Tick Tock Goes The Clock (Chapter 4)
The Opening (Amelia Pond's POV)
I'm not even done going through puberty and they expect me to fight big, muscular (and most of them creepy) bastards?
Screw you President Moriarty. And screw The Hunger Games.
I'm easily worth two men. I am somehow grateful that I ended up with a pretty decent looking boy tribute representative from my district, otherwise I would have no objections to killing him. Although, right now while we're sitting at dinner, I have to restrain myself from stabbing this pitch black-haired boy with my steak knife. He keeps calling himself 'The Boy Who Lived.' Well, you'll be 'The Boy Who Died' pretty soon if you don't shut up.
My mentor Janine and Harry Potter's, some idiot named Gilderoy Lockhart (quite a non-extensive name if you ask me), join us for our last meal before bed. At least Janine looks normally dressed; purple dress with matching eye shadow with her brown hair tied back in a loose braid. Gilderoy looks more or less like a weird stalker, wearing long fabric that resembles robes with his hair slicked back in far too much gel that it makes his head look like a protective shell.
"Tomorrow will begin training, and you'll have to consider allies for when you enter the arena." Lockhart pours a small portion of wine into his thin glass, and I toss my flaming ginger hair out of my face before replying with exasperation.
"Why should we listen to you? Who says we have to be 'friends' with someone? We can't go solo?"
"You know what honey…" He has nothing else to say to me because I flash my eyes at the disgusting nickname. "Why do you have distaste for me anyways?"
"No, let's not fight," Janine interrupts, dabbing her face with a napkin as she tries to stand and make a blocking barrier between us.
"Too late," I say. I turned back to the proud man who was standing, firing back my opinion. "Because you're about as smart as fly."
"Excuse me, if I was dumb I would not be standing here right now!"
"Oh really? I forgot you won The Hunger Games one year. Cause I'd have thought you wouldn't have gotten any votes to win. I certainly wouldn't have supported you." Burn.
I even made Harry snort from across the table. Maybe it was my sassy tone, or the funny way I spoke.
Lockhart was out of the room in about five seconds. I really pissed him off, and I'm like thirty years younger than him. I guess Janine has already given up on lecturing tributes to be nice to mentors, because she doesn't even say a word to me.
Harry does however. "You didn't have to chew him out like that."
"He deserved it. Do you see the way he prowls around like a drag queen? He needs to get over himself."
He stayed silent for a little while until he couldn't hold in his snicker anymore. "I have to admit, it was pretty brilliant." I smiled for the nice touch. He continued on after he swallowed a bit of a buttered crescent roll. "So, who do you think we could potentially trust in these games from what you saw today?"
My mouth molded into a frown as I cleaned my teeth, licking off all the chicken juice so I savored every last bite. I responded in a definite tone. "Nobody. Yet."
Nine o'clock, bright and early, was the time I had to get up to prepare for the first day of training. I found a flexible set of clothes for me to put on after my shower, required for the district tributes to wear during the preparation stage. I had an interesting time punching different buttons on the wall, sometimes receiving a blast of freezing water. One spout sprayed electrifyingly cold water onto my butt, and I turned the whole system off afterwards as a result of being fed up with enhanced technology, something we barely had in District 8.
The shirt was black with a bold purple color band around the sleeves, neck, and waist. My district logo was attached to the front over my heart, the circle large enough to fit the size of my fist. The silver number 8 was patched on either short-sleeved arm, and I found it oddly generous that the president was decent enough to have our last names sewn into the back across the shoulder blades.
Pond. If it wasn't so fancy, I would have called it a sports jersey.
The pants were also dark with lilac stripes going down the sides of the legs, and my training boots had a distinct pattern etched into the bottom shoe soles for maximum precision and tremendous grip.
I looked like a powerful woman warrior after I blow-dried my hair, eliminated the part in my head with a spare comb, and tied my long, flowing locks back into a curly, high ponytail. A touch of mascara was added to my eyes for the pop, and I applied a small streak of eyeliner around the edge of my lids to bring out the brown color of my pupils.
I joined a sleepy Harry (who had hair sticking up everywhere), a preppy Janine, and a reluctant Lockhart to a satisfying first meal of the day, consisting of bacon, toast, and a small glass of orange juice. I didn't want to eat too much on the first day, because if I threw up in front of twenty-three other tributes and a pack of judges, there goes my reputation.
