The clock on the oak table beside my bed reads 5:30 AM.
My thoughts aren't lucid enough for me to fully douse myself in dread just yet, as a thin mist seems to cloud behind my eyes. The constant fretful turning and awakening during the night has wreaked havoc on my hair- which, admittedly, looked pretty yesterday. I can feel stray tangles sticking out of outlandish parts of my head like the branches of a palm tree. I have a half hour until Seraphina will knock on my door, and not a minute out I bet. It's a nice time- it's enough to get something done, but not enough to leave you with your own subconscious.
But being a walking paradox means I go against my own thesis and occupy myself with showering- the one activity that gives you no choice but to hear your subconscious. The head of the shower seems to release hundreds of sewing pins at the turn of the metal handle that prick at the skin on my back. The water is perfumed with the kind of heavy scent that lingers in the top of your nose like a cold, despite the water being anything but. It probably has something to do with the buttons I fumbled with in order to make the water run. The perfume must be what's making my eyes water so much.
(Don't kid yourself.)
Once my hair has been washed enough to weigh the unruliness down I surround myself with the security of a towel that's been pre-warmed by the rack it was hanging on, and try to navigate through the countless bottles of products in the under sink cupboard for a brush or comb. Hopefully smoothing out my hair will smooth out my mind too.
I'm struggling to adjust a shirt so to not have a neckline dipping below my breastbone when Seraphina raps on my door. She sounds as if she's constantly in song, or so ecstatic she can barely contain herself in a composed manner. It's ironic, considering politeness is one of the things she likes to press most on others. I catch her rounding a corner as I exit, the ends of her pearlescent silver hair flicking with a momentary delay. My own hair sits damp against my back, the ringlets beginning to form as the weight of water gradually subsides.
On entering the dining cart, I notice only Seraphina and Isaac are present. I can see the back of his head and it dawns on me this is the first time I've seen him properly, through arid eyes. His hair is sandy and the skin on the back of his neck is dark, both characteristics of the Aquilonem vicinity up north of 4. It's where most of the industrial work takes place, and consequently the poorest area of the District; most of the tesserae comes from there.
Isaac looks up as I approach and a pang of anguish sears my chest as his round cheeks and chin remind me of his age. However his eyes are dark, both physically and metaphorically, and hold both an indifference that instantly causes you to feel displaced and bitter vengeance that stirs a pit of skepticism in the hollows of the stomach. He is far too young to possess the eyes he does. He neither smiles nor frowns, just observes me. I offer a faint smile, to which he responds with a polite nod.
Seraphina diverts her attention away from the compact mirror she is inspecting her makeup in when I sit down. "Good morning darling!" She trills, diamond encrusted teeth glinting as she smiles.
"Good morning," I return lightly, skimming my eyes over the table's contents.
"They really eat this stuff?" Isaac scoffs under his breath, just resonant enough for me to hear. His voice matches his eyes.
(Too young.)
(Aren't we all?)
I hum an affirmative reply, taking a small handful of vibrantly coloured berries from a large glass bowl. Neither Finnick or Mags are here, I don't care to wonder why. Seraphina has redirected her attention to her own reflection again and seems completely immersed in herself. I seize the opportunity to try to speak to Isaac.
"How are you?" I ask under my breath, watching the table where his hands lie.
"Bored." He replies bluntly. "Tired, vitrolic. The usual."
I smile slightly, the abrupt shamelessness of his reply was only to be expected.
"I don't know where Mags and Finnick are," I offer, curious as to wether he might.
"Me neither," he says, a slash of bitterness intertwining with his words. "I'd be lying if I said I care."
Im usually the last person who would ever be found conversing with someone with the same demeanour as Isaac, but the impertinence he carries in himself is somewhat captivating. I can't think of a substantial reply. I'd like them here, just as a confirmation that they take even a slight interest in us. However my judgement seems to be wavering toward negative after the friendly gesture from Finnick last night ended up simply being a device to aid him in getting his own way. I still hold an unreasoned sense of trust with Mags.
After a short while of insatiable silence, interrupted only by the occasional clanging of cutlery against silver, Seraphina rises swiftly and looks at us both cheerily, the light above her reflecting garishly off of her cosmetically enhanced cheekbones.
"Do excuse me, I'm going to lay you both outfits out for when we arrive in the Capitol," she announces. "We must look presentable! Do carry on eating, all of this must be so new for you both!"
Isaac's disgusted scoff flies right over the crotchet flower fixed to her head as she trots out toward our rooms.
