Chapter Seven

Showcase

Author's Note: Many thanks to my reviewers so far :^) Keeps me going! As for the rest of you… I'm flattered that so many of you are taking the time to read this, but seriously, reviews make a writer's day, so please take a minute (literally how long it takes) to write a few words. Cheers!

Legal-ness: See the fine print if you're really thinking of suing me. Electron microscope required.

Ash

The Careers stay well away from me the next day, occasionally sending me daggers with their eyes from across the training floor. I'm careful not to show off any more, otherwise I'll really struggle during the individual showcases - which, by the way, I'm feeling physically nauseous about as every hour ticks closer. These things make or break your chances of getting sponsors. And, as Finnick persistently drills into mine and Dyon's heads, sponsors mean parachute packages. And packages mean tools for survival. Which means you might actually live to see the end of the Games.

But I try not to think that far ahead, because compared to so many of these tributes, the scenario of being crowned Victor is too improbable for me.

Lunches during the three days of training turn out not to be as awkward as I'd imagined. One and Two claim the table in the middle of the room, just in case we'd missed the memo that they own these Games. Katniss and Peeta, that mysterious pair from District Twelve, always sit in the corner, discussing, from the looks of it, bread…whatever works.

The rest of us kind of scatter ourselves. Thresh and tiny Rue, both from Eleven, and the girl from Five with a fox face, all sit alone. But not in a way that makes any of them look weak. Me, I can't do that. I feel too self-conscious if I eat by myself. Maybe that's what comes of having siblings.

In any case, when I got lunch on the first day, having just tumbled harder than a washing machine, I was keen to sit with anyone that would have me.

So I set my tray opposite Flint, the girl from Six. There was a brief, slightly terrifying moment when she first looked up, all sharp and on guard, as if assessing me. Then she went back to her food, making the smallest gesture with her fork that I could sit down.

We didn't say a word the entire hour. But for some reason, it didn't bother me.

This strange little routine happens twice more after that. But because the third afternoon is devoted to the showcases, we get an extra five minutes of waiting before having to go to the corridor outside the training floor for…more waiting.

Flint and I sit back, plates clean. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and, screwing it up into a ball, chucks it on her tray, where it slowly unfolds again.

Now it feels awkward. I tap my fingers on the tabletop and decide to risk it:

"So, what are you going to do?"

She takes a while to answer, mainly because I think she's so shocked that I'm actually trying to make conversation. Evenly, she finally says:

"None of your business."

Owch. But then, would I tell her if she asked the same question? Probably not. I try again.

"You're right; sorry…" What to say, what to say? "So…uh…what's District Six like?"

"It's alright, I guess. Never been anywhere else," Flint responds, shrugging, arms crossed. "Not a lot to see, just buildings and stuff. Lots of trams, though."

"Oh yeah, you guys do transportation."

"Mm."

Another awkward silence. Or maybe it's just awkward for me.

"Yours?" she asks.

"Oh, I love it, really. Palm trees, long beaches, fresh sea breeze…I miss it a lot." It's the first time I've actually realised that I'll never see home again. Ever. A lump starts forming in my throat.

"I've never seen the sea," Flint muses, staring out of the glass observation window as the trainers set up the floor and show in the audience of sponsors. "Sounds great."

"It is."

And then Atlasa comes into the room, telling us to wait on the corridor benches. Flint and I get up and leave together, silence falling between us once again.

All twenty-four of us have to sit in numerical order, so I'm between Dyon and the District Five girl. I decide to call her The Fox.

Glimmer is the first to be called in. She practically bounces towards the door, pausing to smooth down her blonde hair and plaster on a big fake smile. She is too sickly sweet for my liking.

I survey the other tributes, and almost want to laugh out loud because we're all trying to avoid making eye contact with each other.

Rue is so small her feet barely touch the ground, so she swings them gently back and forth. Logan, from Seven, who's near Flint, keeps blinking furiously, like he's got something in his eye.

