Tena had come after my mother, father, and sister. She'd been very quiet, and hugged me repeatedly. She'd given me a kiss on the cheek, and told me that I really was so much stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. Tena reminded me that I was only so pessimistic, because I was too smart to let the wool be pulled over my eyes.
She was so smart, really. Much smarter than Etcher or I could've ever hoped to be, at least in the ways of the world and how it worked. Tena held my hand, because she wanted to. With her eyes meeting mine, she had told me that I was the only person she knew who could actually shut off the voices inside my head. That my instincts were right, and that I couldn't start over-thinking anything, or I would lose my way. Tena pleaded with me to keep an open mind. I always loved that she and I could have serious conversations, and she wouldn't dumb it down for me. Obviously I could not close my mind off to certain people or ideas in the Hunger Games, or I might die as a result.
I've always called Etcher my best friend, and I wouldn't dispute that, but when Tena was forced to leave, I found myself so drawn to her I almost wanted to scream out after her. The last thing I remember he saying, in that rather meek voice of hers that doesn't really at all fit her personality, "Goodbye." And she waved at me.
Next came Etch who'd attacked me in a hug, and started getting me laughing straight-away. About how stupid all of this was, and especially about this Farah girl who was the other tribute from Eight. Together we'd cleared the plate set out by the redheaded lady of all food, and she brought more in. Etcher had teased me about how short I was, and how all my fellow tributes had to do was hold all the weapons up and out of arm's reach, and I'd be sunk. Under normal circumstances people might've found that negative, but for me not at all. It was the crux of our relationship…chiding one another, laughing, and being stupid.
Eventually though, he turned a bit more serious, and told me to smile, and not take everything too seriously. If I would just relax, people would be drawn to me and want me on their side.
Etcher said, "These Hunger Games, man…you know they're really just for entertainment. Don't forget that. It's sick and it's royally fucked, but the Capitol just wants to see a good show. Like, don't forget that you are playing a game, Herod. Not just fighting for your life. I know you man, and I know if you remember that…you'll be fine."
All I could do was chuckle, but he knew that I understood all he was saying. "Thanks Etch. Hey listen, once I'm the victor, you and your whole family are welcome to come live with me in that swanky Victor's Village."
Etcher laughed, "Of course." And I was pretty sure he might've had a tear or two slip down his face, but I pretended my best not to notice. Neither of us were very big criers, but I couldn't recall a time on-hand that Etcher had cried, at least since we were about seven years old.
"I'm so proud of you as a person, man. Like, serious shit. I really am. Win this, you can. I know it." He'd told me. "I love you. Play smart, and win." He'd given me a bear hug, and then left rather rapidly. It was just as well, there wasn't a higher note he could've left on, really.
With his exodus, I realized that no one else was coming. Those five people really were the most important in my life, and just how…District Eight, or the Capitol, or the Peacekeepers, or the Gamemmakers, or whoever the hell it was knew that…was beyond me. It wasn't as though we all filled out a questionnaire every year saying just who we'd want to talk to, if our names got pulled at the Reaping.
Unless I was being stupidly optimistic, hardly a common fault of mine, I had received some really damn good advice. Even Dyne had managed to pull herself together and give me some words to ponder. Life sucked in District Eight, but Mom, Dad, Dyne, Tena, and Etcher—they made it worth living in. They really were the people I lived for. Getting smacked the face with such a jarring truth like that, almost made my head and heart hurt at the same time.
The door to the room I was being held in opened again, and I was expecting the lady with the perm, but ended up getting Jarvis Wellund instead.
"Hello." He started off smoothly enough, "I'm Jarvis, and you can call me that. Did you get something to drink? Something to eat? That's important."
"Yeah."
He cleared his throat, and went to occupy the overstuff chair nearby the couch I sat on. He had an indefinable quality to him. The way he looked and acted. Only Jarvis's words seemed to be made from stone. "Ok, so I know this is a lot to ask, and you probably either want to be alone or just—"
"Sleep." I admitted. Couldn't help it.
Jarvis cracked a smile and nodded. "Yeah, or that. But you need to decide who you want your mentor to be. District Eight has four victors. One of them, Arlisa, won the Twelfth Games. She's still kicking. She's close to eighty, but a few years ago, someone wanted her, and she accepted. Woof, Roman, Cecilia…they are all ready and willing to help you out. They're all good. I've got some materials here for you, if you want to review them, help you make an informed decision. Just know that by four o'clock this afternoon, I'm going to need a decision, or we'll have to select someone for you. Nothing I can do about that."
"And what if…uh…"
Seeming to anticipate my question, Jarvis shook his head slightly. "I'm not sure who Farah is going with yet. It doesn't matter. If you pick the same mentor, they'll spend equal time with you both."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Are you from District Eight?"
Jarvis smiled a bit slyly, and shook his head. "No. But thanks for asking. Listen, you really need to start deciding who you want as a mentor. I mean we've got a tougher decision here. You got two ladies, two men. All of them won, but got there by pretty different strategies. And if you weren't told, the bathroom's right over there. There are Peacekeepers outside, because that's protocol. But they're not going to interfere unless you start doing something stupid in here."
I laughed frankly. This Jarvis Wellund was a bizarre man. It was a good thing, really…but he reminded me of someone playing at being a person, and was really some supernatural force. I don't believe in supernatural forces, but there was definitely something about Jarvis that was a little off. Didn't bother me, my opinion hadn't changed much from the uninformed one I'd made years ago when I first saw him at a Reaping.
