine. Glitter dots my cheeks and my skin has the lightest tinge of green to it. My lips are painted in a vivacious red and as I take in the bizarre transformation of my appearance, Lysander guides me from my chair to the full length mirror to show it all. I stare at the layers of actual leaves wrapping and winding around my arms, legs, and chest, sewn intricately to the dark green dress I have on that ends at mid-thigh.
A word jumps into my brain. Brugmansia. Angel's Trumpet. It's plant we've studied before in school, and I resemble one perfectly with my hair mimicking the pendulous flower and my body the actual stalks that sprout from the ground. I recall a second key feature of Angel's Trumpet. It's poisonous. If ingested, it can be fatal. Lysander, behind this psychotically weird attire, has given me a distinct edge.
"Oh," I get out after a minute, because it's so disconcerting to see, much like Capitol itself. "I...wow."
He laughs goodnaturedly. "I'll take it."
"How did you―?"
"Long periods of research," he says with chuckle. "I never let my work be anything less than top notch."
"It's stunning," I agree.
Lysander beckons me out of the room and out to the elevators, where we meet up with Finn, and Viola, his stylist.
It takes all I have not to burst out laughing at the sight before me and Finn knows by the look on my face. He grinds his teeth as we step into the elevator and I get a chance to see his costume fully. Poor Finn. He's dressed in an array of leaves as well, but it's more meant to emphasize our district's lumber enterprise, but it didn't work out. Leaves are weaved around his legs and down to his ankles, looking more like an odd pair of trousers than a costume. A headdress of twigs sits on his head and I see a set of wooden pipes attached to his hip. Altogether, he must be some sort of woodland sprite. We don't want to hurt Viola's feelings, though, so we don't talk about it.
However, right after she and Lysander leave us in the stable of the Remake Center with the other tributes, he curses.
"I look so stupid," Finn growls.
"It's not that bad," I fib lamely.
He glares at me. "You got the smart stylist. Viola's nice but this is so ugly. Everyone's gonna laugh."
"You look better than District Nine," I cajole. Finn glances over, seeing one tribute stuck in something like a loaf of bread, and smirks.
"That's true."
An attendant motions us to our chariot and we climb on, curling our hands over the brim to keep ourselves steady.
The other tributes start a line in chronological order, and the double doors open, allowing the procession to begin.
We hear Capitol's crowds already screaming and cheering, the noise extremely intimidating to me. Will they like my outfit, or mock it?
Finn and I hitch on convincing smiles. We need to look charismatic. Basic protocol, really. Sponsors won't help the irritable people.
"Here we go," I mutter, as our chariot is pulling outside into view.
An endless round of flashbulbs greet us, flickering and clicking and blinking fast so much my eyes start to water. Cameras blow up our image onto a big screen, allowing everyone to see us. The music's loud, speakers are shivering in their spots, nearly deafening me. Back home, I know my family and friends will be glued to their televisions, or just one, if they're grouped together at one house, for morale.
Carole's probably invited to dinner with my parents. Mom would do something considerate like that.
I won't let my smile drop. Finn and I even start waving. Some Capitol citizens begin to call our names and I grin a bit wider.
The rush is tremendous. The feeling of being adored by everyone is overwhelming, actually. I feel like a hero.
Finn, surprisingly, gets more into it than I do―he's blowing kisses and winking devilishly at the shrieking girls. I refrain from making fun of him again, especially after a Capitol boy or two jumps up to catch a phantom kiss. Finn turns beet red and looks hurriedly away.
Our chariot brings us to slow stop in front of President Snow's mansion and I examine at the leader of Panem with curious eyes. He looks a lot shorter in person and less obscure. He finishes quickly and offers a polite wave to the cheering crowds. The horses drag us to our new home, the Training Center. Here we will have a few days to learn the required techniques of survival in the arena and get scores from the Gamemakers. Scores are marks of potential for all to see, to stir up betting and sponsors into picking favorite tributes.
We climb off the chariot and Lysander and Viola are there to meet us. Lysander instructs me how to correctly wash the makeup off.
"Will my hair go back to normal?" I ask worriedly, twirling a tangerine colored strand around my finger. He laughs.
"Yes, yes. It's only temporary."
