The quarters that Carmenius depreciatingly describes as pokey and plain include a large central room with an already laden dining table, several couches and a television. Each of us has our own room complete with a strangely wobbly but surprisingly comfortable bed and a private shower and toilet. Every wall space is covered with soft silken hangings in various shades of blue, purple and green and paintings of geometric shapes or rippling lines. The whole place is equivalent to at least three family units in my apartment block and I struggle to imagine how much bigger and fancier the Training Centre rooms will be if this is 'plain' and 'pokey'.
I pick at the meal for about half an hour, watching in amazement as Carmenius packs down at least as much as he had for lunch despite his snacking all afternoon. The wasteful way these Capitol people eat is disgusting; surely they don't require this much food to live, especially as none of them seem to do anything remotely resembling exercise. Stuvek also seems to have found his appetite at last and is shovelling down the spicy collection of meat and beans almost on pace with our escort.
Finally the ornate water clock which I have been itching to examine closely ever since we entered the room drops over to 7:30 and Beetee switches on the television to finally see our competition.
The show starts as always in District One, the golden light flickering through the flowering trees that ring their central square. Unlike our district the children are not separated into age-groups, but allowed to stand freely in clumps of friends and relatives in a single roped area. This is mostly due to the line of older children at the very front of the enclosure who spend the entirety of their rather eloquent Mayor's recitation of the history of Panem quivering in anticipation. As the woman finishes her speech they all tense further, and the Capitol Escort swiftly plucks the top name from each bowl. The chosen girl fearlessly makes her way to the stage despite her youth, while the boy is from the front of the pack of eighteen-year-olds.
He leaps up the steps with an eager strut and murmurs to the Escort before taking his place. I remember seeing enough District One reapings from previous years to know that the first person to touch the shoulder of the selected tribute at the front of the stage replaces them as a volunteer. This year only the girl steps forward and there is actually an audible murmur of discontent from the gathered boys as they back away from the rope. It always makes me wonder how they can be so keen to risk death, but as always the girls however race forwards the moment the Capitolian lifts his hand from the tribute's shoulder. The front-runner is a typically golden-haired curvy girl who draws a sigh from Carmenius.
"There goes the last chance of sponsorship from that angle," he mutters with a shrug when both of our mentors turn to glare at him.
The boy too is more pretty than handsome as he waves to the crowd, his red-gold hair flicking his shoulders in the breeze, while the presumably silk shirt outlines against his lithe muscular frame. There is something in his smirk though, a cruel arrogance that makes him ugly, and I know already that he is not someone I want to find myself facing in the arena. The pair stand proudly on the stage during the recitation of the treaty, occasionally waving or blowing kisses until the commentators cut to District 2.
The second career district has none of the beauty of its predecessor, and even the people look hard and worn like the stone they produce. The ceremony here is somewhat different and I've never managed to work out how the volunteers are chosen, but there is always only one for each. This year it is a massively broad-shouldered boy with heavy-lidded dark eyes and a rather plain looking girl with a sour expression. Undoubtedly they could kill me a hundred different ways without effort but I have seen much more terrifying tributes from their district in the past and my heart lifts a little.
Our reaping passes by with little comment, though the tear-track on my cheek is as visible as Stuvek's trembling. One of the commentators notices aloud my shared look with my sister, but they seem mostly to be filling time until they cut to District Four.
Again there is little fear in the chosen tributes, a rangy girl and a tiny twelve-year-old boy, and they are both quickly replaced by capable-looking volunteers. The girl in particular moves with a fluid grace that suggests training and smirks at the tanned boy when they shake hands.
The next few reapings stand out little compared to what I have already seen. The boy from Five could easily be from my own district with his slight frame, dark hair and glasses. The pair from Seven are a mismatched tall, blond broad-shouldered eighteen-year-old and a petite thirteen-year-old girl who isn't much over five feet.
The girl from Ten elicits a whistle of approval from Carmenius, her dark hair falling elegantly around long-lashed hazel eyes. Her counterpart is less impressive, and the smallest boy since Stuvek was chosen, making me realise that the male half of this year's tributes are quite physically imposing.
Beetee sits forward with a frown as the pair from Eleven are chosen and when I look at them again I realise there is something unobtrusively dangerous about them. The girl is eighteen and strong, with dark hair and olive skin surrounding wide golden-brown eyes. Her face is set in an ambivalent expression as she mounts the stage, and she shares a brief glance with their only female victor on the way past. The boy is a different matter entirely. He makes the walk from the thirteen-year-olds section to the stage with a nonchalance that is usually reserved for the Career districts and gives a bright winning smile to the crowd that makes him appear even younger. Childish, carefree, innocent. Which means he is either incredibly stupid or very dangerous. For some reason I feel it is the latter.