Marvel goes. Then Clove, who probably can't wait to get the knives all to herself. Then Cato. I stare really hard at the floor until I'm sure he's through the doors.

I end up waiting half an hour before I hear my name over the speaker.

To be honest, walking in is the worst part. After that it's almost…easy. I announce my name, move to the competition bar, and do my stuff. I focus on my gymnastics there specifically because I also want to make it clear that in the arena, if there's water around, I'll know how to execute a dive properly.

I tumble into the centre of the room, and this time I incorporate some stretches they didn't see on the first day. I breathe deeply and feel the burn as my leg unfolds up in my hand until it's next to my head. Then I move down into the splits, bending over backwards until I can clasp my back ankle. Then I put my hands on either side of that leg and push up. It's tough, but steadily I push myself up onto that back leg until it's straight, and my other leg is up in the air. Then I flip myself over into my finishing standing position.

Glad it's over, I curtsey, not quite as flamboyantly as when I was doing it in front of the Careers, but enough to seem professional.

If I didn't know any better, I could swear I see Seneca Crane flash me a smile as I walk out of the exit door.

Flint

It's been almost an hour, and I am so bored. Watching Logan fiddle with his contacts can only be amusing for so long. Opposite me is Thorn, from Ten, and boy she is not good at keeping a cool head. She's been rocking back and forth, tapping her feet, untying and retying her hair, stretching her neck, and rubbing her palms like she's about to freeze. It is fricking annoying.

Five minutes after the boy from District Five has gone, I hear my name being called at long last. I can't get to the doors fast enough. I suddenly realise how keen I am to perform.

I walk to the centre of the floor, thinking about what I should do first.

"Flint Verdasa."

Seneca Crane nods for me to begin. Right. Okay. Here we go…

My eyes dart around the room until they land on the array of knives lined up on a tray, not too far from me. They'll do.

I gather up three or four, distancing myself from a map of the human body which lets you target all the vital organs. I take a moment to compose myself, and then launch one of the knives at the head. Thwack. Then the liver. Thwack. I take it up a notch, spinning on one foot, but keeping the target in line of sight. Hoping I won't mess this up, I chuck the other two knives in the direction of the kidneys and heart: thwack…clink.

I stop spinning and, to my horror, hear some of the sponsors snickering. My heart sinks as I see the fourth knife lying pathetically on the floor, having bounced off the metal frame.

I need to stay calm and recover. Next move, Flint, next move… I refuse to be mocked.

I dash for the knife, but instead of trying again from where I was standing, I tuck it into my sock and head for the hurdles. The sponsors are probably confused, but I'll demystify them by the time I'm through. Oh yes I will.

I take a long run up before launching myself over the first one, kicking my front leg out straight in front of me with the back leg tucked behind. Land. I do it again, this time higher. Land. Again. Again. Again. On the final hurdle I use my sneakers for all they're worth, and take a massive leap, this time twisting myself to the side so I do a quick toe-touch. I land lightly, and immediately roll forward on the ground, springing up into a standing position and praying with all my adrenalin that this will work.

I get the knife out of my sock and throw it at the body map in one swift movement. My breath catches in my lungs as the knife flies through the air.

Thwack.

Allowing myself a smile, I turn to face the sponsors and bow briskly.

"Thank you," says Seneca Crane, writing something on a clipboard. I wish I could get a more telling reaction, but at least they stopped laughing.

As I push open the exit door, I secretly clench my fist in victory.

Logan

It's not until Flint gets up that I realise how soon my turn is. I wish I could take something to calm my nerves - sweat keeps getting in my eyes, which my new Capitol contacts don't like one bit. I keep blinking, but that only worsens the problem.

Just as it's getting to the point where I want to rip my own eyes out, I hear "Thomas Logan" sound over the speaker.

Eep.

I shake my hands out and flex my wrists, moving to the spot in front of the sponsors and Seneca Crane. Of course I end up stuttering.