Leo finds us and I thank Lysander for his work. Leo, Finn, and I traipse to the elevators, shooting up the floor marked with 7.
Once again, we're allowed to our rooms and ordered to return for dinner.
Gratefully, I go inside, but bypass the ornate sitting room and nearly run to the bathroom in my haste to jump into the shower. Pressing randomly at the plethora of buttons available to me, I manage to scrub off the green painted on my skin and the orange coloring from my hair, watching the dyes circle down the drain. I grab a towel and get out of the shower, rubbing steam off the mirror.
I look tired. Very tired. Creating the appearance of someone enjoying their stay in Capitol is hard. I don't want to be here.
Finn must feel the same. We're far away from home and it feels wrong to be so into this whole thing. Celebrations for our arrival only prelude our entrance into the arena. We're treated royally because it's only a short time before we fight to the death.
I don't want to get sad again so I throw something together and stroll to the dining room.
Julia, Antony, Leo, and Finn are already waiting for me, and as soon as I sit down, Julia and Antony begin to discuss our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Caesar will interview each tribute for exactly three minutes to give everyone a glimpse into their personality. Julia and Antony talk amongst themselves for a minute, shooting Finn and I speculative glances. Finn barely bats an eye but I want to know what I can do. How should I mold an identity that people will like? Finn says I'm friendly and sweet but I'm not sure that's true.
What can I, Quinn Fabray, do to be unique from the others?
Antony suggests that Finn go for the nice guy approach―a boy that just wants to win. Be honest, he says. Earn their respect.
Julia takes longer with me. She fires questions so fast, I don't have time to think. I just answer.
"Are you easily provoked?" Julia queries.
"No," I lie.
"She's chill. Quinn's like, the nicest person at school besides Brittany and Rachel," Finn adds inconsequentially, but Julia ignores it.
"You can be...competitive," she muses. "Combative. You want to win, don't you, Quinn?"
"Well, yeah," I say, raising my eyebrows. Is she testing me? Of course I want to win. I want to go home. Who doesn't?
"How much?" She asks.
"A lot," I reply, irritably. Finn's fork is frozen in the air, inches from his mouth as he watches us volley back and forth.
"Would you kill for it?"
Julia studies me closely while I refuse to blink. Antony is expressionless. Finn and Leo are silent. Lysander and Viola chew too loudly.
She knows the answer. She wants me to say it.
"Yes."
It's the truth. I can't escape the Games. I can't hide from other tributes because the Gamemakers will only draw me out. Yes, I would.
She nods, satisfied. I scowl.
"Right. You can be competitive. Be charming and challenging. Be mysterious―let everyone start wondering how you'll do it."
"Fine," I snap. Normally, I'm a mellow person, but my mentor is just rubbing me the wrong way and I'm stressed out enough already.
Julia only smiles at me.
"Save it for the arena," she remarks placidly. "I'm just doing my job."
I make sure to stab at my plate of chicken with particular force.
She just laughs.
"I don't like her," I sulk.
"Antony's a hardass," Finn grumbles.
We're sitting on a couch in Finn's room, nibbling on desserts. Technically we shouldn't be, because we'll need a good night's sleep for training tomorrow, but I didn't want to spend more hours just lying in the dark. Why not waste a few with somebody I actually like?
"They're trying to help but they can do it without getting on our nerves," I mutter.
"I don't think they like us at all," Finn amends between bites of some chocolate cake.
That statement draws me up short to a conclusion I should've known much earlier. We're just one of the many. Finn and I aren't new kids in this business. Not even close. We're one of the faceless horde of kids that Julia and Antony have to somehow train, year after year. They're doing their best but being a mentor to a cause that isn't completely guaranteed for success must be tiring and saddening.
What if they get too attached? Their protégées won't last long, anyway. Why bother? Their antagonism is only a rebuff for their sanity.
"I should head back," I say instead of voicing my thoughts, setting my plate on a table. "Leo will freak if he finds me in here."
"Okay. Big training tomorrow," Finn yawns. "'Night."
I return to my room and crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and think of home.