The pair from Twelve are ordinary by comparison; an underweight eighteen-year-old boy whose best clothes have obviously been cut down to fit and an unusually light-haired girl who takes the selection with wide-eyed fear.
"Well," murmurs Beetee, sitting back in his seat and adjusting his glasses as Cupros hits the mute button. I wait for him to finish the thought but he remains silent, his chin resting on steepled fingers. I guess he is mentally replaying what we just saw and try to do the same in terms of my hopes of survival.
The Careers are undoubtedly dangerous, so that is at least six tributes I will have to be especially wary of. The boys from Six, Seven, Nine and Twelve are my age or older and probably quite strong. The pair from Eleven and perhaps the girl from Ten too. That leaves me ahead of or on par with ten tributes. Better odds than I might have hoped for. Then again the odds haven't been working for me so well today.
-xXx-
I must toss and turn on the wobbly bed for some time because the fascinating clock shows nearly midnight when I slip silently out to the kitchen for a glass of water. The room is dimly lit through the windows, where the distant sounds of music and voices echoes through from the streets below. Our mentors must have departed then, either to bed or to the night-time entertainments of the Capitol. There are no all-purpose cups around so I use a wine-glass from the shelf, watching the procession of turquoise-dyed water droplets marking seconds, minutes and hours as I sip my drink. My fingers itch to take a closer look, maybe examine the internal pump mechanism that is presumably hidden by the metal panelling. Over the years taking things apart has become something of a calming ritual for me, spending sleepless nights surrounded by wires and gears until that moment of understanding clears my mind and allows me to rest. I'm not sure whether I can even remove the clock from the wall but a closer look won't hurt, surely.
I trace the array of tubes and cups that mark out the water path through to the old-fashioned analogue display before focussing on the copper base. It's not hard to find the four tiny screw-holes that hold it in place and I am debating whether to use a knife from the cutlery draw to pry them free when a voice interrupts me.
"Would you like to borrow a screwdriver? I have several in my bag."
I whirl around at the sound and catch one foot behind the other while trying to stand. Before I can stop myself I fall sideways into the beautiful glass-paned clock and bounce off without leaving a scratch. I feel the heat rising to my cheeks as Beetee chuckles softly and offers me a hand up.
"Don't worry, you could probably hit it with a hammer and it wouldn't break. It's beautiful, isn't it? Of course water is the 'in theme' right now."
He reaches out a fingertip to trace the same lines as I did a moment ago, and I consider his words as I look about the room again. Now that he has mentioned it I can see the running theme, from the blue curtains laced with white trim to the tear-drop and wave-shaped furniture. Last year's games involved a rocky island arena patched with picturesque lagoons and waterfalls. Not unexpectedly the victor was from District Four, her final fight with the boy from One ending when she forced him into the river and he was swept off one of those beautiful waterfalls to the rocks below. Naturally the Capitol would continue to bask in it as they seemed to adore the aggressively beautiful Denissa Flow. Perhaps by this time next year the room will be decked with the new 'in thing' based on these games.
"Can't sleep?"
I suddenly remember Beetee standing beside me, who after witnessing by breakdown earlier as well as my current state of mind must think I'm mad.
"It's alright," he adds quickly, gesturing to one of the couches, smiling gently as I give him a measured glance before sitting. "We get a lot of restless tributes for obvious reasons. Are you…are you doing better?"
I nod cautiously, still not entirely sure what he wants from me. Maybe he has already given up saving me as an impossible task and is simply being nice. Maybe he feels obligated to get to know the children in his care before they are sent off to die.
"You seem a lot…well, a lot less afraid. Than before."
I'm not sure that I am any less afraid now than I was a few hours ago, but I am glad that I seem to have gained some of my rational thought processes back. In fact I realise that a greater part of my mental breakdown was due to me viewing the situation as an unsolvable problem, which resulted in my brain switching off. For me, being unable to think through a problem is a terrifying experience in itself. Now that my rational side has taken over I am able to accept the high likelihood of my death, but remain calm enough to try and think of ways around it. Clever things that no-one else will think of.
"If you don't want to talk, that's fine."
And I remember as Beetee starts to rise and leave that I still haven't said a word to him.