He left without saying anything else, but maybe that's because he sensed that I didn't have any problems with him. My pessimistic side reared it ugly head again, as I realized…getting along with your escort, doesn't really do much for you. At least not in the Games. It's your mentor that you need to connect with.
I started looking over the dossier-like files of District Eight's four victors. There was information that I could press a certain number on the television remote, and see footage of their individual Games. This took me by surprise…in all the time I'd been in here, I just now noticed the television screen mounted halfway up the wall. I was not a huge fan of the Hunger Games, Etcher was always more diligent about watching them than I ever had been. I didn't have too much of a problem with seeing people die—kids die, and really what did that say about me?
As I reviewed some of the footage from Eight's victors, I kept coming back to the fact that to win you had to be very smart, very strong, or very lucky. All three would be preferable.
I knew I didn't want Arlisa, our district's first victor. She was 77 years old. It was not so much her age that bothered me, but something else. The footage I watched of her was 61 years old but it was still crystal clear. Arlisa Trace had been extremely careful and entirely strategic in her Games. You can't rid yourself of those kind of instincts with age. Jarvis told me she still had all her mental facilities, but somehow it seemed wrong for me to drag a 77-year-old victor from her life to teach me what she knew, and to help get me sponsors. Just due to her age, she had the most experience of any of the victors, but that wasn't enough to change my mind.
That left me with three remaining options, and as I shocked myself by immersing myself in the information about their respective games, I saw that two and a half hours had rolled past. With the exception of a short bathroom break, I had been looking at these victor's information for that long!
Each of them seemed to exhibit one of the necessary skills to winning. Woof was strong. He was in incredible shape for his Hunger Games, and had powered through by hunting for food, and killing his opponents. Sure Woof had help, but he reminded me more of how I imagine Etcher would try and tackle the Hunger Games. By now Woof was getting older as well, but Jarvis had said I had four possibilities. Unless Jarvis really couldn't care less and his skill lay in acting, not being professional to the tributes, I had to believe that Woof would've been able to manage the task.
Roman Furyk was next, and he seemed to have a four leaf clover shoved up his butt. He made an alliance with two very capable young women that had my mind spinning to Farah. Was she strong and fast like the girls that Roman had chosen to aligned himself with? He escaped quite a few extremely nasty situations, and eventually he and the girls he was with succeeded in killing a couple of Careers. This gained Roman a sword, and he'd kept it through the remainder of the Games. In the end it came down to him, and the girl from District Six who had been his ally. She had a crossbow, and succeeded in burying one of it's bolts into Roman's stomach, but he was running at her. Another of her arrows missed, perhaps because a friend-turned-enemy running at you with a sword might be a bit disconcerting to say the least. Roman caught up with her, and killed her.
Finally there was Cecelia Harrow, who'd won the Hunger Games when I was one year old. Pretty and soft spoken, she surely amazed most everyone when she came out the victor. Her strengths lied in knowing what to say to people, and when. She was smart, and hid from her competitors intelligently. She'd come up with an absolutely ingenious way to distract her opponents, allowing her to flee. When she was in the final three, she stayed quiet and out of sight, watching one of the tributes kill the other. Then, when he was at his weakest, she attacked and made pretty short work of him.
I knew Woof and I might be a good match, because he showed a skill set that I knew I myself didn't much possess. Still I was drawn more toward Roman and Cecelia. Brute strength and hunting skills certainly can win you the day, but somehow I knew that wouldn't be the case for me. Mom, Dad, Dyne, Etcher…they all said that I could win, and if I was going to prove them right, I knew it'd be because I outwitted my opponents, or just got damn lucky.
I had whittled it down to just two. Cecelia or Roman, Roman or Cecelia? With a little less than an hour until four o'clock, I made my decision. Somewhere I knew I probably should've picked the other one, but still in that knowledge, it just solidified that I went with the right one. Tena thought I was smart, and perhaps I had the capability to be…but I went with my gut far too much to really be considered 'smart'. Yeah I could weigh out options carefully, but I always yield to what my instincts are telling me. Probably should've gone with the other victor, but I'd made my decision and I was going to stand by it. There was a word for doing something the opposite of what logic tells you to. It wasn't stupidity, but it was something. Whatever that something was, I had it in spades.
Somehow I got the feeling that I would have been able to speak to all of my visitors again, but no such luck. Don't know why I would've thought that, but when I had to board the Tribute Train, and see the bleak landscape of District Eight start to rush past, I realized that it was over. Chances were, I'd be dying in a couple of days and I would never see my parents, my sister, my friends, any of them ever again. If I stayed in the compartment they'd allotted to me by myself for any longer, I would want to throw myself off the train first chance I got, I knew I would. The mentor I'd selected was somewhere on board, but I didn't know where. Jarvis had already told Farah and I that we would be meeting with our mentor later. He only told us what was absolutely necessary, but I didn't mind that about him. Why try and chat us up like we were best friends? He wasn't condescending, he wasn't overly talkative…he was professional at all times.
Opening up the door of my compartment, drew the instant attention of the solitary security guy posted nearby. He was a pale guy with freckles all over his face. Still his arms were like tree-trunks which I was almost certain were capable of snapping my neck, or at the very least, pounding me into submission.
"Where are you going?"
"Is there somewhere bigger, I can go? I'm getting claustrophobic in there." It wasn't an entire lie, but I didn't feel like sharing with this perfect stranger that if I was left alone with my thoughts too long, well…I didn't want to find out just what might come of it.