When Finn and I arrive in the dining room for breakfast in the morning, Antony questions if we'd like to be coached together or separately. I pick the former, because we've already come this far and I don't have something to hide from Finn. The meal is a bit subdued, and as soon as we're all finished, our mentors once again address us as Leo is muttering campaign strategies to himself.
"What can you do?" Antony queries.
Finn sidles a look at me. What can we do? Not much. He sings and I can too (not as well), with Rachel at school, but what else?
We can climb trees. Anyone strong enough in our district can, like Antony said before. Using an ax isn't that hard, either.
"Axes?" Finn guesses hopefully. "Scaling trees."
Julia and Antony instruct us to spend plenty of time at each training station, but more on ones we're unfamiliar with. Finn and I are soon zooming downstairs into the sub-basement Training Center, joining the assembly of tributes waiting around to be directed. Atala, the leader of the trainers, starts reading the rules. No sparring between tributes―it's strictly forbidden―and we'll break for lunch near noon.
I recognize some tributes from recaps. The extremely attractive pair from 1. A blonde boy from 5. Two teens that look related from 3.
I feel Finn's hand on my shoulder, breaking my gaze on the girl from 8. Maybe it's the bright smile, or the ambitious, confident air about her, but she reminds me so much of Rachel, it's uncanny. The similarities only grow. The cheerful gait. The self-satisfied expression. The voice.
"Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
Finn's eyes probe my face as I finally look away from the girl rushing to the knot station, eyebrows furrowing quizzically. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm...I'm okay," I respond, disconcerted and uneasy. "Let's, uh, let's go...do something."
Somebody that looks similar to Rachel will only mess up my game. Prolonged sentimental thoughts won't be of any assistance to me.
"Okay," Finn says finally in a placating tone, leaving it alone.
I avoid looking at the girl again as we meander to the camouflage station and find seats, looking up to the trainer for tips.
By the lunchtime hits, we've visited the camouflage, swordfighting, knots, and boxing stations, and I'm more than ready for this break. Green paint is still smeared on Finn's forehead and I have a big spot mud on my cheek, but being self-conscious here isn't an issue.
"You look gross," I comment bluntly, unsuccessfully hiding a grin. Finn rolls his eyes.
"We all do," he complains, chewing on an apple.
I examine the other tributes again. The Career districts are sitting together while everyone's mostly in silent pairs or alone.
This image makes me a bit sad. Shouldn't you have at least one friend before it's all gone?
Anyway, Gamemakers are eating lunch, too, since they appeared at eleven and simply observed from sidelines of the Training Center.
"Any idea what you'll do for your score?" I ask curiously.
"No," Finn replies, toying with his fork. "Maybe I can lift weights or something. Do you think singing for them is out?"
"That will give you a respectable four," I deadpan, and Finn frowns.
"What are you doing?"
"Throwing an ax around," I shrug. I've done it at home. It's not too difficult, but I need to perfect my aiming. It needs a ton of work.
My eyes drift past Finn as he is considering his plans to the girl from 8 across the cafeteria. She's sitting with her fellow tribute, and the boy is plucking at his own sleeve unhappily, as if displeased with the ensemble. The girl's high chuckles reach my ears and I flinch.
"Okay, what's your deal?" Finn demands.
"Nothing."
Finn glares.
"That girl from Eight," I mutter. "She looks just like―"
"Rachel. I know."
I look away.
"You can't keep making connections like that," Finn advises me quietly, uncharacteristically serious. "I get it, though. It's happening to me. That trainer at the knots station looked like Brittany for a second and I freaked out. But we need to like...concentrate on this."
Finn sighs when I'm silent.
"Stop thinking of home," he pleads. "It'll distract us from being a good team and makes everything a lot harder."
"As long as you stop shoveling food in your mouth like you're having your last meal," I grumble.
"It could be," Finn points out. I scowl.
Finn takes the hint and changes the subject.
Our next two days pass quickly. I achieve adeptness in making fires and wielding axes while Finn excels in spear-throwing and making shelters. Finn actually takes a liking to the edible insect station and I resolve to bring it up in front of Leo, just to see what happens. I find a preference for organizing snares and Finn becomes an expert in slingshots. All and all, the two of us will make a formidable duo.
Julia and Antony press us for our progress but I let Finn answer it all. I won't say something I regret when I need them for sponsors.
