Chapter Four: Scoring

Quell paced into the room, bowed formally to the Gamemakers, who were sitting attentively on their dais, food untouched beside them, all eyes on him. He felt a flicker of pride inside and forced it down. There was no room for that here. Emotions couldn't help him, they only betrayed. He could only succeed through awareness and reason, couldn't let any of that be blurred by anything softer. He picked up a sword went through the most difficult kata he'd learned, unhesitatingly, every motion almost mechanical in its perfection. It ended with four beheaded practice dummies, three missing hands, and one, at the end, skewered. Without pause, he dropped the sword, rolled, picked up an axe, and chopped three more dummies in half with a flurry of motion.

He went through all the melee weapons and then moved on to the distance—throwing knives, sling, crossbow, longbow—each target perfect. Just as he'd been taught. There was no room for imperfection, there was no such thing as 'good enough'. He'd learned before he was seven that if it wasn't the geometric center of the bullseye he would keep going until it was. In the rain in the snow in the heat of summer with sweat pouring off him, with his arms so weak he could barely lift the weapons, he would forge onwards because if it wasn't perfect, they'd be disappointed. They wouldn't beat him. They wouldn't refuse to feed him. But there would be no proud pats on the back, no words of approval, just those thinned lips and averted eyes that told him he would never be good enough.

His last arrow pierced a bullseye all the way across the gymnasium with enough strength that it passed all the way through the target and sank an inch into the wall behind it. He set the bow back on its stand, bowed again to the murmuring audience, and said, voice strong and clear with no hint of the breathlessness that threatened him, "Thank you for your consideration."

—

Precious bowed her head slightly as Quell went in to be judged, and sank herself into meditation, calming herself. The calm never came as easily to her as to Quell. She timed her breaths, deliberately slowing them, thinking of nothing else, until they came to take her in. Then she rose and strode out of the dining room and to the gymnasium, seeing the signs of the hurriedly replaced practice dummies. The Gamemakers were murmuring among themselves, though they quieted as she approached the center of the room, looking at her with interest. Quell had clearly made an impression and they were wondering what else District 1 had to offer. Well. Hopefully she wouldn't disappoint.

She had discussed this at length with Tarn and Mika and they had agreed that there was no point in a repeat of Quell's comprehensive overview. She was best with daggers—she lacked Quell's inhuman precision, but she had a sort of intuition with them that even he couldn't match. It had been tested intensively and reluctantly accepted with the caveat that anything so ephemeral and un-trackable was never to be relied upon. That couldn't be shown without an actual opponent present, that unnatural ability to know an opening was coming before there was any real way to do so, but she could still show her mastery.

She bowed to them, took a knife in each hand, and began to dance among the 'bodies', allowing the peace of half-trance to smooth her motions and her expressions without slowing her, whirling and slicing, leaping and diving, until her time was up and she realized, humiliated, that she'd allowed herself to enjoy the experience, failing completely to shut out all emotion. She tried not to feel her regret as she put the knives away, though her fingers lingered a bit despite themselves, and then she bowed again, murmured her thanks, and left.

—

Zander cocked a brow at the judges and offered them a grin as he bowed just a little too briefly to be considered fully respectful. His trainers had, on reflection, decided that his insouciance was part of his charm and might actually appeal to some potential sponsors and, thusly, the Gamemakers. With the gradual move from punishment to entertainment, the call was less and less for Tributes to show that they knew their place (which was, of course, firmly below the heel of the Capitol) and more and more to put on a good show. All that meant for him was that his trainers encouraged him to do what came naturally. So he winked at the youngest and prettiest of the Gamemakers, who flushed a little and took a large sip of her drink to hide it, looked up and down the rest of them, and then strolled over to the weapons rack, whole attitude saying that he already knew he was the best and was just giving them a show because they'd asked.

—

Cork barely paused for the requisite bow to the judges before grabbing a dagger from the weapons rack and slicing the throat of the nearest dummy. Then he dove, rolled, and sliced the hamstring of another before leaving it to bleed out and moving on to his next victim. He preferred to attack from behind, from low, from high—anywhere they wouldn't see him coming, anywhere he'd have an advantage. A lot of tributes in the Games he'd seen in the past ignored those locked in combat with someone else, letting them fight it out and focusing on others. That wasn't going to be him. No, he was going to kill whoever was stronger while they were distracted, leaving him the weaker to destroy at his leisure.

He jabbed a knife into a dummy's thigh, imagining the rush of blood as he severed the femoral artery, dragged it up, seeing, from the corner of his eye, a couple of the male Gamemakers crossing their legs defensively, and left it to bleed out, moving on to the next one, grinning so wide his face hurt. That was okay. It was a good sort of pain.

