Whoa! This chapter is ginormous! But I guess I'm getting a little more comfortable now. The story is starting to make its own way from the books. I'll start adding in my twists and my turns and BAM. You'll forget all about them boring old canon Hunger Games. :P
Hmm. I'm not sure what to say about this chapter. It's long and it's got a little oomph to it, but really there's not much action yet. However, I hope to zip through the training and get to the Games here soon. A chapter or two, maybe? We shall see.
Also, your reviews are so very kind and VERY helpful to me, honestly. I can't thank you guys enough. I'll probably reply in the next day or so, but I'll be totally honest with you right now: I'm going to be busy writing the next chapter. Ideas are fresh in my head and my fingers are itching. So that's where I'll be for the rest of tonight! Haha. :)
Alright, well, toodleloo! Thanks for reading.
I'm left silent as we make our way into the training center—in fact, I'm more than silent. I'm mute. I feel as though I couldn't force a single sound around the lump that is in my throat if I wanted to. And I don't. It's all I can do to keep my thoughts from suffocating me as we ride the crystalline elevator up to our floor for a meal. The building is like all of the ones I've been to, lately—beautiful, modern, full of technology that the people of district twelve don't even have time to dream of. It's amazing, and I'm caught in my mix of awe and despair, tears filling my eyes. I try to say something to the happy, bouncing Effie Trinket as she jabbers about our wonderful performance, but I can only croak at her through my dry throat.
Dinner passes by with a wonderful celebration that I can't fit myself into. I feel detached from the scene, only sucked into it when the cake is delivered and set alight by a girl with dark red hair and pale features. They seem to be stuck in a mask of fear, and I make a small noise of recognition at her. Her eyes widen when they meet mine. I try to swallow the lump in my throat that has stayed there since the parade, but I can't, and she scurries away before anyone notices our near-silent exchange. Wait, I know you! Stop!
Haymitch eyes me oddly. I ignore him and turn back to my plate, now empty, my mood more sour than it had been. I had seen the girl before, and her fear only put me off even further. In all, it was a terrible day—when Haymitch urges us to get a good night's sleep for the training tomorrow, I all but jump out of my seat. I try to croak a goodbye at them, but nothing comes once again. I swallow and turn abruptly. It takes too much effort to keep myself from sprinting.
When I make it to my quarters, I shut the door and lock it as tight as I can. Slowly, I lean back against its cool surface, pressing my ear to it as I hear Peeta walk past, to his own room down the hall from mine. When his door clicks shut, I let out a broken sigh and slide down to the floor.
My plan, upon coming in here, had been to close my eyes and pray that I wouldn't wake up. Now, however, I stare at the beautiful room and can't bear to do so—sleep would only rush the inevitable training, and the consequent face-to-face I would have with him.
I run through the scenarios in my head. I can avoid him easily, and I know I will. The problem, however, lies with what he will do. I hadn't missed the recognition in his gaze just before he'd melted into that scowl that seemed to fit his new, hardened face. He knew me, and I'm sure it had been confirmed when he'd watched the reapings and heard the crowd screaming my name. Will he avoid me as well? I can only hope so, because that would make everything so much easier. But then I remember his stubbornness, the way he doesn't give up on his prey, and I imagine him stalking over to me, his new body hulking over mine as he interrogates me. However, what would he say? We can't reveal that we know each other. And I'm sure he has nothing to say to me, regardless. I'm lucky that he remembers me, as it is.
This calms me. He would have no reason to come to me, and even if he did, I know Cato is not stupid. He wouldn't risk letting our secret out just to come say a few meaningless words. I'm being an idiot for wasting the time to think this through in the first place.
Not really satisfied, I get up and sit on my bed. It takes me a while to push the thoughts away and lie back onto the soft mattress, but not long after, I fall asleep.
When I wake up, I don't remember my dream, but something about it has a question lingering in my head. I find myself wondering, as I step into the shower and absently press buttons, what was the strategy behind the hand-holding at the parade last night? Cinna had shouted it to us at the last minute and we'd done so without hesitation. It had been a good choice for me, because I'm sure I would have fallen off our chariot if Peeta hadn't been attached to me. Was Cinna that aware of my fear, or was there another motive to it? I think of the other tributes, standing rigidly side by side, creating as much space between them as possible. I could have held onto anything else…the chariot, the horse reigns, and it would have been more stable than Peeta. So why?
I shake my head to clear it.