At last, the time for the scoring comes. I won't lie, I'm nervous. I don't want to disappoint anyone―especially myself―with a low score.
I don't eat much during the last lunch in the Training Center as they begin calling each district, one tribute after another.
When Finn's been gone and it's my turn, I enter the gymnasium and find about a dozen inquisitive Gamemakers waiting for me.
Swallowing, I continue my march to the weapons and spot a shiny ax nestled amongst hatchets and lean over to grasp the handle.
Without pause, I spin on one heel and heave my arm sideways as if I was throwing a discus, a grunt of effort escaping my mouth. The ax whizzes noisily through the air like a frisbee and collides with a dummy halfway across the gym, slicing an arm off in one toss. I hear murmurs, some impressed, some doubtful, but I just ignore them and hasten to my ax and search for a new target. My aim still needs improvement but I want them to see that I can do it in the limited amount of time that I hold their attention. I tighten my grip on the handle and fling the ax again, thankfully not tripping over my own feet like I did at the Reaping. The weapon zings through the air and meets its end in the forehead of a new dummy, further away this time. I sense my time is shortening, so I hustle for a new mark.
I'm good, but I'm not spectacular. I need a harder hit, something more remarkable. Something a novice can't do.
Although, it's a miracle the ax hasn't swung left and killed a Gamemaker by mistake, I think.
I arrange my feet, let my gaze fall on a dummy, lift the ax over my head, and chuck it forward with as much force as I can muster.
Us―the Gamemakers and I―watch the ax spinning like a wheel in rapid rotations until it reaches its target.
That's it. A perfect hit. It has to be.
It is.
The blade cuts clean through the material and clatters to the floor as the dummy sags in its spot, a gaping hole left behind in its chest. Stuffing falls out in wisps of cotton and I retrieve the ax, balancing the blade on the floor beside my foot and glance over to my audience.
"Thank you," the Head Gamemaker acknowledges, cordially. "You may leave, Miss Fabray."
I dip into a half-bow, keeping a smile at bay, and obediently vanish.
"How did it go?" Antony asks.
"Fine."
Finn looks at me once and grumbles that I look smug so it must've been excellent. Leo peers up from his notes, raising an eyebrow.
"Well?" He presses eagerly, speaking for the whole group.
"You'll just have to wait and―"
"What did you do?" Julia interrupts, bored. "Enlighten us, please. Before I turn ninety..."
I give her a saccharine smile, enjoying the brief moment of genuine annoyance in her eyes until she composes herself.
And who says victory is only for the Games? Bothering Julia has just become my new favorite challenge.
She doesn't have time to provoke me for more information because Leo's shepherding us to the television to view the results.
Relishing my winning of this round in the dispute between me and my mentor, I study the tributes on the screen. The Careers earn eights and nines, easy. 3 and 5 are average and 6 isn't much better. Finn's dimpled smile flashes on screen with a flickering seven.
"Nice," he grins, high-fiving Lysander and Antony and shooting me a wink. I stick my tongue in reply.
My picture follows Finn's and I smile in relief at the eight I receive. Leo, Lysander, and Viola clap a little, offering congratulations to us.
"Not bad," Antony remarks, sounding pleased, for once. Julia nods in agreement.
"More than I expected from either of you," she says, eyes fixed on the tributes of 8. The Rachel lookalike earns a five. Not so great.
We watch until the girl from 12 is shown and Leo orders Finn and I to bed as if we were little kids.
"Good job," Finn smiles as we stroll down the corridor to our rooms.
"Better than most," I add. "What did you end up doing?"
"Not much," he shrugs offhandedly. "Threw spears at the wall. I got some at the same spot, so I guess that was good."
I smile. "I wouldn't worry too much. We've done okay so far."
Finn bumps his fist with mine, instigating goofy grins on both of our faces.
Maybe we'll be just fine.
I spend the next day with Julia and Leo, preparing for my interview with Caesar Flickerman. Separately, but it's still awful and exhausting. Leo quizzes me on things to say and reprimands everything I say wrong, because it's crucial to be flawless on television. When I'm starting to lose what little hope I have in society, my fourth hour in Leo's presence ends and I'm brought to Julia. Unfortunately, she's the greater of two evils.