He showed me down a narrow hallway, and opened a few doors. Finally, with the aid of an electronic pass card which was attached to him somehow or other, he opened a door which connected the cars. The sound of the train rattling so swiftly over the tracks was near deafening, and though there wasn't much room, if I really was serious about throwing myself off the train, this would've been a good time to do it.
Security guy seemed to sense my thoughts, and one of his giant hands went to the back of my neck, and all but shoved me into the next car, slamming the door back shut behind me.
This train car was not very large, definitely smaller than the one which housed my sleeping quarters, but it was cozy. A couple of tables with booths lined one wall by a bank of windows. The view might've been semi-decent, except for the fact that I was pretty sure we were still in District Eight. My district was mostly ugly. Maybe ugly wasn't the right word…it was boring. Sure we had some hills, rocks, trees, all of that good stuff, but everything seemed to have turned into this same depressing shade of murky grayish brown. I'd heard there were prettier areas, but only a select few ever got to see them.
"Hello." Came a scratchy voice. It belonged to a middle-aged woman who sat perched on a high stool near what might've been a makeshift bar. She had lots of lines in her face, but something told me that she probably wasn't even the same age as my parents. "Can I get you anything?"
I felt like saying: Yeah, could you remove all those layers of plastic and glass from the windows, so I can throw myself off the train? I ended up just shaking my head.
"Just like your friend over there." She said and then sighed. "Alright, suit yourself. You'd better not be any trouble now. You wont, will you?"
"No." I replied. Friend? What friend? Then I saw, at the very back of the car, seated on the low couch which ran most of the length of that wall, was her.
Still dressed in black, she sat with her legs together and her arms crossed over her chest. Due to the way she was facing, her bangs more or less obscured all of her face, but as I approached, she turned her head and I could see that eye of hers again.
"What're you doing here?" she demanded.
"Could ask you the same question." I decided to sit down on the couch too, but a good six feet separated me from my fellow tribute.
No reply, and she didn't even turn in my direction again. She was wedged up against the wall, as much as she possibly could be, as if every fiber of her being was screaming to escape. I definitely knew the feeling.
"My room was making me nuts. I had to get out of there," I shared with her.
"We're supervised in here, too. As if killing us for sport isn't enough, the Capitol won't even let us relax in peace before we get to die. Fuck the Capitol." Farah spat with ferocity.
Ok, so she could talk, but obviously her hairstyle was a warning to everyone that she was dark…the complete antidote to little Karrie Ronson who I'd met on the train platform back home, not even 24 hours ago. Kind of seemed like an eternity, now.
"No kidding," I sighed and spread my shoulders into the cushiony backing of the built in couch. "I keep thinking that now is the time I should try and find something good in all of this, but I can't."
I was quick to add, "I don't think there really is anything good about going to the Hunger Games, don't get me wrong. All I mean is that, things are going to get a lot worse once we arrive in the Capitol. I wish I could just look out the window and relax, or maybe go to sleep. I felt so tired before, now I can't seem to get tired."
Such a wall of conversation spewing from my mouth, and when Farah didn't say anything, I was sure it would be indeed like talking to a wall. Except for the muffled sound of the train moving, and the lady by the bar turning clearing her throat, making small noises as she looked over her handheld computer device, it was silent.
"How old are you?"
The question caught me by surprise, and when I turned to look at Farah, I could see she'd shifted her weight, drawing one of her legs up onto the couch and was tilted toward me.
"I'll be seventeen tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's your birthday!" she seemed incredulous. A hand swept back much of her bangs and for the first time I could see both eyes at once, and a majority of her face. "That sucks." Her thick lips curled up into a whisper of a smile, but I could tell it was only because she was wanting to chuckle at the unfairness of it all, not to laugh at me.
"Yeah, I know. Some birthday gift, huh?"
"I'm eighteen, have been for a few months now…I think you could pass for eighteen too, if you wanted. I mean if you want to go that route."
Farah Gilderling was not exactly what I would call pretty, but there was something about her…some almost tangible quality that made it impossible not to want to study her for longer. For one thing, her eyes.
Earlier I had mislabeled them as hazel. Closer inspection showed that they were greenish yellow, like a cats. They clashed fantastically with her jet black hair which I was absolutely certain was dyed. She had thick lips that, if you looked at them, made her seem more warm and definitely betrayed the whole 'girl in black' persona she was clearly trying to create. Etch would definitely label her as hot, but that was because he was drawn to girls who were what Mom would call 'edgy'. Nothing about Farah was unappealing or even unattractive, but at the same time there was nothing lovely about her either. Just that she made you want to look at her, and study her, like a piece of art.
Surely she must've seen me taking her in a bit, but for all I knew she was doing the exact same thing to me.
"What, you mean lie?" I threw out there.
Farah laughed, and swept her bangs off to the side with more purpose, this time her thick hair stayed off and allowed me to actually talk to her face to face. "Don't tell me you never lie."
"I didn't say that."
She made a slightly disappointed noise, or was it just her way of almost chuckling? "Well good. I'm not exactly Sally Sunshine in case you didn't notice. You look pretty clean cut to me, I didn't know if you were a goodie two shoes, or what. All I meant was that if you wanted to tell the other tributes you were eighteen, you could. I wouldn't rat you out."