"T-Thomas Logan."

I turn around, and for a second I panic as I forget what exactly I'm good at doing. And then I look up at the metal tree, and relax. All I've got to do is pretend I'm back at home, out on the job with Dad. But for this to work properly, I'm going to have to make a request.

"C-could I um, possibly, have some rope…please?"

Crane raises his eyebrows, trying to figure out my plan, but then nods towards a corner of the room, where the survival tools are laid out. I grab the rope which looks to be made of the sturdiest fibres, and tie it around my waist, stuffing the rest into my pocket.

Trying to keep my head up, I make my way to the base of the tree. I study it for a moment, devising a path of branches in my head. Now I'm ready, and get my foot up on the first hold. Pulling myself up, I keep looking to the top of the tree, never looking down. That's the biggest mistake you can make.

As I get used to the smoothness of the metal - you'd think they'd have been able to synthesise a bark-like material out of something - my feet and hands get nimbler, quicker, and suddenly I'm quite enjoying myself.

I don't want to get too high, though, in case the branches get too thin and can't support my body weight. I know I'm not exactly the heaviest guy in these Games, but I still need to watch it.

Finally I settle on a medium-sized branch close to the top. I take in the height only when I've tied the other end of the rope around the circumference of the branch. I've covered enough distance to impress them, because I catch some of the sponsors whispering to each other, pointing and making "ooh" sounds.

Very, very carefully, I slide my back up the tree into a standing position, and turn myself around. I tug on the rope to check it's tight enough, and then I jump.

I hear more than one high-pitched gasp, but that stops as soon as I touch my feet to the trunk of the tree. I'm making it clear that I haven't slipped, but am smoothly abseiling my way back to the floor.

The rope is just long enough - and I mean just. I have to stand on tiptoes while I untie it from my waist, and in so doing wonder how I'm supposed to get the rest of it down from the branch if I'm the only person on the floor…oh well, I can't worry about that now. I should get out while I can.

I take a hasty bow, and practically power-walk to the exit.

Oh yeah.

Dan

There are only ten of us left by the time Logan stops wrestling with his eyes and goes into the training centre. I can't help but feel antsy. It's not so much nerves at this point - I just want to get this over with.

Thorn's sitting on the other end of my bench, and she's been doing this weird thing with her palms, just rubbing them together, for a full ten minutes now. Poor girl. She must have some kind of anxiety disorder or something.

The girl from my district goes, and I give her a thumbs-up, even though my hopes for her are low. The number of kids in these Games, the ones who I know from past years have little chance of making it, really depresses me. They're barely starting out in life…but then, in the non-Career districts, life doesn't tend to offer you much anyway. But still.

I almost jump when my name is announced, and it occurs to me that I still have absolutely no idea what I'm going to show these people. Suddenly my shirt feels very damp.

I gulp when I walk in. My mind searches frantically for something, but it's not until I've said "Daniel Whitebone" that a rare flash of brilliance hits me.

"Excuse me, am I allowed to access the speakers in here?"

Seneca Crane gives me a suspicious look.

"Yes… why do you ask?"

"Oh I was just wondering if this centre had Setting 9 on its system."

"You mean a bleep test?"

"That's the one."

Crane looks behind at the sponsors, as if to say, this should be interesting. Then he reaches into the pocket of his velvet dinner-jacket, withdrawing a remote. He throws it down to me, and when I catch it, I notice it's reassuring similar to the one my PE teacher used at school when I was younger. Now I'm Dan: the man with a plan.

"Thank you," I say, pressing several buttons before I find what I want. Then I leave the remote on the floor, and jog over to the wall.

"Commencing Bleep Test," it says loudly. "3…2…1…Level 1. BLEEP."

I jog to the other wall, and wait for the next "BLEEP'. This carries on until Level 2, when I get bored and up it to Level 8. Now it's getting good. I can sprint. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then Level 9. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. There are thirteen levels, and by Twelve I'm getting breathless, but I've gotta keep moving.

