I do not own The Hunger Games.
The first thing that registers is the roaring crowd. They're on either side of us, wearing extremely tacky and bright colours, and screaming their heads off. I can only imagine what they're thinking, Oh, look! Another pair of kids about to be put to death!
Then everything else hits me all at once. Everybody's eyes are on us. I'm forced to keep my head high and wear a brave expression, along with this awful outfit. I notice Mark trembling beside me, and almost put my hand out to comfort him, but then decide against. I will not be a star-crossed lover.
I hear a few whistles from the male portion of the audience, and refrain from flipping them off. I mean, a blonde in a provocative dress? It's almost as if I'm Cashmere.
I don't notice my shallow breathe until we're halfway down the road, and find myself relieved. The crowd grows quieter, and I realize that neither of us has been waving. So I do so, Queen Elizabeth style. I also glue a smile to my face, trying to make it look as real as possible. The crowd screams in response.
I see Mark starting to wave with a shy smile in the corner of my eye. And by the sound of it, the female portion of the crowd definitely approves. His smile grows even more timid. Oh, I see, he's milking it. That'll get him sponsors, and he'll need them.
We finally reach the end of the road. I see Crimmons looking down at us with little interest, just another group of kids that he's going to murder. I stop myself from drawing my finger under my neck, and instead smile even wider at him, thoughts of killing that arrogant man in my mind as inspiration.
We go through another large opening, and we are alone, save Fredrick, Marie, Mr. Jenkins, and Mark's stylist. I sigh in relief and exhaustion, even though all I did was stand on a chariot. I rip off my stupid shoes and throw them to the opposite side of the compartment, hop of the chariot, and drag myself to the elevator. I hear everybody congratulating Mark, but whenever someone tries to talk to me I wave him or her off. The elevator dings open, I slide in and press Button 12. Mark, Mr. Jenkins, and Marie jump in just before the doors close.
When the doors slide open, I quickly run through our District 12 Suite and into my room. I rip the horrid dress off, cursing profusely. I throw on a long shirt at random, crawl under the heavy covers of my bed, and sink into sleep.
I hear Marie saying, "Wake up, dear. It is a very exciting day! You'll start training."
That wakes me up.
I sit up in my bed, my hair probably horribly bedraggled, though I don't see why I'd care. I look at Marie with horror. Training? I have to start training? This just pushes my oncoming death right in my face. I don't want to start training. I already know that I'm going to fail at everything. Sword? No. Bow and arrow? No. Spear? No. Magical unicorn horn? No. I am useless.
But I drag myself out of bed anyway. I trudge into the bathroom and notice some dry drool on my chin. Instead of just washing my face, I take a whole shower. If I am going to die, I am going to enjoy the preambular luxuries to it. I exit the bathroom to find my training suit lying on my bed, and quickly put it on. I put on some combat boots I found in the closet.
I find Mark in the super huge living room, pulling on his pant leg, listening to it slap his skin, him giggling, and then repeating it. Why is it that I always see him messing with his pants these days?
"'Sup, Hot Pants!" I say to him, and then mimic his pant-pulling-slash-slapping. He shoots me glare. I laugh. "I'm just kidding. I don't really think you look hot in those pants. I was being nice."
He growls at me, like, literally growls. I start to think that being in the Hunger Games is changing him, and become horribly crestfallen. I apologize and look at my shoes until we reach the Training Center.
The first thing I see is Fredrik. You can imagine my disappointment. He pulls me toward a podium and has me stand on it. He pulls up a stool, so to be taller than me, pulls my hair out of its ponytail, and rustles it up a bit. When I ask him why he says, "Well, you want sponsors. Don't you?" with a wink. I nearly vomit. He then tells me that this will be my picture for whenever the show me on television, save my action in the Games.
A photographer comes up and points his camera at me. I choose my pose on impulse. I stand tall, probably making me look a few inches taller than I actually am, ball my fists at my sides, definitely making them look unnaturally pale, put my chin high, and glare ever so slightly, because how much anger do you think I can possibly bury? I hear the photo snap, and then step down slowly, my face still with its hard expression.
Mark takes my place and his stylist does his "magic" on him. That's right, he got a stylist of the same sex and I didn't. Not fair.
Mark tries standing up straight – but slouches a little anyway – and has his eyes wide with fear. I still feel intimidated though, because he's already so tall and has had a permanent scowl since I called him 'Hot Pants'.
The photographer snaps his picture, and he jumps down from the podium. We are then led through a door that leads to the actual Training Center. It's vicious. There are weapons lined up all about the wall, mats, obstacle courses – variations from rope to walls to avoiding fire – and several trainers. The head trainer, whose name is Estil, says that we may do anything we want with the help of the trainers.
I immediately go to station for learning about plants. I learn that moss always grows on the North side of a tree and that it's good for wiping thing up. Like blood. I learn about poisonous berries, like the Black Bryony, that watercress leaves are edible, and lots of other survival skills.
Next I go to the fencing station. I'm disarmed in seconds. I give up on that then, despite the trainer's arguments. I go to the wrestling station, and last a good forty-seven seconds against the well-built man who verses me. He tells me that I'll definitely stand a chance against a smaller or unfit opponent, but that I should watch out for any larger or more accommodated to fighting than I.
I approach the knife-throwing station. I throw my first shot and it sticks in the dummy's shoulder. The trainer tells me that this is good, since the shoulder is so close to the heart, but that I should practice more, and so I do. After a good half an hour, I'm able to hit the dummy in the abdomen easily, and with a little more focus, the chest.
Estil tells us that our time is up, and that District Eleven is waiting, so we leave. As we ride up the elevator to Level 12, I reflect on our training period. I think it to have lasted roughly two hours and well spent. I saw Mark thrusting spears or practicing hand-to-hand combat out of the corner of my eye, and it didn't look as though he was massively failing, so that's good.
After a dinner of lavish proportions, I go to sit at the extremely comfy couch in front of the television in the suite's living room. Mark sits down next to me silently.
"So," He begins sheepishly. "I was thinking that we should discuss our strategy." I look over at him skeptically. "We are in an alliance, right?"
I turn to him. "Of course."
"Okay. Good." He's quiet for a minute, and I can tell that he's carefully deciding on what to say. "So, for the Games, I was thinking that if the arena has a forest, we should hide there and kill anyone that gets too close." I nod absently, my own mind making its own plans. "And if it has water, like, a lot of water, we should swim across it, but only if there's an island or something."
I smile. He really hasn't thought this out much. He's probably depending on me for some brilliant idea just like always.
I shake my head. "No." I state firmly. "This is the plan: You win and I die."