Now I found myself mirroring Farah, turning to talk to her. Seemingly she decided that I was not an enemy. Or…was it the opposite, and she was trying to leech as much information from me as possible? That was an unpleasant thought, but one I had to consider. Any girl who dresses all in black, dyes her hair and gives it such a severe cut and all, probably had an agenda of some kind. Still, I tried to remember what Tena told me; trust my instincts, and not to over think too much. I definitely would've liked to know just how this girl came about looking like that. Perhaps she was rich, and that's how she'd gotten her hair styled and dyed? My gut told me she was not rich, but I can't say my gut was right all the time, either.
I managed a half smile, and nodded. "Thanks. I don't know what I'm planning on doing, to tell you the truth. Might be a little late to not have a strategy yet, but I guess I'm more of a on the fly, sort of person."
"Really, you seem like a person who probably thinks things out to me." Farah was saying. She really was different with her hair out of her eyes, talking one on one. I didn't want to make any snap decisions, but my initial instincts that her hair and clothing style might've all be part of an image, seemed to be on point.
"I don't want to come across like that," I admitted, surprising myself even with my honesty. "I want to look stupid, or at the very least not a threat."
Farah watched for a few seconds, and then cleared her throat. "I don't know if you'll be able to pull that off. You're not an asshole, sure, but I think the only people who'r going to be assholes, are the Careers. You've got a…how can I say it," she paused a moment. "You look able."
This was disconcerting news. Somehow I figured Farah here was trying to get inside my head. If she was, she was doing a better job of it than I wanted to acknowledge just then. "Able…to do what?"
Raking her fingers through her outrageous bangs, she swept them far off to the side, so they would stop falling in front of her face. This was not any easy task. "I don't know. I guess all I mean is that if I hadn't already decided you were alright, I might be worried about you."
This was indeed bad news, but wait a second, there was some good news in there too. "You think I'm alright?"
"Well sure." She said matter-of-factly, as if it was perfectly obvious to anyone, even the stupidest person in Panem, that she seemed to think I wasn't offensive. "Still I don't know if you want to play the aloof nice guy, role. I think it might suit you, but any of the smarter tributes are going to see right through it."
Farah was speaking as though we were already allies. I didn't have any problem with that, why make an enemy? She seemed pretty forthcoming and that too impressed me. "So what, your plan is to be the chick all dressed in black that you'd better not fuck with?"
"This is just how I dress. I did the hair myself. Well, and with the help of my sister." Farah shrugged, obviously trying her best to act as though it was no big deal, but it was clearly something she cared about. "Until this morning, I thought maybe I could try and get a job somewhere as a hairstylist."
I couldn't help but laugh a bit, raising my hands to ward her off as her expression changed sour. "No, I'm laughing because one of the first things you said to me was 'Fuck the Capitol'."
"Yeah, I fucking hate them all."
"Well, it isn't as though a lot of people in District Eight can afford to have their hair cut professionally. You seem to be good at it, so the only place you'd make any money is the Capitol."
Farah looked at me as though her opinion of me might be changing a bit, not necessarily for the better. "I would never live there. Ever. I wouldn't care who my clients were, as long as I had some and they weren't those morons from the Capitol. And you're damned right I'm good at it! I'm from District Eight. We make people look good. I'm sick of only the rich being able to afford to look good."
It was a nice dream, and I couldn't help but like Farah Gilderling more, after such a statement. It was better than me, who had no earthly idea what I would do with my life, if I could actually pick something. This 18 year old certainly was not what I expected her to be. She was being very open and honest. She was smart though, and smart tributes are tricky tributes.
Sure there was time before the Hunger Games began, but assuming we were going to be allies, and that did seem the way it was heading, she might be hard to kill when the time came.
Soon we were talking pretty freely. The sun had gone down and the woman in the room with us seemed consumed with her computer. Could've been reading a book. No one I knew was rich enough to actually own something like that, but I knew they existed. I told Farah that I worked the coiling machine at a cotton factory. Told her about my sister and a little bit about my parents. I left out the fact that Dad was a Peacekeeper, because while I disliked the Capitol, it seemed that Farah's hatred for them knew no bounds.
She was from the east prefecture, where life sounded every bit as hard as in the north prefecture, maybe even worse. Her mother worked at a furring plant, where they also dyed some of the pelts that came in. She begged her mother to bring her some of the black dye, and used it on her head. Farah told me it hurt a lot, burned pretty badly, but she told her sister when to rinse it off, and though her scalp had gotten all pink and irritated, there didn't seem to be any lasting damage. Her sister was younger than her, though she didn't say by how much. She also had a brother who was 13, who had some hearing loss. Not to the point of him being deaf, but definitely to where you had to speak up if you were going to have a conversation with him.
Although she was into fashion, hairstyling specifically, she had the same job she'd gotten a few years ago, working in a sewing factory. At first she'd just swept and did janitorial stuff, but eventually they allowed her on a sewing machine where she dealt with pants and shirts, a lot of jeans apparently. Farah told me how she'd actually rather have her old cleaning job back. It let her move around, and though it was hard work, being in the near same position all day that her current job required hurt her hands, her arms, and her back.
There was no mention of her father, whatsoever. I wondered if perhaps he'd just abandoned his family, or maybe he was dead? While I was curious, I didn't want to jeopardize my fledgling relationship with my fellow tribute by prying too deep into her life. Whatever secrets she had, were hers to keep.
It really didn't take much time to tell someone about your life in Panem. The fact that I was better off than Farah, lived in a better house and everything seemed all but certain. But even my family was pretty destitute. No one but the rich, and the Capitolites had money for things like travel, or to really pursue any interests. Then again Farah at least had barbering and fashion. Made me wonder what the hell I had. With a financial leg up on someone like her, seemed to me that I ought to have some real goal or significant interests. Tomorrow I was going to be 17, and I didn't have anything that I was passionate about. Realizing this stung my bones.