It gets to the point where I'm skidding on the floor to stop myself from smacking into the walls.

"Level Thirteen. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP."

-

"That is the end of the test. Congratulations."

I do slam into the wall this time, sinking to my knees as I try not to pass out. To my surprise, however, there's a modest round of applause from the audience. I wipe sweat from eyes, slick back my hair, and move towards the remote. I hand it back to Crane over the bar. Impressed though his eyes may look, he takes care to grab a tissue and deliberately wipe my District Eight sweat off it.

"Thank you, that will be all."

I nod, and stumble out of the exit, feeling the endorphins kick in. I throw my arms above my head, silently cheering myself.

Thorn

Eighteen down, six to go. I feel my palms getting painfully hot, so I sit on them. I've always been chastised for my fidgeting, but it's the only way I can stop myself from having an anxiety attack.

The boy from District Nine walks off, and I feel very, very sick. How can everyone else be so damn calm? I mean, Thresh is just sitting opposite me, totally cool, almost indifferent. And little Rue is just patiently waiting, probably entertaining herself with a daydream.

Kiko has one knee up on the bench, his bad leg, and for the past thirty minutes he's just been sitting like that, holding it. Peeta, from District Twelve, looks somewhere between calm and panicked. Every so often he swallows loudly.

I actually forget Katniss is next to me until she puts a hand on my back. For the first time this afternoon, I stop moving. I must look like a deer in the headlights, as the old saying goes, because she smiles kindly and pats me, once, twice, three times.

"Hey, relax. What's the worst that could happen in there?"

My eyes shift, and I notice that the other tributes are listening in, because there's nothing else going on.

"I don't really like to consider it."

"Well, no. But if you can figure out what the worst would be, then you'll at least be able to ready yourself, and if the worst doesn't happen, then so much the better."

I pause to reflect on this. I feel like something lifts from my shoulders.

"That makes sense. Thanks Kat -"

"Thorn West."

"Oh no…I can't do this." I feel my knees going weak, and suddenly standing feels like the bigger challenge more than anything else. Thankfully, Katniss acts as a crutch under my arm, and she steadies me until I'm on my feet.

"Yes, you can. Look at me."

I do. She winks.

"Knock 'em dead."

I can't help but smile. I clench my jaw and nod, trying to be enthusiastic.

"Good luck," says Peeta as I move to the doors. I turn and see Rue smiling at me as well. Kiko crosses his fingers on both hands for me. Even Thresh nods at me. This is good. This is what I need. I take a deep breath and walk in, trying to recreate the confidence I emulated before the chariot procession.

There they all are, looking somewhat sluggish. Uh oh. I'm going to have to try really hard to make them remember me.

"Thorn West," I say clearly, even though my lungs are already emptying.

I try and focus purely on what I'm doing right now: walking; selecting the nearest training dummy; dragging it into the centre of the floor; stretching my arms; jumping on the spot; taking up position. D-e-e-p-b-r-e-a-t-h.

I punch the dummy in the face, but a little too softly. It's the nerves. I've got to dispel them, and now. I have to visualise this properly, and as I hop from one foot to the other, I come up with the perfect face: Cato's.

Suddenly, I'm ruthless. I punch, one two three times in the gut, the chest and the nose. Kick, first low, then in the face. I drop down and kick the dummy off its stand with a straight leg. I jump back up and hurl myself onto it, forearm on windpipe, socking it in the face repeatedly. Then I get up, bringing the dummy with me, and whip around. As if it's someone attacking me from behind, I grab its arm and yank the body - which must be at least seventy kilos - over my shoulder, watching it hit the floor with a thud.

It's still not enough. I drag the dummy over to the metal tree, roughly pull it back up so that it stands, then run behind the tree.