"She's ridiculous." he hisses, fiddling with a strawberry that looks as if it's being crushed between his fingers. I shrug- giving silent and neutral responses can never get you in trouble. However, in this instance my throat burns with the desire to agree.
"Well strawberries are hard to get hold of out season," I say quietly. It earns a smirk that's amused, opposed to bitter.
When Seraphina returns and dismisses us both to get changed into something "pretty" the unwavering anxiety that has been pooling in my stomach makes itself prominent once again. It feels as if it could turn me inside out. The blouse she gave me is a mission to get on. I spend minutes wrestling with the orange silky fabric that falls flimsily between the fingers like sand, trying desperately to find which holes are for arms and what to do with all the swoops and ruffles. Once it looks as if it may be on properly I try to manage my now damp hair. It takes hours to dry normally because of how thick it is, but there's something about what I used on it here that's making it dry suspiciously fast.
On my return to the dining cart and front lounge I can hear several voices all speaking at once, the conflicting tones and pitches bounce off each other.
"Are you a maniac?" The laugh of disbelief belong to nobody but Finnick. I slide through the ajar door to see Isaac and Mags sat opposite each other and Finnick leaning against the wall, wearing nothing but a robe tied around his waist with his arms crossed.
"Don't be rude," Mags scolds him, sliding the smug smile from his face. On turning her head to him she notices me lingering in the doorway. "Hello amor," she smiles. "Come sit, we're just discussing some things."
She gestures to the empty space next to Isaac on the plush chair lining the edge of the room.
"What kinds of things?" I ask, sitting myself a small distance from Isaac. The shirt Seraphina laid for him is the same tangerine colour as mine and it looks out of place against the glower he's wearing on his face.
"We're getting the gist of your plans to not die," Finnick says candidly, removing his back from the wall and sitting on the arm of the chair next to Mags. He turns his gaze evenly to Isaac and bores his eyes into him. "Looks like we have some work to do."
(You're meant to be good at planning, remember your father's funeral?)
(That was a funeral, not a death match)
(Who will plan your funeral when you're gone?)
"Annie?" Mags' voice causes me to jump as it drags me out of my thoughts.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear." I say sheepishly. She laughs slightly, it sounds like a tut, and rests her hands on her lap.
"We were wondering if you had any ideas?"
'We' is a lie. Finnick looks extremely bored. I don't want to be here either.
"No. I haven't thought about it."
"That's fine,"
She's being far too nice. Why isn't she scolding me, pressing ideas on to me or threatening to decide what to do for me? Isn't that what career mentors do?
(You're not a Career, Annie.)
"I had an idea," Isaac says snippily. "But only certain ones are allowed."
"Only realistic ones," Finnick quips, scoffing through his nose.
"I didn't realise my ideas for a child killing game had to be realistic." Isaac sneers, throwing himself back into the chair.
"My sincerest apologies that we're trying to get you out alive."
The two are bickering like children, the agitation creeping into their retorts the more they argue.
"Can I know the idea?" I ask, looking up from my hands to Mags, who's frowning between Isaac and Finnick.
"Isaac said he wanted to try kill as many from 1 and 2, and any tag alongs, at the Cornucopia." Mags says, watching me for a reaction.
I know it isn't a practical or realistic idea, at all. They're trained for longer than us and harder than us, plus there's far more of them. Isaac is only 15 and I've no idea how good he is with weaponry. I can't bring myself to say it, but a standoff with 1 & 2 is the last thing I want to be partaking in. He's determined, granted, but idealistic at the least. (Or you're a pessimist?)
"I can't decide what Isaac does," my voice becoming quieter the more I speak. "But that isn't the best approach for me."
Mags hums, Isaac huffs and shifts slightly. I flicker my eyes around and notice Finnick watching me carefully, the intensity of his gaze making me uncomfortable. I frown in question at him and he simply raises an eyebrow a fraction.
(Don't think he's not trying to read you, your main plot line is open for everyone to see.)
"What can you both do with weapons and such?" Mags asks.
"Or anything that might help you," Finnick adds, resuming his position against the wall again and removing his eyes from me.
"Swords." Isaac says bluntly. "And spears."
"How good are you?" Finnick's question sounds challenging opposed to curious.
"Define good."
"Could you kill someone with it?"
They leave no space between their responses and the heat noticeably rises between them.
"Depends on how I'm killing them."
Finnick purses his lips and sighs exasperatedly, lowering his jaw from it's usual upward position and louring at Isaac.
"If somebody is charging at you with a knife in their hand with the intention to slit your throat, would you be able to kill them first?"