What was I giving to society? What was I giving to my family, even? These thoughts weighed heavily on my mind and I didn't realize I was spacing out for quite as long as I had been.
"Hey. Hey kid. Herod."
"Huh, what?"
"You just completely went blank." Farah Gilderling was telling me. "Out to lunch."
"I'm sorry. I don't know, anyway, what were you saying?"
Farah looked like she was sizing me up, perhaps trying to determine if I really was interested in whatever she might have to say next. "Who'd you pick for your mentor?"
There really was no point in hiding it from her, was there? "Roman Furyk? Guy who won the thirty-eighth."
She nodded. "Right. I went with Cecelia."
"She was my second choice. I probably should've gone with her, really."
"Nah, don't say that. This way we get two people on our side. That's always better than just one."
I supposed she was right. I couldn't say for sure just what Roman might be able to do for Farah, or what Cecelia could do for me. If nothing else, maybe one would help the other, once one of us died? Seems to make sense that they would rather see District Eight win, than anyone else. It was nice that she'd picked Cecelia, so that way I would at the very least be able to see both of the victors who I waffled between.
"I'm getting hungry." Farah said, but not to me. Her eyes were glued on the woman who was in this train car with us, who'd not said a word since her little back and forth with me.
"Yeah sure. I can get you something," the lady said, "but you're going to be having dinner with your mentors soon enough."
Farah looked marginally slighted, looking back to me as though I ought to weigh in on this. As I didn't give her anything to go on, she finally added, "You look good in blue, offsets your eyes."
I glanced down at my own blue collar shirt, the t-shirt I donned beneath that was gray, and visible as I'd unbuttoned the first few down from the collar at some point. "Oh…thanks. I guess it's ok."
Farah was looking at me curiously, tilting her head just a little bit. "Such a guy answer."
"Uh…how else am I supposed to answer?"
Now she actually smiled, shaking her head. She proceeded to sweep back the bangs she'd just dislodged from their holding places. "Nothing."
I got the impression that she was trying to say I was simple, or perhaps that she had more life experience than I had. Seen more, done more. Seems unlikely, but still I didn't like the feeling even if there was no projected malice behind it. She could not have been lying about the things she told me earlier. No actress could've conveyed all that information with such ease and truth. Wait…maybe this was one of those instances where I needed to listen to Tena, and not over think things that don't really matter. I knew that about myself. If I was going to analyze and pour over something, it wasn't anything that ended up being of importance nine times out of ten. When it came to important shit, I would just trust my instincts and go.
Maybe at dinner Roman could teach me how to be lucky. There was no freaking way I was going to win without more than my fair share of luck.
As things turned out, Roman was pretty funny. He kept the four of us from getting too serious, while Cecelia managed to make both myself and Farah feel as though we had as good of a shot as anyone to win these Hunger Games. Cecelia apparently had a whole mess of children, but only the very youngest was still eligible to play in the Games. If he could get through next year, then none of her kids would have to go through what she had.
Roman, my mentor, had a son who was 27 years old. He didn't see a whole lot of him, but Roman was candid about the fact that he was glad he was a father. Although he was only 40 years old, Roman's hair was completely white. Not even gray—just white. He was nice looking and considering that he was a smooth talker, I got the impression that he would've done just fine with the ladies.
Cecelia was plain looking, but she had very smooth skin and reminded me just a little of my own Mom. Perhaps for this reason alone, I was glad that I had not selected Cecelia to be my mentor. Once I really needed to get down to business, I didn't want any distractions. Roman seemed competent enough, so perhaps my decision to choose him hadn't been the wrong one after all.
Just a bit ago, he'd left my quarters but not before having a long conversation with me. He wanted to know just what my strategies might be, or what I was good at. I'd explained that I was not good at anything, but he insisted that every person is good at something. He warned me that while Farah seemed like an honest girl, once the Hunger Games began I couldn't trust that she and I could remain allies. He'd explained that a good alliance is what won him his own Games. Still, during his own year he had seen a couple of tributes who were thick as thieves before the Games, turn on each other and dice each other up as if they were anyone else.
The train would be traveling on through the night, and probably by early afternoon tomorrow or so, we would be arriving in the Capitol. Panem had extremely fast trains which were engineered in District Six, but this annual event the Capitol put on, had it down to a science. They wanted tributes to have to decompress, if it was even possible, meet with our mentor, and try to be well-rested before getting to the Capitol.
That's something else…I ought to be fall-down tired, but I was wide awake. I sort of wanted to see Farah again, not necessarily for anything, except company. She and I had decided we'd be allies, and regardless of what Roman warned me of, for the time being—it was the only way I could view Farah and keep my sanity. If I really thought about it, I suppose who better to kill me than her? As long as it wasn't a backstabbing…if we were the only two left, or under some circumstance where we must absolutely face off, better her than anyone else.
Roman told me flat out that my biggest problem was going to be that I was not particularly well-suited to any weapon. My sister knew how to shoot a bow and arrow. I could nock an arrow and shoot…but only about half the time would I get anywhere near to my goal. Even less often, would I hit it. To say I was an archer, was like saying that someone from the Capitol was a salt of the earth person.