—

Isra bounced into the room and smiled at the people who were eating. She sniffed and moved closer. "Can I have some?" she asked hopefully as she recognized something with fruit and bread and lots of sugar that she'd had before. "I've had lots of good food here!"

The people looked at each other—people did that a lot. Then the oldest one shrugged, and the one with the fruit things picked one of them up and gave it to her. "Do you like it here?" she asked.

Isra nodded eagerly, stuffing the fruit thing into her mouth and grinning around the juice and crumbs that ran down her face. They wouldn't get mad at her for staining her shirt again, not like home. They never got mad at her here. She finished the thing, scrubbing her hands on her shirt and thighs, and looked over the rest of the food.

"Isn't there something you'd like to show us?" the woman who'd given her the treat asked. "Something that you've learned since you got here?"

Isra laughed, nodding again. "I forgot!" she said. "I'm supposed to show you I'm strong," she confided, looking around and then going to where the weights were, the really big ones that were as heavy as the crates at her cousin's store. "I'm awful strong," she explained, picking up the biggest one and whirling in a circle, dancing with it. "And I like to dance! Only Carter says I'm not very good," she added sadly, throwing the weight. It hit one of the big dolls and she laughed as it broke. They never got mad when she broke things here, either. "I like it anyway though!" she said, whirling in a circle with her arms out and throwing her head back.

"Thank you, dear," the woman said, and there was that funny catch in her voice that was in a lot of the voices here. Tucker, who said he was her trainer, and Persimmon, who was kind of mean but made her pretty, and some of the other Tributes and Terent's—and her Daddy's when he came to say bye. "You can leave for now. Would you like another tart for your walk back?"

She grinned, breaking off spinning and stumbling a little with the pleasant dizziness, then staggered to the front to take the fruit thing—the tart!—and even remembered to thank her before she left. Tucker was gonna be proud of her! He said she should thank them at the end.

—

"Here's the thing," Dug said conversationally, smirking up at the Gamemakers, meeting one set of eyes after the other over the dummy he'd first tied up with a length of rope and was now brutally beating with hands and feet and occasionally stick. "Maybe I'm not as good at killing kids as them's trained for it, the careers. But these days, you want a show. And me, I can give you as show. That kid Quell, fuck, I'm sure he can tell you fifty-seven ways to kill a man with a fork or whatever. But nobody's gonna give a shit, 'cause the whole time he does it, they'll see it as just another day in the office, or whatever. No passion, that guy. Me, I've got passion." He grinned, remembering Misty under him and imagining the pretty little girl-boy with the purple eyes. "And you—you've got that rebel cunt in the Games and I guess not much of nobody figures he got chose accidental-like. Nobody thinks he's gonna win. Nobody thinks he's gonna live. But do you want him killed fast with a quick slit throat or whatever? Or do you want a real lesson taught? A reminder that nobody loves a rebel? Way I figure, you have more impact on sponsors'n anyone else. And sponsors can mean you live or die. You get me my sponsors, and I get you your lesson. Simple as that."

He grinned again, snapped the dummy's neck, and swaggered out of the room.

—

Rosin slipped into the room, sat cross-legged on the floor at the exact center of it, and closed his eyes. There was no point in trying to put on a show, but he had no intention of showing them anything but calm and reserve. They were absolutely silent throughout the minutes he sat there, no talking, no silverware clinking—nothing. Finally, when his internal clock told him that the time was up, he rose smoothly to his feet, looked from one of them to the next, taking in each face, each of them now familiar from all the training sessions. They all looked back. None of them spoke. He nodded, turned, and left.

—

Grant walked into the room, hands in his pockets, and looked over the Gamemakers, who sneered and glared and, occasionally, leered back. "I'm sure you've already decided what score would give me the most trouble and are planning to give it to me," he said. "So I'm just gonna hang out here for the requisite fifteen minutes imagining you and your children in the Arena. Preferably together." Which was precisely what he did. And judging by the expressions on their faces, just a little bit of nervousness or something under the anger and the superiority, they knew it. They looked just a hint relieved when he finally left.

He took that as a win.

—

A hand between his shoulders gently pushed Jedric into the gymnasium, and he stumbled forward a few steps before awkwardly catching himself and looking around. Seeing everyone looking at him from the dais, he froze and stared back. He backed a step away in a show of nerves, and glanced around as though for inspiration. Then he coughed, choked a little, and spat on the floor. Then blushed and stepped in front of it as though to hide the evidence. He continued the charade as the slight interest they had at the start gave way to disgust and then boredom and they stopped watching him altogether, eating and talking as though he weren't there at all.