Janine elected to walk us down to the lower floors where the training area was. When a thirteen-year-old ginger and a skinny, green-eyed boy are strolling down the hall next to one another, yes we were going to get some looks. Harry also kept readjusting the spectacles on his nose, and that bothered me to my extent.
We reached an empty hallway where Janine halted us and stared us down like we were being hunted. Well, we would be in a couple days. "Now listen, you go in there and make the best of yourselves. I don't care if you come out with several bruises and sore muscles, you need to make some sort of ally. Am I clear?"
"Yes," both of us tributes exclaim.
"I hoped so. You've only got three days of this before you're individually assessed, so do your best now so you can capture a good score later. I'm not allowed to go beyond this point. It's in the rules and regulations or something."
She wishes us the best of luck and walks off, leaving us two District 8 members to ourselves. From here on out, we'll have to make do with the qualities we possess and our capabilities. Harry leads the way around a sharp corner and I follow, the sound of my footprints on the metal floor like the swift vanishing of my past behind me. There is a small rectangular room before we hit the training room, about fifteen feet wide and long but twice as high. The horizontal metal bars that act a barrier into the resembling gymnasium slide aside as we grow closer for us, and then we're trapped in an open space with only three other sets of humans so far.
"I'm not overwhelmed by our select choices so far," I whisper into Harry's right ear.
"Neither am I," he honestly replies.
The pair of district citizens that are here are from Districts 3, 4, and 6. And none of them comfort me. We take a seat in the center of the room where a large red and white target is painted on the floor, and in the center is a supportively built stand holding a few sets of sharp knives. On the wall under the sitting area where the judges are is a collection of axes. Bows and arrows are located over by the shooting stage of training, spears are scattered around, and I spot some swords thrown in there too.
But I get distracted every two minutes as a new set of people walks into the room to greet their fellow opponents. The last to enter are the tributes from Districts 2 and 9, and I can see everyone out of the corner of their eyes grimace at the sight of the boy from the masonry part of Panem.
I can see now why he's such a threat. It seems like his sole purpose was to bear fists of iron and be born to wear war gear.
"In a time sooner than you think, twenty-three of you will be dead and only one will remain standing." The head trainer, who calls himself 'Four' is eyeing us all with utter hatred almost, instructing us with such force that he uses obscene hand motions to go along with his speech. By the way he persuades us with the way he uses his tongue to speak, he's been transformed into a controller and has the power to direct the minds of others. I get several nasty looks from the older tributes, and I know they're making comments in their heads such as, 'You've got no chance,' or 'I bet you'll last in these games because of your cowardice.' Well, I won't be a coward. I'll just be The Girl Who Waited for the opportune moment to strike.
Four prowls around the circle we stand in, sometimes leaning in so closely to tributes' faces that if he moved just a few inches closer he could kiss them. Gross. Maybe he's secretly a pervert. Or he's just trying to be fierce. What is my mind doing?
"To you, this is war." Yeah sure, I believe that. Do I want to? God no. "To me, these are the days were I get to push you past your limits. You'll be tested over the course of three days. Some of you may break from the intensity, and some will wipe it away like it was a game of hop-scotch." I had no idea what that was. I never learned to play anything fun back home.
"You'll rotate through the various stages in a leisurely fashion. Don't get too caught up in one thing, cause you want to be an expert in all fields. You've got a sum of a several hours in here, so make it count. Your time begins now."
Each pair from the unrelated districts wears the same outfits that I do, only depending on the area number we had different colors sewn into the fabric. District 1 wears dark blue, 2 has brown, then 3 wears forest green, 4 bears lime, then yellow, red, orange, me and Harry in lilac, gold, light blue, pink, and 12 has grey. It's cool to see the rainbow now, but that means you coordinate district members with colors and think, "Oh red is evil," or something.
Harry went over to climbed ropes right off the bat and I left him to do my own business. My best place to start is by learning how to survive in the wild, and so I go over the section that's marked off for tributes to use various supplies one might find in nature. There was a pile of leaves, a few sticks, some flimsy and others durable, some rocks in multiple different shapes and sizes, and a small ditch filled with water. Grass littered the base of the platform, and I sat on the edge of the training section and fiddled around with the bunch of sticks, attempting to kindle a fire.
It took me many times, but by weaving and twisting my hands around, I was able to rub my hands at the base fast enough to spark up some smoke and a few flashes of light. It took me a moment to realize when I glanced at the clock on the wall that it had taken me twenty minutes just to make a fire, and that certainly wouldn't pass as a reasonable action in the arena. Because I got off task when I looked away from my progressive work, I watched and observed some of the other tributes move and build up endurance. The older representative from District 3 was really advanced with handling wires and electrical equipment, the girl for 4 was phenomenal with knives, and the male from 10 was decent with handling spears.