I've only done this successfully twice, but hey, third time's the charm, right? I tighten my core muscles, grab the tree trunk with both hands, and swing my entire body horizontally in the air until my feet slam satisfyingly into the dummy's chest. As it topples to the ground, clouds of sand actually start flying out from the dents I've made. Dents. Wow.

I decide to leave it there and, running on the adrenalin I've just got pumping through my blood, walk boldly back to my place before the sponsors. Seneca Crane looks startled to say the least. Good.

I bow from the waist, and throw open the exit door, feeling pretty damn good about myself.

Ash

After taking one of the best showers in my entire life, I slip on a pair of blue sweatpants and a green vest. I stuff my feet into slippers so fluffy they tickle my toes.

Any minute now the broadcast of our training scores is due. I'm nervous, but not anywhere near as much as before the showcase. This is different: whatever happens, it'll be over in less than a minute.

I go out of my room and sit on the T-shaped white suede sofa - the Capitol's interior design is just as crazy as its fashions - next to Dyon, who's thrown on a flannel dressing gown and brown, old-man slippers. Finnick sits with a leg crossed and a glass of something unnaturally pink in his hand. He must be more than used to this routine.

The TV clock strikes 8pm, and on comes Caesar Flickermann's face, full of charisma, but also with a touch of solemnity, to prepare the mood of suspense for the millions of viewers. Okay, maybe I'm not quite as calm as I thought…

"Good evening everybody. I'm Caesar Flickermann, your humble host on tonight's very special show. That's right: it's time to reveal just how talented this year's tributes have proved themselves to be before our esteemed sponsors."

He gets right to it: Marvel and Glimmer get a 9 apiece. Clove and Cato both get 10, for goodness' sake. They're insane. But then, they are Careers. The District Three scores are more disappointing - a 3 and a 5. Dyon's face is shown, and we all fall especially silent. It's a 6. Not too shabby. Finnick thumps him on the back, apparently satisfied.

And…there's my face! When did they take that picture? My hair looks overly-photogenic, blowing in some romantic breeze. I look serious, but then so does everybody.

"Ashes Maxim…9."

I scream - that's right, scream - out loud before bringing my hands to my face. I'm so shocked…I mean, yeah, gymnastics is impressive, but in terms of usefulness in the arena, it's actually pretty limited. Guess the sponsors thought otherwise.

"Atta girl, Ash!" Finnick says, shaking me by the shoulders. I can only giggle. Dyon, sweet guy he is, shakes my hand and gives genuine congratulations. As we sit back to watch the rest of the scores, I have a secret moment of schadenfreude: Knowing I got the same score as them, Glimmer and Marvel must be furious.

Flint

I raise my eyebrows high. Go Ash… Crane must have enjoyed her stunts even more the second time.

I tuck my legs under myself on our red sofa, and bite a little on my knuckle. It's not long at all now before my score. Given I screwed up halfway through my showcase, I honestly have no idea what I'll be assigned. Foxy gets a 5, which is…meh, and her partner gets a 4. Ooh, sucks to be him. But that's not a thought I relish. I just feel sorry for him. Let's face it, if you don't get anything higher than a 7, you will be targeted as a weakling. Fact.

Okay, now I really wish I hadn't said that: Mailo got a 5. I cast him as sympathetic a look as I can muster, but all he does is shrug his shoulders and try to look optimistic.

Here's my face. Jeez, I look like I want everyone to stay at least ten feet away from me.

"Flint Verdasa…8."

"Yes!" I gasp, throwing my fists in the air. My prep team give a little cheer, and Titus rubs my shoulders encouragingly.

"That's good, that's good. But don't get complacent now."

I roll my eyes when he's not looking. I don't care - an eight is more than decent, and now I can breathe easy.

Well, until the Games start at least.

Logan

Okay, mental note: Ashes and Flint will either make excellent allies, or they will kill me swiftly and efficiently. I'm more surprised by Flint's score. After all, I don't remember her doing anything particularly memorable during training…she did seem to like running around the room a lot, but how can you make a showcase out of that?