"No, it's fine. Sorry, I just…space out sometimes."
It's his turn to be surprised and he blinks several times behind those polished lenses as though trying to see if he was imagining my reply.
"Sorry about before too. I had a bad moment but I think I'm better now. I just realised…"
He probably doesn't want to be reminded of the horrible deaths he is responsible for, so I bite down on the comment and look down. Until a finger raises my chin until our eyes meet. He stares at me for a few seconds longer, before dropping his hand as though burned and curling his other hand around it, wringing out his fingers. As though touching another human being is a terrible or painful act. He smiles slightly as he shakes his head, and leans back into the plush cushions.
"You realised that being a Hunger Games victor is not the same as winning? Yet you are going to try regardless?"
I nod twice, and the small movement causes his eyebrows to leap together above the silver rims.
"Do you have a plan?"
Do I? Not really beyond surviving the bloodbath and finding some way of not dying that doesn't require me to wield a weapon.
"Not yet," is what I say. "I mean, it's sort of hard to plan without knowing what the arena will be like. And what I will have to work with materials wise."
"I might be able to help there," he replies and for a moment I wonder if the Mentors are told in advance what to expect. But that's stupid. No-one but the Gamemakers know as it is one of the most closely guarded secrets and highly bet upon results. But he is clever, maybe he's picked up a hint or two. Or maybe one of his inventions was required.
"Obviously I don't know any specifics," he says, and we both stare briefly out the window as a loud bang is followed by a burst of red and white light. "But they rarely use the same idea two years in a row, so you can probably rule out an island setting. The year before was the rocky grasslands which the ah…audience found somewhat boring. Pontius Vellum is Head Gamemaker again this year, and he is apparently looking for a way to top last year's efforts. I would expect something unusual that we haven't seen in a while. A swampland jungle packed with exotic creatures for example, or something unique like a forest, but with walkways in the treetops. "
I could work with both of these scenarios, I realise. Swamps are full of vines and trees ideal for net or rope traps. Even better, a forest with, say, rope bridges amongst the tree-tops. Why all it would take is careful weakening of the right structures at the right places and I could sit safe at the top of the tallest tree while my pursuers fell to their…
I choke back the sudden bile as I imagine the sweet-faced boy from Eleven or that tiny girl from Twelve plummeting to their death from my ministrations. Stuvek, his broken body lying on the ground, his dark eyes wide in agony. I feel the uncontrollable shudder pass down my spine and clasp a hand over my mouth so I don't ruin the fine leather seat.
"Wiress. Stop. You can't afford to think about it."
The timid arm brushes against me then sets across my back and I lean somewhat awkwardly into the comforting shoulder until I get the shaking under control. I ball my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands so that the pain helps clear my head. After a minute I am breathing normally again and I reach for the ring around my neck and clasp it through the blouse.
I turn to look at Beetee, who quickly shifts back to the other end of the couch, wringing his hands again as he perches on the edge of the seat. For some reason physical contact seems to really bother him, though he still seems to reach out instinctively, then flinches when he realises what he is doing. Another artefact of his games perhaps. Or the years of watching over young people only to send them off to die.
"Thanks," I murmur, though it is drowned out by another series of explosions and flashes in the night sky. Beetee gestures to the window, and though his words are drowned out I guess he is asking if I want to watch, so I stand and wander over. The colored patterns of light flicker across the sky with incredible symmetry and I find myself momentarily lost in the beauty of the show, sighing as the last flecks of white fade away.
"I've always liked fireworks-" Beetee begins, before another explosion interrupts him. I turn back to the cityscape, expecting a grand finale, but can't see a thing. Then the smoke starts billowing from a building several blocks away and we both watch in silence as the red-orange glow slowly becomes visible. The distant sounds of music and laughter are replaced by wailing sirens and shouting, and we retreat back to the couch. Beetee is frowning again, and I catch part of his muttered comment.
"..stupid kids are going to get caught. Then we'll all be…"
He jerks as he realises he is speaking aloud and forces a smile as he looks at me.
"So. Where were we?"
We were dealing with my sobbing hysterically about the thought of killing my fellow tributes, but that's probably not what he wants to hear. I force all thoughts of living things from my head and imagine an otherwise empty forest filled with rope walkways. Since I have never seen a tree in person I am probably missing some important factors, but as a basic model it should do fine. Really, as long as there are trees and something I can use for rope I have a chance.
"Traps," I say as firmly as I can, digging my nails into the flesh of my inner arm this time to force my mind away from the grisly images.