When my father had me practice with some handguns, I knew that I was a pretty decent shot. Roman said this was good, but that Gamemakers rarely allow actual firearms into the Hunger Games. I was anything but a crack shot, but even if I were, it might be for naught in the Hunger Games. Made sense I reasoned, and Roman verified that his views were similar. Guns were relatively easy, deadly weapons to operate. The Capitol wants the victims' deaths to be hard fought, or at least poignant if they could manage it. Suicide was also a very tempting option, if a tribute was presented with a gun.
Dad had taught me how to use a knife, and how to throw one…so I supposed that was something. Still this wasn't enough. I got the impression that Roman could alter his personality to match up with whomever he was around, and because I was a straight shooter, so was he. Being competent with a knife was good. It really was. But competent is hardly an expert. I could be sure that all the Careers were going to be surgeons with whatever weapon or weapons they specialize in. Roman told me I looked healthy, and asked how long and far I could run.
I didn't know. Yes I knew I could run, but it wasn't as though I timed myself. I explained that I was a pretty good dancer. He didn't even make me feel self-conscious about it, but instead had laughed and told me that he had two left feet until he was about 30, when he finally learned how to dance. He even told me that he was addicted to something called morphling for some time. It was a painkiller of which I was vaguely aware, but I'd decided to ask Roman why he was being so open with me.
"Because I like you, and you're a gamer." He had said.
A gamer? I didn't ask, although I reminded myself now that I probably ought to ask him just what he'd meant, tomorrow. I certainly didn't think of myself as a liar, a conniver, or a cheat. After he'd just gotten through explaining how I didn't have any advantages with any weapons, Roman couldn't have meant that he thought I'd be good in the Hunger Games!?
Roman told me how he'd parlayed much of his winnings to investing in an upscale clothing company that worked between the Capitol and District Eight. Maybe that was why he was always dressed so well. He seemed to have more money than Cecelia. When I considered her large family compared to Roman being almost no-strings-attached, that made sense. He was a little too quick talking for me, but he was a decent role model, in a lot of ways.
He might have liked me. Fine. I didn't have any real problems with him, which was definitely a good thing. At the end of the day, however, none of this promised me any clout in the Games. All it meant was that before I got murdered, life might not be as difficult for me as it is for some tributes. This was nothing knew. Life sucked in District Eight, but I still managed to come off better than a vast majority of people.
Was I fated to just be regular, ordinary, and middle of the road? Sometimes it seemed like it. Now even after speaking to my mentor…same case. I wasn't fat, I wasn't slow. I wasn't clumsy or completely inept. I wasn't stupid, I wasn't overzealous, I wasn't egotistical. I knew how to shoot a gun, how to throw a knife, but I was no expert. All of these things tried to add up to something good, but all I could see is that I wasn't a total loss. The Hunger Games weren't something that you could do half-assed. If you finished well, good for you…but that wasn't going to save your life, now was it? Winner take all. Literally.
So Roman Furyk liked me. Maybe I ought not so easily dismiss this. Cecelia and I might not have connected quite as well. If he liked me, then he was going to truly root and work for me. Perhaps get me some sponsors. I had seen a Hunger Games where, without some very key silver parachutes from sponsors, the girl who'd won surely would've died. Maybe Roman would be able to send me in a gun, or something truly awesome so I could mow down my opponents in short order!
Yeah right. Maybe all the Careers will just lay down on the ground and wait for me to slit their throats, too.
Sitting up in my bed, I could see very well because my eyes had adjusted. It wasn't pitch black anyway, with some moonlight filtering in through the window, even though my curtains were drawn. Roman was a smooth talker, but some of the Capitol sponsors were smart, too. I didn't want him coming across like a greasy salesman on my behalf. They were going to sponsor me if they were drawn to me for some reason or another. One reason might be because they thought I was going to win. With my lack of obvious talents that would be helpful in the arena, that possibility was gone. The only option I was left with, was the that people needed to like me, something about me. Either my story or personality…something to make me stand out and want them to back me. What the hell was I going to do? This is the part of the games Etcher wouldn't have had any problems with. He was funny, charming, and easy-going. His pre-game interviews would've gone smoothly.
My best friend had even told me that it was all entertainment. I needed to entertain. I had a good enough sense of humor, sure, but that didn't mean that I was funny. I needed an angle to play, and fast. Farah already had hers…she was going to be dramatic in black and act tough. Honestly I was not so sure that was the best idea for the Hunger Games. Why give the Careers, or anyone for that matter, a reason to think you a threat? Better for them to think you a dunce…then maybe they wouldn't put killing you so high a priority.
But how the hell was I supposed to reinvent myself in some new way that could appeal to the potential sponsors, but not show my fellow tributes that I was in any way a threat? Tricky. Very, very tricky.
Inhaling deeply I pictured Tena's face and remembered her telling me not to over think. That is precisely what I had been doing. I ought to be asleep already, but I was fidgety and uncomfortable. The temperature in my sleeping car was just perfect, regulated by my own hand at the thermostat.
What I needed, was to sleep. Just sleep, and deal with tomorrow, tomorrow. Much easier said than done.
Near blinding light jerked me soundly from my dreams and my eyes snapped open suddenly, though I almost yelped against the harsh lighting, and rolled over in my covers, trying to orient myself.
"Good morning sunshine." Came a voice that I didn't recognize. My faced pinched up like an old rag and I chanced opening my eyes until finally they acclimated themselves to the room.