I slip on my clothes when I'm done with a horrific shower and go to eat. I haven't been called, and I wonder briefly if any food will be available, but when I round the corner, there's a long counter with dozens of Capitol delicacies laid out on it. A boy in a white tunic stands there next to it, completely still, staring straight ahead, and looking just as terrified as that familiar girl from yesterday. She still nags at the back of my mind—why does she seem so familiar? I know I haven't seen nor met a Capitol servant in all my life. It's not possible. But I know her. I'm positive.
He moves to serve me, breaking my train of thought. I shake my head and gently put a hand on his outstretched arm. He flinches violently and shrinks away. His reaction leaves me reeling. "I'm…sorry." I hesitate again, looking him in the eye, and he averts his gaze to the floor. "I didn't mean to…" He shakes his head slightly, sadly. I stop speaking for a moment. "What's happened to you? Why are you so scared of me?"
He looks around us first. There's no one there, behind me or behind him. Then he gazes to the ceilings, searching for something. I follow his gaze for a moment before turning back to him. He seems satisfied, and then his eyes turn on me. The boy has a kind enough face, when I look past the fear. His eyes are a light green, his hair is an ashen blonde, and his skin is tanned. He looks ridiculously normal, even compared to Cinna.
Then he opens his mouth.
I clap my hand over my own, widening in a sudden scream of shock.
Desperately, I scan the inside of his mouth, searching for it, but there's nothing there. Just past his teeth is the squishy pink of his lower mouth. I can see veins there, pulsing with blood. But down the middle is a huge scar, puckered and red. Right where his tongue should be.
I don't understand. I don't want to understand, really. I don't ask any more questions—instead, I set my hand lightly on his open jaw, and he slowly closes his mouth. Pity and fear form an icy ball in my chest. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. Now I'm suddenly aware that others shouldn't see this exchange, and I glance around as well. We're left alone, but soon enough I hear footsteps.
The boy does as well, and he steps back to his spot, reaching over once again to serve me. I swallow hard and shake my head. I try to make my voice strong, "No, please. I'll serve myself."
He nods in return, shrinking back into his original spot as Haymitch and Peeta come into the room. I immediately feel regret as he looks down and away, but I have no time for that. Instead, I compose myself and set food onto my plate. However, as I stare down at it, I find that I'm no longer hungry.
I take small portions of various things I haven't tried yet, a roll, and some hot chocolate. Peeta and Haymitch follow my example, piling things onto their plate without the boy's help, and setting themselves down at the table. I sit next to Peeta and pick away as they eat without talking. But now, I have something I need to ask.
"Who are they?" I gesture vaguely to the boy in the corner.
Haymitch speaks around his food, just as Effie hates, "Who?"
I sigh. "Them," I say, pointing directly to the boy. "They don't speak and they serve us. Who are they? Capitol employees?"
The look I receive makes me feel like an idiot, and I nearly regret asking. When he sees that I'm serious, however, Haymitch swallows his food and wipes his mouth on his sleeve—another thing Effie would berate him for. "Avoxes."
"Avoxes?" I echo blankly.
"Traitors of the Capitol. They did something bad, so they got their tongues cut so they can't speak. Now they serve the Capitol, no questions asked. Literally." He shrugs, like this was nothing, but my horror only deepens. I feel it in my bones.
I look over to Peeta, who glances at Haymitch, me, the boy, and me again. I can read compassion in his eyes, but eventually he gives a small shrug as well and goes back to eating without saying anything. I really haven't spoken to my district partner before, but I wonder if he's as indifferent as he's portraying himself to be. I'm not.
I try to think of something else, and my mind is at the ready with another, terrible line of thought. Training springs into my mind as I watch Haymitch slurp his second bowl of stew, pausing only to breathe or drink from his personal flask. A foul mix of soup and spirits runs down his chin, but he's past caring as he gorges himself. He doesn't even look at Peeta and me now, only his bowl.
This is my mentor. My lifeline.
I shudder, setting down my half eaten roll. I can't eat anymore. I push my plate away, and Peeta does the same a few moments later. We watch Haymitch knock back two more bowls of stew before pushing his dishes away and leaning back in his chair to take a long pull of his flask. He belches, smacking his lips, and then leans forward onto his elbows. His eyebrows are raised, his half-sober eyes contemplative. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you'd like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."
I'd never given much thought as to the actual training of the tributes, so his sudden offer of a choice catches me off guard. It felt like it had been years since I'd had a true choice in anything, and in a way, it had. After my father's death, my mother didn't give me a choice. Prim's empty stomach didn't give me a choice. I had to hunt. And then when Prim had been called, I had no other alternative. She was not going into the games. I had to take her place. When we'd gotten into the center, I had to be stripped bare, cleaned, ripped of my hair, and paraded in a fiery costume in front of thousands of bloodthirsty Capitol residence.