My throat clenches at the imagery. Nearly every Games has a huge fight scene that starts in a way similar. That could be me, or Isaac. (Or both of you.) Isaac's lip curls slightly and he raises his eyebrows defiantly.
"Depends on how fast they're running."
Finnick's jaw visibly clenches with its rise back above so as to look down on us both. I could swear the green in his eyes darkens before he momentarily closes them to take a deep, collective breath.
"How about you, sweetheart? Takes more than a pretty face to get into that Academy."
Despite his question being aimed at me, it seems as if he's reminding himself of the strict pecking order of the Academy.
"Knives, mainly," I return. "I used katanas for a while."
"How good are you?" he asks expectantly, probably waiting on a substantial response that surpasses Isaac's tormenting. It takes a short while for me to reply- I want to be honest, but not big-headed. Plus, I haven't used them in years, it's mere guesswork.
"I don't know about now," I start. "But they didn't want me to leave, if that means anything?"
"It may," Mags chimes in. "Unless your age group was underpopulated. That would've meant they wanted you for funds."
I know subconsciously it wasn't the latter, but the more I try to sensationalise my abilities to myself, the guiltier I feel. The need for some kind of reason to simultaneously trust and doubt myself is conflicting like fire and ice, and until the Games begin I will remain oblivious to whether it's better for me to remain cold and reserved or fiery and open.
"It wasn't, isn't." Isaac says. I look up to him and see he retains the unfazed expression he has had for most of the morning. "Your age group was full up, there was about 15 of you."
Mags makes a noise that I can't pinpoint the meaning of, and Finnick is watching me with a mischievous smirk. The ice method seems to be evaporating by the second.
"Honey, you're either doubting yourself or have your own little plan formed already." Finnick grins.
"If I had a plan I would've told you it." I retort somewhat bluntly. Mags nods contentedly and I take it as an affirmation that she believes me. I think Finnick might, but it's impossible to tell behind the arrogant smiles and relentless teasing.
The remainder of the morning, lunch and the ongoing afternoon is a mix of light, slightly forced conversation between the 5 of us. I try to divert away from any questions about the Games and surround myself in a self-inflicted blanket of pretend ignorance to settle my mind. At one point, Mags whispers something to Finnick and he rebukes her instantaneously, to which she tells him that she knows best in Latin, and his protests subside. The bond between the two holds an uncanny resemblance to a mother and son, opposed to a Mentor and Victor, and it confuses me how I've never seen the two together on TV or in the Capitol and only seldom in the Market, yet they're so close. I know the Capitol is big on censorship of things they don't like, but what could be harmless as the two?
I'm gazing distantly out the window at the passing mountains when the scenery turns abruptly black. Seraphina is forced to stop faffing with my hair when I turn around to glance at the other windows to only find they're encompassed by the same darkness.
"Ah, we're finally here!" Seraphina sings, abandoning my hair and whipping out her mirror again to inspect her make up. This can't be the Capitol- it's just darkness tinged with the occasional flicker of a passing light. We must be in the tunnel that runs through the mountains in 2. I stare expectantly out any windows that fall into my gaze and catch Isaac, Mags and Finnick all looking completely disinterested.
(Poor idealistic you.)
A sudden brightness floods the carriage again, and the sight of the Capitol renders me both speechless and breathless. I'd assumed they only showed the most magnificent parts on TV and the very centre was the only part of the city that housed buildings that touched the sky and architecture that looked like fantasy, but even the outside edge of the Capitol is more glorious than I could've imagined. I hop from my seat and move to the other side of the carriage, pressing my palms to the window and trying desperately to see more.
"Come look at this!" I exclaim to Isaac, who looks up indifferently from his nails he'd been fiddling with. He stands reluctantly and moves to where I am, raising his eyebrows at the sight before us.
"I thought they computerised most of this," he says, his voice sounding more impressed than I've heard all day.
"Make sure you smile and wave." Mags tells us, standing to follow Finnick out of the room.
I go to question her, but my enquiries are answered as the train slows and a blur of neon bright colours begin to zoom past us. I make out faces and realise they're all Capitol citizens lined up on the station platform. The more we slow, the more I can acknowledge what they're doing. Some are waving and some are clapping, even cheering. I follow Mags' advice and wave back, my face sporting an astounded smile. Through the reflection in the glass I can see Isaac just staring blankly at the people in the exaggerated clothing with the strange faces. I hear the sound of Seraphina's heels trotting over to us from behind and a slender, bony hand places itself on my shoulder.
"Welcome to the Capitol!"