Julia doesn't want to do this session. Neither do I. Perhaps we're too different to mesh cohesively as mentor and tribute, but I digress.
"Like I said before," she says listlessly, "don't be stupid or idiotic and it'll be fine."
"That's it?" I ask, frustration evident in my tone. How does she even have this job? She's terrible at it.
"That's it."
Alarmingly, she refuses to say anything more and I make sure to slam the door on my way out. It's childish, yes, but she's required to help me but she's done nothing except provoke me and offer veiled insults. Maybe Finn and I should've swapped. Antony would probably be a lot nicer.
I sulk in my room and don't breathe a word at dinner, despite Lysander and Finn's blatant attempts to include me.
I barely sleep and in the morning, my prep team returns and make aghast comments on the bags under my eyes.
"How dreadful," Cesario says, voice shrill. "But don't fret, dear. We have the tools to fix this."
"Great," I lie glibly, wishing I could crawl back into bed.
The prep team descends without further conversation and I am revamped and glamorized for the entire day, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room as the trio of beauticians circle me. Thaisa curls my hair a little, making it a bit wavy. Cesario dabs my face with something powdery but shakes his head, chiding himself, and removes it, opting for some pleasant smelling paste instead. Metellus applies a bunch of makeup under my eyes and dusts my skin carefully with a tiny brush. I manage to keep still for the whole thing, fortunately.
"Simple," Metellus says thoughtfully at one point. "Uncomplicated but elegant. Lysander was right."
Finally they finish and we part ways as Lysander steps into the room, arms laden with a garment bag and lips curled up in a smile.
He backs up a foot after he's helped me into my newest outfit and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, looking for imperfections.
"Excellent," he remarks, eyes twinkling, and gestures grandly to the mirror.
Lysander's creations are something I'm beginning to look forward to, so I lean over and feel a smile of my own grow quickly.
Lysander has transformed me into a nymph, yet another illustration the tree concept of my district. Nymphs are deities associated with nature and my dress has been decorated as such. The fabric itself is white and delicate, almost gauzy. Around my waist is a thick sash of emerald green, accenting the gossamer nicely. Lysander offers me a matching headband and flats and I slide both on, careful not to ruin my hair. I find a sense of relief in my heart when I look to the mirror again. I'm not in something overly flashy or ostentatious, like my costume. It's...natural, like home. Even the products on my skin conform to the image―Metellus created an ethereal, graceful effect.
"I like it," I murmur at last, enjoying the greenish color that flutters in front of my face when I blink, courtesy of some eyeshadow.
"Good," Lysander nods. "How are your nerves doing?"
"Not here," I answer truthfully. "I think."
"Excellent," Lysander repeats, smiling approvingly. "Remember to relax, Quinn. Deep breaths, stay calm, and it'll be fine."
"I hope so," is my only reply.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I instruct my mind to do what Lysander said and sit in silence beside Finn in a line of tributes, all of us on a stage in the City Circle. Finn's in a mildly acceptable viridian suit, but keeps fiddling uneasily with his tie. Cameras hang from support beams and others are pushed around by dollies, red lights blinking from beside the lens, revealing which device is currently broadcasting at a certain angle.
Casear Flickerman is dressed in his customary suit but his hair is always different, year after year. For these Games, it's fuchsia.
I watch the other tributes as they go up to speak with Caesar, listening to some eager responses and some tense, uncomfortable ones, appreciating the kind moderator's attempts to make things easier. He understands what predicament we're in, and tries to assist us.
He has the raven-haired girl with a stutter from 6 gush about her love for dancing. He makes the blonde boy from 3 go into detail about his talent for drawing. He has Finn manage to appear endearing in his apprehension and brings out the sweetheart from home that I know. When it's my turn, I stand up and meander to Caesar, oddly separated from my jitters, and shake his hand with a smile as artificial as his hair color.
We sit.
"Quinn Fabray," Caesar intones, a playful glint in his eye. "Scored an eight in training. Excellent work."
Somehow I'm reminded of Lysander and I nod.
"Thank you," I grin and the crowd claps appreciatively. They don't know much about me yet. They're wondering, though, which is good.