Roman Furyk was standing near the foot of my bed, looking extremely dapper with his hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in a smart black suit and white shirt. He had a slightly apologetic but mostly expectant expression. "Time to get up, Herod. Today's one of the most important if your life, trust me. We'll be arriving in the Capitol a little earlier than expected, should get there in oh," I foggily watched him check his watch, "about an hour and a half, I'd say. Your stylists want to have a look at you once we get to the Capitol, so you're going to have to shower and get dressed. Breakfast is waiting for you just down the hall, unless you'd rather take it here."
"Huh—oh…uh, I mean, no that's fine, I'll get in the shower." In truth I was just barely making sense of anything happening around me. Usually I slept pretty lightly, but today I had been roused from the deepest of sleep.
"Your shirt and jacket are hanging on the rack over there, the tie too. Should be toiletries in the bathroom. Do you need some coffee? Tea maybe? C'mon Herod…get up." Roman uged, his brown eyes always having a slightly squinted look to them, but right now they had a look of urgency in them. "And don't give me that face. Any tribute of mine is going to look sharp. I suppose you don't have to wear the jacket, but the tie isn't optional." He leaned over and gave my leg a smack through the sheets. "Get up. I'll be back to check on you in 15 minutes." Now he was heading for the door of my room. Opening it, he turned back and gave me a whisper of a smile. "Oh, and happy birthday."
Tea…I'd only had tea twice, and I'd never had coffee in my life. Roman was in a crazy mood it seemed, but I managed to throw him a, "Thanks." Just before he shut the door and left me to my thoughts. There were a couple pots of presumably coffee and tea on a silver tray on my dresser, near the door. Fifteen minutes wasn't a lot of time.
On my way to the bathroom, I saw the clothing Roman had selected for me. A nice white collar shirt, a pair of very nice slacks, a jacket, and a tie. I'd never worn a tie in my life. It was nice that Roman was trying to have me make a nice impression, but unlike him I was not in the garment industry. Technically I was, but only at the basest level. Farah should have been paired up with Roman, they would've looked smart and classy together. Back home 'dressing up' for me consisted of wearing a shirt with a collar.
The shower's hot water pressure left a little to be desired, but I was quite used to that back home. It was beneficial today, as it invigorated me and any remnants of my grogginess went down the drain. The shampoo smelled better than anything I'd ever used on my body in my entire life. Same went for the soap. It left behind a citrus smell on my skin that was perceivable but hardly overpowering.
My hair was definitely on the shorter side, certainly long enough to comb or run your hand through, but it was far from the shaggy length from my youth. Brushing my teeth I realized that I hadn't done so in probably too long. Oral hygiene existed in District Eight, albeit not to the degree that we probably would've liked. After brushing the scum off my teeth and using dental floss, I looked at my own reflection. I was liberal with the lotion that had been left for me, rubbing it into my skin where it absorbed almost instantaneously. I couldn't stop myself from checking out my own reflection in the mirror. The bathroom was tiny, but the mirror was disproportional and large.
Perhaps just a trace of my lack of sleep was beneath my eyes. I was seventeen already—I would've turned it some time during the early, early morning. I shaved, and not quite used to this nice of a razor, was surprised to find how easy it was not to cut yourself. Of course right about that time, I did knick just above my chin, but nothing too terrible. If Roman was going to try and have me look all presentable, I opted to go ahead and comb my hair. Nothing too specific, I was no wannabe hairstylist like Farah. Still, my hair looked more maintained than usual at the very least.
Just by the time that I had zipped and buttoned up my slacks, my collar shirt tucked in, Roman had burst back into my quarters with little fanfare. Looking over at me, he had a smile on his face that made me wonder just what earthly right it had doing there.
"What?" I pretty much demanded.
"Nothing. You clean up very nice, kid. C'mon lets get your tie and jacket on."
Looking at him in the reflection of the mirror in my sleeping quarters, I made a face. "I don't know how to do a tie. I think maybe you've forgotten what it's like to be poor."
His mouth opened as if he was going to shoot me down, but after a moment his face twisted into a mask of something that I didn't really intend for. Obviously I might've hit a little too close to home, but I certainly hadn't meant to make him uncomfortable or anything like that. Roman looked slightly ashamed as he threw the tie around his own neck, and began manipulating it silently.
I offered, "Don't see why I have to wear all of this. I don't want to come across like a snob."
Roman's eyes jerked up and he shook his head, his eyes seeming to enjoy a joke that I wasn't privy too. "Just, trust me alright?"
What choice did I even have? "What's this for?" I inquired of the small bottle of something-or-other on the dresser. I had a couple of possibilities running around in my head, but all of them were probably wrong.
Lifting the tied, but slack tie from off his own head, he threw it over a hook that was affixed to the side of the dresser and cleared his throat. "Cologne. If you don't like it never mind, but if you do…just use one squirt."
It smelled heavy, maybe a little bit spicy but not at all off putting. Still not that I'd never worn cologne before, but somehow this scent seemed to fit someone like Roman, all dapper and smooth talking, than stupid old me. Nevertheless it was my birthday, so I followed his instructions with the cologne, as well as throwing the tie around my neck, and cinching it up to my neck. It felt a bit bizarre, sort of a vague sensation of being strangled, but nothing close to that much pressure. I wasn't so sure that I liked ties.
At the breakfast table, I found Cecelia looking prettier than she had last night. Having her hair up suited her, made her look younger by at least five years. She shot me a big beaming grin when I entered the dining car, and seated nearby was Farah whose hair had been kept in the same style as yesterday, but her clothing was more well…girly.
"Good morning, ladies." I managed, feeling like more of a gentleman all dressed up in a suit, even if it was a casual one. Roman looked classy as ever next to me with his fancy watch and pressed clothing.