I had to.
I'm suddenly lost as I look to Peeta for assistance. I don't see why we would be coached separately. In fact, it doesn't seem like a very efficient way to spend time. He looks just as surprised as I feel.
"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.
"Say you had a secret skill you may not want the other to know about," says Haymitch.
Once again, I turn to Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he admits. "And I already know what yours is, I think. Don't you hunt for my dad?"
I hunt for a lot of people. "The baker?"
"Yeah. We eat your squirrels all the time." He shrugs, small smile on his face. "Shot through the eye every time."
I feel an unexpected heat in my cheeks, and I have the urge to scowl, but Peeta is looking at me with that kind smile, those light eyes and happy face. For a second, I think, I don't want you to die. But I can't be mad about his praise—really, I have no reason to be. However, there is suspicion building in the back of my mind. What is he playing at, making me sound so good in front of Haymitch? Does this happy, innocent looking boy already have a plan at the ready when I barely know what's going on?
I shake the nonsense away. It won't help to dwell on it, and I can't outright ask him. "Thanks," I finally say, a few seconds too late, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes shine in the light of the sun as it rises and reflects off the pristine Capitol skyscrapers. It looks nice.
I turn to Haymitch. "You can coach us together," I confirm. He nods.
"Alright, well, you're an archer then—that's good. Distance is good." He continues nodding, this time in approval. Then he rounds on Peeta, "And you?"
"Does baking bread count?"
"Uh—no." Haymitch gives Peeta a dry look.
I examine the boy's profile as he looks helplessly at our mentor. I'd seen him at the market before, when I was delivering my goods. I hadn't paid much attention, but he'd been lugging large sacks of flour around like they were nothing; heaving them onto his shoulders two at a time and carrying them with little effort. As I think of this, I remember hearing about him for a while—a boy from the "good" side of town had placed in our wrestling competition. It was rare, because the lives of kids from the markets were pampered compared to us of the Seam—so a boy who had been well fed, clothed, and cared for, placing against the Seam boys who had faced hardships, starvation, and hard labor? No way.
"He can wrestle," I say after a few beats of silence. Peeta looks to me curiously, but Haymitch only nods.
"Hand to hand. That can be good—if there's a shortage of weapons, you might not be totally screwed. And if you get your hands on a knife, you'll be a force for sure."
Peeta looks like he wants to protest, but Haymitch cuts him off. "Alright, here's what we do—you guys aren't like some of the others. You're not good at everything. You've got a skill, you stick by it in the Games. But during training, steer clear. You," he looks to Peeta, "don't lift anything heavy. If you think it'll give you even a little bit of trouble, don't bother. And you," he turns to me, "no bows. Only show these skills when you're in the private session. Got it?"
We both nod. He's right. Since we don't have an advantage in everything, we need to keep what little leverage we do possess to ourselves.
"So, you walk in and do something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Paint. Hell, I don't really give a damn what you do—just don't go showing off yet." He eyes us both for a moment with a stern look, and it's the most sober I've seen him, even though he's clearly already intoxicated. "And really, that's about it. Oh, but one more thing."
We pause to listen. "When you two are in public, I want you attached at the hip. Stay by each other's side every minute."
"But—" we both begin at the same time, immediately protesting this ludicrous idea of his.
His hand slams on the table hard, clinking our dishes together and making my roll bounce off my plate. We stare in unified shock at the outburst. "No buts! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I say, and I say that you two are gonna be amiable to each other out in the open! Stay together, stay friendly," he all but snarls. I flinch back. He'd shown aggression before, but right now, he just felt mean. "Meet Effie in the elevator at ten. She'll take you to training."
There's a beat of silence, and when I finally pull together my nerves, I rise from my chair quickly, my movements jerky with my rising anger. I stalk to my room, footfalls heavy, and slam my door. How dare he? He has no right! What's this act for when we're just going to kill each other anyway? There's no point…
I throw myself onto my bed with every ounce of indignation I can muster. I think of Peeta, and I think of Cato, and I feel utterly hopeless. I don't want to kill either of you, I think to myself, seeing their faces in my mind. But I have to. Why do I have to? What kind of place makes people do these things to each other?
But I know that already. My misguided anger is not actually for Peeta, or for Haymitch, or for Effie, or even for that strange version of Cato I saw yesterday. No, my real hatred lies with the Capitol and its sick ways of gaining entertainment. Suddenly, I feel disgusted for getting such a high off of the screams of my name the night before. I was just as much of a monster for letting them cheer for me. They don't have the right, I think sullenly, to cheer for someone they're condemning to death. They just don't.