What struck me was the awkward way the older boy from District 11 was using a steel shield. He was throwing it by the grasping handle like a Frisbee at the wall, and he tossed it with such strength that it rebounded right back to him. It was like his weapon also protected him, so the violent speeding flat circle had two significant jobs.
Later I was trying to assemble a small battery in the back room encased in glass when the male tribute from District 5 came up to me with surreptitious footsteps. He was so quiet I didn't notice him until the glow from the light above casted a dark shadow onto the table which I was working on.
And I made the mistake of looking up, because when I raised my head the cutest teenager I'd even seen was staring back into my reflective eyes.
"You might want to put in that tinier piece first," he informed me. "Here. Let me show you." He took the power source delicately from my hands and secured the cube into the slot before sliding the cylinder in. He passed it back to me and seemed pleased with himself. "There. That should help."
"Thank you," I told him, and I meant it. Anyone who helped me before the games began would without a doubt gain some respect from me.
"So," he stumbled, staring down at me while I continued on with the project, "are you nervous about the day when they rate us too?"
I tilted my head up. "Not really. I'm more worried about the first day of the tournament."
"I saw you make a fire earlier," he says, stepping closer as if to tell me that I was remarkable. "Would you teach me how to light one?"
"Tell you what," I grin, collecting up a deal, "if I show you how to use things in nature, will you guide me on what all these different tools are?"
"Sure. I'd be delighted to."
I think I just found myself a friend.
By the third day, the boy I met named Rory had said I mastered all the various power sources, and I felt thrilled that he had the nerve to teach me so freely. I showed him how to start up a small fire, and just like that we became buddies if you could say so.
A fight actually broke out too, which was pretty entertaining. Two boys from districts 1 and 4 got upset and started shoving each other. I think one of them tried to steal the other's spear, but I couldn't hear well enough to work it out.
But I needed to move on and sharpen my skills when handling dangerous and deadly weapons, so I went over to the archery corner of the room and grabbed a bow fit for the length of my arm. The arrows in my container by my knee were grey and had quite a blunt end. I suppose it was so we didn't try to kill each other before the games kicked off. The girl from the 12th district is standing beside me, her curly, frizzy hair let loose as she loads a bow and releases. It misses the center of the target by about two centimeters.
"Hello sweetie," she implies while looking at me. She's either alarmed when I turn to face her by my electrifying red hair or my facial expression. I figure the additional option.
"Hi," I squeak.
"I'm River Song," she introduces, and I feel compelled to shake her hand, even when she is right now an enemy. Her voice is deep and powerful.
"Amelia Pond."
"Well that's a precise name. Amelia Pond."
"Amy for short," I add. River doesn't come back with a remark. I continue on with our mini conversation. "That boy from your district, he's pretty good with a sword," I say, eyeing him over near the large stage where he's practicing with a trainer.
"Oh no, you should see him shoot. He's unstoppable."
"Really?"
"Best I've ever seen." And she left me standing there with a final shot to the exact center of the target, me watching the boy from 12 with lingering eyes as he dodged blows with the hilt of his weapon.
I was to be tested in no more than ten minutes. Harry went in a few minutes prior and now I sit in the square room outside, waiting to be given a score based on my talents. I can now name who is best with what weapon based on what I've witnessed over the past few days, the hours ticking by in that hot, sweaty room. I sit on what is simply a box, twenty-four of them total around me, and I scan the room to conclude who uses what.
Boy from 6: sword, girl from 10: good at camouflage, boy from 4: axe, girls from 3 and 4: knives.
What am I best with? Survival techniques? I am no hunter. None of these people are. They have fear in their eyes. They just have to pretend to be fighters so they can protect their own lives.
A voice comes over an intercom, echoing in the minute space. "Amelia Pond. District 8. Please come to receive your personal ranking."
I step into the room just as the door opens for me and Harry Potter nods as he exits, maybe hinting that it was hard or something. The head game maker The Master is there along with Loki, who will be watching me the closest. The taller, slimmer man in the black and green suit stands and says in a cold voice, "You have ten minutes to show us your strongest fields, Ms. Pond. Time starts now."
Believe it or not, I grab the wires and batteries first.