"Happy Birthday." Were the first words out of Farah's mouth, and I was astounded as to how much better I thought she looked, out of such depressing clothing. In the morning sunlight I could see more of her natural coloring, perhaps a freckle or two on her cheeks. Her cat-like eyes looked far less lethal in bright light. I could've given her a hug, but obviously I did not. Just the thought of that left me feeling a bit odd as I took my place at the table.
"You look very nice." I said. It was a fact. I wasn't flirting, I wasn't even very good at it if I had been trying.
Cecelia had wished a happy birthday too, obviously not aware until this very moment that today was it. "Wait until the stylists in the Capitol get done with her. She'll be lovely."
Farah just cleared her throat and after a moment said with emphasis, "You do too, Herod."
It seemed that no one was going to tell Roman that he looked nice, but it was probably unnecessary. Of the four of us, he was the most well put-together on a regular basis by far. Suppose it was necessary when he was invested or whatever, in a clothing company.
Breakfast consisted of way too many choices, nearly all of them ones I'd never been privy to make before. I had all kinds of fruits I'd never even heard of, fresh pancakes, fried eggs, crispy bacon. I like traditional stuff, but Farah opted for some kind of omelet, more fresh fruit than I'd consumed, and I was quite sure she was drinking coffee. Not wanting to look stupid or anything, I stuck to milk, and a couple of kinds of juice—no chance of looking a fool, there. As a topper to all of this, a small square of what looked like chocolate cake was brought out with a solitary candle, flame wavering atop it. Just for me.
Cecelia was getting the most emotional of anyone, she was smiling so big and trying to hide the fact that a tear or two hadn't slid down her cheeks, but I noticed. Thankfully no one sang, but she, not Roman, said, "Make a wish."
Might've seemed like bad form under the circumstances, but I was completely overwhelmed that anyone had bothered to remember it was my birthday with so much else going on. Our conversation during breakfast had consisted on just what was going to happen to Farah and I once we entered the Capitol. Sounded like we'd be attacked by stylists…maybe Farah would enjoy that, but I sure as hell wasn't going to. Then we'd have the Opening Ceremonies this evening. Roman had been right, today was one of the most important days of my life.
There really was only one wish to make. Dyne was superstitious about that sort of thing, that you had to close your eyes and never tell anyone what you wished for, but I didn't take to such falderal. Blowing out my candle, no one clapped thank goodness, but Roman, Cecelia, and Farah were all smiling at me. Farah actually had a very nice smile when she put some effort into it, framed by those big lips of hers.
After wishing me a happy birthday once more, the ladies retreated. Slightly confused, Roman's expression seemed to answer all questions and after they'd departed, he gave me a closed-mouthed smile and a soft nod.
"Probably just talking strategy, or maybe girl-talk. Don't know, but until we see who you're up against, I'd say we cannot worry a lot about what Farah is or isn't going to do. You're allies for now, and that's good enough. You too have discussed it at length?"
"I wouldn't say at length…" I admitted, marginalized by the change in conversation. This was very likely the last birthday I was ever to celebrate, and returning to the Hunger Games made me sad. "Yeah, we agreed we wouldn't kill each other unless we were the only two left."
Roman Furyk nodded a bit stonily, "Lots of people promise that. But I'd have to say she seems trustworthy enough. I think you're the better liar out of the two of you, so that's good."
Watching my mentor continue to talk, I realized that I did make the proper selection with him, over Cecelia. She was probably a better person—that much could be known within the first couple of minutes of meeting them both—but this didn't mean that Cecelia Harrow was the better mentor for me. Roman, like Jarvis Wellund my escort, was a smooth operator. At least that's what Mom would've called them. I couldn't tell anyone why, as I didn't know myself, but I must be drawn to those types of guys. They allowed my mind to remain relatively clear, for they were concise and not at all erratic.
Was Roman trying so hard, because as he'd said, he liked me? I could tell he had a bit of pride in him…surely it would've been a tremendous ego boost to mentor the winner? Not to mention the prizes associated with such a position. I may have been way off base, but I wondered if Roman might not have seen a bit of himself in me. I was never the most book smart person in my class, but my emotional intelligence has always been pretty decent.
"Well?" Roman was saying.
"What? Huh…what!" I said, realizing I was not paying attention as he spoke, and felt pretty stupid.
He nodded some, shaking his head which only made me feel all the more inadequate. "Nothing. I think we're set for now. We'll talk more once we get to the Training Center and I can see what you can do, and you can see what your competition can do. You should relax now, Herod. Really. You'll want to see the Capitol as we come up on it. Whatever your opinions," ours eyes meeting proved that he knew I was no fan of the Capitol, "it's amazing to see for the first time."
The Capitol. We were almost there already. I was seventeen, and I was going to see the Capitol. Roman was right. Whatever his reasoning, I did want to just relax now. I might die in a few days, but today was my damned birthday. Why not try and enjoy the days left that there were to enjoy?
"I'll be right back." He said, rising near soundlessly.
I looked over the detritus of our four person breakfast…my untouched bit of chocolate birthday cake. I cut a big piece off with my fork and as it touched my tongue, my taste buds exploded. This was so rich. Overpowering almost. Not at all like the bits of chocolate I had tasted back home. No wonder the people in the Capitol were either slightly or undeniably overweight as often as they weren't. I didn't analyze it any further than that. Not right now.
Right now, I, Herod Telfin, was going to try very hard to have my cake and eat it too.