"Guessing blind, but I'm assuming it has something to with an ax," he jokes.
That could apply to any tribute from my district in any year of the Games, so it's really lame, but it's Caesar, so it works out.
"Maybe," I demur, but keep my tone friendly. He breaks into an amiable beam―how the man does escapes me―as the audience titters.
Caesar asks about my life back home in 7 and I keep it as simple, explaining little things like observing Dad's job and teaching my nephews how to say my name because it's a tough one. The interview's surprisingly easy to do and I'm glad to know that I can control my stage fright. The minutes are waning so Caesar wraps up with a simple question of my hobbies. I answer honestly: singing with my friends in our school choir.
And mimicry, but I don't say that aloud.
"Singing?" He trills. "Oh, you must show us. Should she?"
The audience replies with agreeable shouts.
I shake my head as bashfully as I can and Caesar tuts in disappointment (genuine or not, I don't know) at the sound of the buzzer.
"Drat. Well, perhaps a victory will let us hear your undoubtedly pleasant tones. I wish you luck, Miss Fabray."
I return to my seat almost giddy with relief.
Our last meal before the Games is free of arguments. Finn and Leo are amicable. Julia and I are polite and conversational.
Finn and I follow our mentors, stylists, and Leo into the lounge to watch the recaps, and Leo sneaks in a few enthusiastic claps.
However, he is quiet after that, and when it's time for bed, he looks especially forlorn.
"I hope...I hope the arena is good," he mumbles mournfully, and then explains he's not very good at these sort of things.
I wonder if he ever will be. The Games will only continue after me―he must get used to it, or take up some other vocation.
He shakes Finn's hand and hugs me, and I find a special spot in my heart just for him and his oblivious, harmless personality.
Antony and I exchange civil nods but Julia only looks at me, as if she can't decide how to perform or verbalize a goodbye.
"Thanks," I state, more of a formality than an actual truth. "For the tips."
"I'm just doing my job," she reminds me, reiterating her words from several nights ago, but there's a reluctant compassion to them.
"Yeah..." I trail off, unsure of what to say.
"If it matters," she pauses, scrutinizing me with an apathetic gaze, "I think you're a fighter. Something tells me you'll do well."
There she goes again. She focuses on me and then, somehow, our conversations get bitter and distant, more and more each time we speak. I don't understand it. The compliment means nothing because she looks like she's offering it as a lie, shadowed by her facade of courtesy.
"You two should head to your rooms," Antony interjects, sending Julia a look. He doesn't tack on a 'big day tomorrow' like Leo does, I notice.
"Thanks for everything," Finn says sincerely, much kinder that I was, and I nod. We owe them. A little.
We're soon walking alone together to our bedrooms and I stifle a sigh. Tomorrow looms like a storm cloud and I can't shake the unease.
I could be returning home tomorrow, but not in the way I want. Not in the way Rachel wants. Or needs.
Before I can sink further into depressing thoughts of my own demise, Finn pulls me into a tight hug. I automatically curl my arms around his neck, and we stand in heavy silence, not daring to breathe too loudly. As for goodbyes, it isn't much, but Finn is being positive and optimistic about this situation, quite like Rachel is back home, so for all intents and purposes, it isn't a farewell, but merely a 'see you later'.
Finn's eyes are bright as we part and he looks down at me with nervous certainty, shifting from foot to foot.
"Good luck," he whispers in a rush, because we're blissfully unaware of the horrors awaiting us in the arena and it's scary to think about.
Will this be the last time I see Finn, living and unharmed? I can't shake the feeling of utter helplessness that began at the Reaping.
He looks so frightened and unsettled and so not Finn that I can only wish he'll be sent back to 7 with a crown of victory on his head.
"You too," I affirm just as softly, squeezing his hand. He holds on for a minute, and I let him, needing the closeness and security.
"Remember our code word," he mumbles. He means the address we'll use to identify each other in the arena after the bloodbath.
"I will," I breathe.
I let go first.
"See you tomorrow?" I question. Finn grins with false bravado―I see his composure wavering, though―and offers me a mock-salute.
"Yeah...see you."
I twist my lips up in something resembling a smile, and turn around, willing myself to continue walking and not look back.