Gilderoy Lockhart stands in front of an eighty inch screen television, airing the local news before the excitement begins and the personal scores are revealed to the entirety of Panem. Janine is settled on the couch next to me, and Harry casually lounges in an armchair while we basically zone out on the man's words.
"Okay, great," I say once he's finished.
He turns to growl down at my curled figure, shaped like a sphere. "You realize that if you don't get any allies, your chances of survival are about 10%?"
"Then why don't you ask us who we want as our allies?" I raise my eyebrow to silence.
"Fine. You know for a thirteen-year-old you can have real attitude."
"It's more or less just the sass."
"Who do you want as an ally?" he gestures sweetly, giving me a smug smile while he put emphasis on the first word of his sentence.
The first name I knew flies from my mouth. "Rory. The kid from District 5." Lockhart just puts a hand slowly to his face and sinks onto a nearby cushion, possibly thinking I'm mad or crazy. He sighs again and I give him an annoyed expression with my lips open.
"What? Is that against the law or something?"
"Do you really think you'll survive with a partner like him?"
"Why are you putting me down?"
"Shut up!" Harry sudden outbursts, pupils glued to the television. "The broadcast is starting!" Our argument is automatically silenced as we both focus our attention to the main announcer of Panem, Hawkeye.
"Welcome!" he booms, very enthusiastic during this particular hour. "Today we are here to watch and discover what our judges have to say about the tributes of this year's Hunger Games. On this 100th year anniversary, who will be the most feared? Each tribute was rated on a scale of one to twelve, and the higher the number, the more advanced these citizens are. Who do you think will have the most significant score? Well let's get to it! I can't wait any longer!" I roll my eyes but then perk up to hear what he has to say about each individual.
"From District 1, Sherlock." One of the boys who got in the fight fades onto the screen, his black and dark blue shirt molding well to his skin. He's a curly-haired brunette, tall in height, with extremely sharp cheekbones. At least, that's what sticks out peculiarly when I first witness him. "He has been given a score of 9."
"Wow," Gilderoy inputs, adjusting his sitting stance, "that's a decent score to begin with. Most don't get past 10."
"Also from District 1, Nyota, with a score of 7."
And the list kept going on. Thorin, the one who was no doubt the worst enemy to everyone, was given an 11. Luna got a 5, Tony received a 9, Charlie a 7, Greg got a 6, and Natasha was ranked a 10. And then Rory came on the screen, and I think Harry spotted the flash in my eyes.
"District 6, Rory. With a score of 7." I think a weight sank a little in my chest. I definitely thought he did much better. Maybe the judges were just too harsh. There were five more tributes before our district. Molly got a 5, Dean a 9, Martha an 8, Ron got a 6, and Irene was awarded with an 8.
"And now from District 8, Harry." Potter leaned forwards in his seat as if to beg for a pleasing number. "He has been given a 9."
"Oh!" Janine exclaims, cheeks puffing out as she smiles, "Congratulations! We can make do with that."
"And the female, Amelia." My heart fluttered and I could barely breathe. "She has a score of 8."
Oh thank god. I feel a pat on my back as my mentor gives me a thumbs up. I can be relieved now and not panic.
It took several more minutes before the last of the ratings were spoken out loud, and I kept my ears open for any signs of a warningly dangerous fighter. Some guy called 'The Doctor' got a 10, Jo received a 6, James a 9, Clara a 5. And then the last four came on the screen until I could make final judgments about all of my opponents. Steve had a 10, Hermione a 7. And then I saw the boy from District 12 and found out his name.
"John, who has a score of 9." Decent, I noted. "And finally, we have River. And she concludes us with a rating of 9 as well. Thank you everyone. I will be seeing you all tomorrow where I will interview the tributes individually before the night of the games! Until then, happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"
I went to bed that night with that phrase still ringing in my eardrums.
What is the sensation you get when your stomach just drops from your body and you feel like your legs are jelly? I feel that way now. Janine has dressed me in a short, tight black dress that goes down to my knees with only one strap, and I'm standing offstage the night before the tournament begins, waiting to be dragged onto a platform in front of hundreds of people. Hawkeye is just concluding his questions with Ron Weasley, and I bounce on the balls of my feet to not feel so nervous. I can see just barely in my field of vision that he's dressed in a handsome suit, his ginger hair like mine swept off his face.