One of them finally looked up and he read the lips saying "You can go," but it was easy enough to pretend ignorance and keep standing there dully. Finally someone came in behind him, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him through the door and back into the hands of his handlers.

—

Dirk stumbled into the gymnasium, catching himself on his crutches, and looked around frantically. There had to be something he could do to show them he wasn't going to die, something that would let him live. The Gamemakers were up on their stage, drinking and eating and talking as though they weren't preparing to score him, to give a chance of his survival, to tell him he was going to die in a few days. They weren't even looking at him, and he felt his throat start to close with that familiar panic. He moved over to the edible plants station and displayed how much he'd learned, how many foods he'd recognize now, how he could survive—if only nobody were trying to kill him. And they weren't even watching.

"Look at me!" he shrieked, hardly recognizing his own voice, shrill with fear and desperation. "What did I ever do to you? Why are you doing this?"

And they looked, looked down their noses as though he were—were a filthy District kid who'd slipped into one of their dinner parties and really should know better than to call attention to himself if he had to show up at all. "But we didn't choose you," Faustus, the head Gamemaker said, voice smooth. "Your District did. Ah, yes. I see. Good job with the plants. You've practiced quite hard."

"How can you do this?" he screamed. "I never hurt anyone! I wasn't even alive in the rebellion—my parents weren't even alive! We never did anything to you, how can you— You're all murderers, all of you are just—just child-killers and murderers!"

They shifted, not as though they were questioning themselves but as though they wanted to move away from something distasteful. "Well. If that's all, I think we can cut your session short," Faustus announced. "Need some help, do you?" He snapped his finger, and two servants came, replacing Dirk's crutches with their shoulders and bearing him easily from the room, ignoring him as his accusatory screams broke down into sobs.

—

Tanna slipped into the room and looked over the Gamemakers. They were all brown and yellow and bored—Dirk hadn't done much. She was sort of sorry for him, but he was so prickly and jagged it hurt to look at him, so mostly she stayed away. She knew he knew he was going to die—but she knew she was going to die, probably, and she wasn't prickly and jagged. She wrinkled her nose a little at the big Gamemaker with the black spots like mold in the brown, and moved an unconscious step away from him, looking around. Koter, her trainer, said to show what she was good at, so she went to the plants station and quickly separated them into piles—one for nourishing, one for medicinal, one for safe but pointless, and the last for poison. Then she moved the medicinal ones that could also be poison a little way towards the poison ones. That was easy. The little juts of purple showed they could be poisonous just like the overarching aura of yellow showed they could be medicinal. How much it took to be poisonous was showed by how much purple there was.

Task complete, she looked around and grinned as she saw an area full of traps. Dancing over to it, she passed through it twice, careful not to touch any of the fluorescent orange triggers. Then she stopped to look at one more closely, and, as she concentrated, a blue line squirmed up, looped around, and vanished, and she laughed aloud as she did what it showed and disarmed the trap. She went to do another one, but got called back because she was out of time, and so she skipped out the door, following a green ball that bounced and rolled in front of her but jumped to the side if she tried to catch it.

—

Posy reminded herself not to scowl at the Gamemakers, who were obviously bored and sick of this whole thing. She was last—she or Kenny were always last, and she supposed it was her turn, since mostly it was Kenny. And this year especially, chances were good nobody much made any impression at all except from the first few districts, so it sort of made sense that they were bored. But still! This was her fucking life, and, if Paden was to be believed, the response she gained here could make a huge difference in the Arena. She still wasn't all that sure how much Paden was to be believed, but, despite herself, she kind of liked him, and he did usually make sense. And he said she was to make an impression and not to scowl at the Gamemakers, and she was left to try to figure out how to manage either of those things—much less both of them.

She felt a hot ache start in the back of her eyes, not fear or sorrow but anger, and she hated that anger made her cry, but it always had, and if she let it now, they would think she was afraid, and she wasn't. Furiously, she stalked three paces forward. "Well," she said, voice harsh, scowling despite Paden's orders. "Everyone give you a good show?"

They looked at her, startled, one of them pausing with food actually in her mouth but not biting down, a bit of sauce making its way down her fork.