"Well, thank you Ron. We all hope you do well tomorrow. Don't we folks?" he asks in with the giggles, waiting for an enthusiastic response, and he gets a crowd of shouts and cheers in response. The noise dies down as Ron is swept off the stage. He passes me and tries to smirk but fails miserably. I don't fall for it.
"Now…" Hawkeye's voice bellows over the loudspeaker once more and I want to leave. In fact, I sort of have to pee. Can I do that instead of sit before all these insane fans? "She's the girl with the shocking red hair, one of the youngest in these games who has shown us she's not afraid to take on a challenge, please welcome Amelia Pond!"
I am greeted with a blast of enormous eruptive screams as the barrier before me splits and I stand at the back of a long runway, ready to walk my way towards the announcer. I thought I would faint with the bright spotlights shining in my face from the dizziness. I do my best impression not to trip over my high heels as I glide along, and I put on a cheeky smile so they'll all believe I'm adorable and the favorite, which isn't true.
I take the man's glowing white hand when I reach the edge of the stage, and he guides me over to a set of egg-shaped chairs. I sit as the noise decreases and fades away, and I'm left to sort of chuckle inside. Look at me; famous.
"My my! Look at you, Amy! You look fabulous! Absolutely stunning!" I wonder if this guy is gay from the comments he's offering me, but I mouth, "Thank you," anyways to show I'm polite at least.
I guess everyone stopped gossiping cause I was more interesting to pay attention to. "So," Hawkeye starts off, not very original, "Amelia, you are one of the youngest tributes in the mix we have for this Quarter Quell. How does that make you feel? Are you impacted by that at all?"
I swallow and take my time answering, making sure I don't blow the moment and present myself to the nation as a fool. "Well, being one of the youngest doesn't necessarily mean I'm less of a threat. You never know what happens in these games."
"And you are absolutely right." There's a soft murmur of agreement from the spectators. "Now, do you have any family at home that you'd like to address a message to?"
"There's just my parents," I say, attempting to remove the chime in my tone. "All I can say is that whatever happens happens. I cannot decide how this is going to end, but I hope all will go well."
"And so we hope so too," Hawkeye promises, bending his neck over to plant a light kiss on the back of my hand. He jumps up so perkily in his next question that I almost am lifted out of my own skin. "Amelia, how did the few training days go for you? You did receive a score of 8, which is just above average, so how do you think it will play out in the arena?"
I have to roll over the thoughts in my brain swiftly before I can reply properly. "The one thing is that I wish I could gather up some allies from my performance in the training area so I will have a better chance of survival in the games, and I feel I can rack up a few with the ranking that I have. I feel confident," I put out there, lying behind a believable smile.
"That you should be. All of us want to bring you the best of luck for the games. This 100th Hunger Games, and the 4th Quarter Quell. Let's hear it for Amelia Pond!" Once again I am engulfed in an alarming blast of sound waves, but somehow it fills me with warmth. I shake the announcers hand as he beckons towards the exit, and I randomly want to fly off the stage. I go as fast as my shaking legs and stumbling ankles can carry me, and out in the hallway beside the remaining competitors I find my mentor Janine. She enwraps me in a hug.
What I just did was pretty brave for just having turned into a teenager.
I couldn't sleep that night. So I went up to the roof of the building we were staying in and sat near the large window, covering from ground to ceiling. My head rested against the cool surface, a cloud of perspiration fogging up the glass under where my nostrils breathed out air. I sat in silence, my stomach cramping from the idea of being placed and trapped in an arena for a good week with possibly no chance of escaping. I am suddenly aware of the sound of footsteps cutting through the quiet, and I whip around to see who has startled me.
It's the boy from District 12, John.
"Can't sleep either?" he questions painfully, adjusting the belt on his bathrobe. I can see the bottom of his striped pajama pants near the slippers covering his feet.
"Who would be able to?" I respond back, tilting my head back to the city below. Colored lights are scattered all over the place, and the end of a glorious sunset clings onto the first hours of the night. The moon shines a glow through the window, and it bathes me in a luminous spot.
"I know what you mean." He's willingly talking to me as he takes a seat opposite my huddled figure, bringing his knees into his chest. We both don't say anything until I decide to input my thoughts on his curious personality.
"You were outstanding during the training session." I wanted him to believe me, but by the frown and shake of his head he doesn't. His blond locks are perfectly brushed over his skull and even in the darkness I can see the outline of his ice blue irises.
"I'm nothing compared to half of those people. What you say may be true, but not by my standards, or the Capital's. Back home I'm a flat out failure."
"No you're not!" I'd never heard someone put themselves down so harshly that I openly wanted to punish him for it.
"But," he cuts me off before I am able to correct him, "I at least want to show the world who I am in the games. If I die, I want to be remembered not just as a fallen tribute, but as a hero."
"I get what you're saying. I just wish we weren't forced into these things."
"You're Amelia, right?"
"Just Amy's fine."
"I heard a lot of people talking behind your back during training."
"Thanks."
"But I wasn't one of them. I actually want to be on your side. You know why?"
"I don't know why anyone would want to pair up with me," I let out.
"I could just tell that when we were learning to fight together, I could see it in your soul, that you want to rebel against them."
"Rebel, how?"
"Let's say, strike them down." I don't understand him. I narrow my eyebrows at him, but he smiles and extends out a hand, to which I look at him remorsefully. "So do you want to be friends or not?"
I find myself taking his hand. He has a firm grip. Satisfied to his highest level, John rises and clears his throat. "Well," he pauses, "I'll see you tomorrow. Try to get at least some sleep."
"I will. Thanks."
"No problem."
The moment he shuts the door behind him I'm on my feet too, heading off in the direction of my bedroom, planning to spend as much time in a comfy bed as possible before it's taken away from me.
There's only one word I can use to sum up hovercrafts: jerky. They sway a lot and make humming noises while they move. The seats are pretty cool though; they remind me of roller coasters. Janine is on my left; we are the only two on in this special compartment onboard this vehicle besides a few workers, one of which comes up to me and gestures for my arm.
"Your tracker," he explains grumpily and inserts a needle into my flesh. When he pulls it out and leaves us, it looks like the skin was never punctured.
As we descend from our plane flight minutes later, I follow Janine and a bunch of guards to a lonely room underground. I can only assume now that we're under the arena. I wonder where everyone else is.
The door slams shut far off down the narrow hallway and we're alone before I am sent off to my doom. As I face my mentor, my friend, I must ask her a burning question. "What do I do?"
She smiles and adjusts the collar of my light jacket. "Just make them remember you." Like what John said. Her arms wrap around my shoulders and pull me in close. Her lips kiss my forehead, and when I pull back she gives me some last words of advice. "I would assume some sort of grassland from the outfit you've been given." She's talking about the description of the arena. I have on athletic black pants, a short-sleeved v-neck shirt, and a light weight coat. The boots on my feet are a tad too tight, but there's nothing I can do about it now. "Don't forget to stay hydrated, get food, and find shelter."
"I will," I promise. "I'll do those three things for you."
Janine gives another promising smile. "I'm not allowed to bet on the tributes, but you know it would without fail be you if I could."
"Thank you."
"And I'm supposed to tell you this one thing before the games start. You're allowed to break out before the timer counts down to zero."
"What does that mean?"
"I am unable to reveal the answer."
Our tender moment is broken by a voice speaking over us. It belongs to The Master, and he's telling us to step into the tubes and ascend upward toward the fighting dome. "Twenty seconds to launch." I breathe heavily, but I get into the enclosed cylinder with time to spare. I just want to get it over with. The tension building inside my guts is too excruciating to bear.
"Ten seconds to launch." The invisible gate around me closes, and I am encompassed by a tiny area. Next second, my feet wobble as the floor starts to rise, and I press my hands to the glass in desperation to reach for my mentor as I get one last look at her and she's gone, never to be seen again.
And I am being welcomed to the world of The Hunger Games.
When my eyes adjust to the blazing sunlight, I don't bother to take in the landscape surroundings. Because I am more focused on what blocks me from the cornucopia in the center of where the bloodbath will occur.
I am encased in a glass cube three inches thick. A security camera and a small speaker are in the top right corner of the cage. Around me, all the other tributes are panicking as well and can't believe they're already beginning the games with a disadvantage.
And then I notice the pipe next to my right foot. The pipe that leads straight into a large lake filled with roaring waves of water. And now I've deciphered what Janine meant by the 'breaking out' thing.
I can break the glass before we can step off our platforms. The timer above the cornucopia was already down to 40 seconds till official start time.
"You have got to be kidding me," I mumble in the secured space. And then the crack of static entered my ears and Loki was dedicated to announcing the opening of the 4th Quarter Quell. "Ladies and gentlemen, may the odds be ever in your favor." I shiver in a bubble of overwhelming shock as I glance up to see broken glass go flying in all directions. Someone has already escaped from their trap.
"Let the 100th Hunger Games begin."