"'Course, breaking a few practice dummies doesn't have much to do with actually fighting," she commented. "They didn't look them in the eyes and know it was another human being they have to kill." She grinned suddenly, fiercely. "Why don't one of you come on down, and we'll see how I do against a real person?" she offered, eyes narrowing ferally as the woman with the fork still in her mouth jumped as the sauce finally spilled onto her hand and put it down hurriedly. "I'll look you right in the eye," she promised. "And we'll see whether I can take a human life. Come on—what better test is there than that?" She stared at them, one after another, and they stared back, nobody moving, nobody speaking. And then, finally, she nodded. "Yeah, figured," she said. "Pity." And then she walked out.

"Well?" Paden asked, cornering her as soon as she got off the elevator before she entered the living room where Kenny and Torrie and the stylists were likely to be waiting.

She shrugged.

"Did you make an impression?" he asked.

"Maybe."

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, a hint of a smile suggesting that he thought maybe there was a story behind that. "Tell," he said.

"I told them they couldn't really judge any of our abilities to survive by facing off against practice dummies since it was obviously going to be different with real humans, and invited them to come down and see if I was up to killing a human," she answered, glaring at him. "Also, I scowled."

To her surprise, a delighted smile lit up his face, and he slapped one hand against his thigh. "Ah, honey, I love you a little bit some days," he told her. "A lot of kids talk at 'em instead of doing anything—begging or yelling mostly. But I never heard of anyone inviting them down. Well, I don't know as you'll get an eight or a nine, but you should have at least captured their attention a bit. And at the very least—do you feel a little better?"

Surprised, she shrugged, then admitted, "Yeah, a little."

"Good," he said. "Then it was worth it."

—

Precious fought back a frown at Quell's score of ten. He was, surely, the best they'd ever had before—she understood that nobody ever got a twelve, though she'd honestly thought they might make an exception for him—but there had been several elevens over the years and surely if anyone had ever deserved one, it was Quell? She shot a sideways look at him, and found him serene and apparently content with the score. Their mentors looked far from content, but were at least approving of his acceptance. Then she turned her attention back to the screen at her own name, and her eyes widened as Fabius, the commentator, shrilled, "Eleven!"

Her jaw dropped. There was no way. She shot an anxious look around, and saw Mika looking at her through hooded eyes, and Tarn nodding slowly. "They're changing the way they judge," he commented. "Thinking less about skill and more about playacting. Pleasing the audience, appealing to sponsors as more than simply the best bet. Very well, we can use that, between her appeal and your skill—there won't be any shortage of sponsors. You two are going to have a good, clean game. It's a shame that you're facing even lower dregs than most, but the honor of success will be no less for that."

—

There were more ones than there had been in all the other twenty-four games altogether. Six of them. Of which, Jedric was one, along with both triutes from District 3, the armless boy from 7, and the crippled boys from 8 and 11. The blind girl from 8 pulled a three, apparently not just giving up and rolling over. If the Arena were just right—or just wrong—she might have a chance, after all, but the odds were definitely not in her favor. Jedric smiled just a little. He always found the focus on odds amusing—they had never been nor would ever be in any one individual's favor. Nobody who entered the Arena would ever have a better chance of survival than of death.

Tanna, who was either insane or a genius—or possibly both—pulled a seven, and he wondered just what she'd shown them that earned her that. Same for the rebel boy from 9, though he doubted that had anything to do with anything he'd done in the Arena. High enough to make him a threat but too low to make him an obvious choice for sponsors—about what he'd figured for that one. And the nutjob who was clearly targeting him, the boy from 6, got a nine that he suspected was just as rigged. There was no way he could have actually showed better skills than the boy from 4, obviously a career despite his slight build, who only got an eight. Of the other careers, the girl from 2 got a nine, the girl from 1 got an eleven, and the other three were all tens. So the career average of 9.7, which was a bit higher than usual—but not enough so to pull up the overall average past 5.1, which was by far the lowest of any of the games to date. Other than the ones, there were a pair of twos—the girls from 7 and 9, both mentally incompetent unless they were playing a game as deep as his own, and he didn't think they were—and three threes, the friendly giant girl from 3, 8-girl, and 12-boy. Nessa got a five along with 5-boy. 6-girl and 12-girl—the volunteer—sixes, and that was the lot of them, summed up with a score that was supposed to rate their chances of survival.

If he'd believed for an instant that there weren't cameras on him, he would have allowed himself a smile rather than staring blindly into space. Every now and then he found himself almost enjoying this. He knew even with his deception his chances were far from good. If he'd shown everything he knew they'd have maybe given him a five or six. But he wasn't really interested in their odds, much less their scores. The only one of the lot of them he trusted to actually deserve a one was the poor kid from Seven. No act would make it look like arms weren't there when they were. Every single one of the others could be a threat, and he intended to remember it.