My thoughts on Flint are interrupted, however, by the sight of my own photo. Huh…without glasses I don't actually look too strange. You might even say I look…handsome. How about that. I can't help but dig my nails into the edge of the sofa.

"Thomas Logan…8."

Before I've even had a chance to react, Johanna is suffocating me with a gleeful headlock.

"That's our man! What'd I tell ya? Logan - so much better than Tom."

Oh yeah, that's the reason I got an 8. Not because I abseiled down a tree, or anything like that. Honestly…

Jackal stares wide-eyed at the screen. She gets a 4. The mood is brought down considerably.

Johanna, for once having nothing to say on the matter, is no help, so I get up and sit next to my partner tribute. She has a little cry on my shoulder, for which I really can't blame her.

"Logan…I'm gonna die, aren't I?"

What am I supposed to say to that?

"Oh…don't worry, Jackal," I improvise. "I'll be there to watch your back."

Dan

If I moved an inch further forward, I'd fall off this sofa. But I feel the need to sit as close to the screen as possible.

I'm obviously not pleased about the Careers. But I'm hardly surprised. What was more shocking, on the other hand, was the sight of a 9, 8 and 8 for Ashes, Flint and Logan, respectively. I knew they weren't totally talentless, but man…I need to rethink my alliance strategies, because there's no way me running back and forth for fifteen minutes is going to get -

"Daniel Whitebone…9."

HUH?

"What just happened?" I say, not recognising my own voice, I'm so stunned.

"What happened? You got a freaking 9, that's what happened!" Woof says, slamming me on the back in congratulations so hard that I fall off the sofa for real.

I'm battling a spluttering cough when my partner's score comes up…6. That's…not fantastic. But it's better than some of the ones we've seen so far. I look her way and smile.

A 9…Ashes, Marvel, Glimmer and I are all on the same level. Awesome.

Thorn

I hate having to wait so long for everything. It's like they want to make us suffer even more.

I have to keep it to myself, but inside I grin as Ash, Flint, Logan and Dan get high scores. That's Career-worthy. As for me…well, I just couldn't say. Let's be realistic, the sponsors will have watched my Reaping, including the moment I fainted on stage. They must have taken that into account. I guess we'll find out.

My nerves are strangely contained this evening. I think the showcase let me get a lot of stuff out of my system, and taking a long, hot bath afterwards, with lots of lavender sprinkled all over the water, probably helped too. I sit still, which is a nice change of state from how I normally am.

The scores for District 9 are unremarkable: 4 and 6. I hope that's not going to be me.

Kiko's up next. He's next to me on the sofa and, perhaps without thinking, takes my hand, looking very worried.

3. Oh no. Oh no. Poor Kiko. I turn to him and rub my hand up and down his back, while he tries not to cry. We all knew that, with his injury, he was never going to score highly, but a 3? It seems excessively harsh.

"It'll be alright, Kiko," I say, even though it's probably not helping.

Oh no…there I am.

By some miracle, the photo they're using shows me at my most serene. I'm smiling ever so slightly, so I don't look utterly wracked with fear. My hair is down, that's a nice touch.

"Thorn West…10."

I can't speak. The most I can do is make a squeaking sound as my hands fly to my face, and I curl into a ball on the sofa. But it's not fear this time. It's raw, wonderful ecstasy. I'm sobbing, too overcome with shock to hear the scores for Thresh and Rue.

I force myself to sit up and control my breathing. It's insensitive of me to make such a fool of myself when Kiko just got such a low score and…why does he look so happy?

He throws his arms around me, as does our mentor and our entire prep team.

"Can't…breathe…GUYS!" I yell, muffled, until they let me have some space.

"Sorry, Thorn," says Kiko, a big grin on his face. "But come on, this is amazing! You just got the same scores as Cato and Clove, for crying out loud!"

Sweet strawberries and cream…I'm on the same platform as District Two!

"What the hell did you do in that training centre?" one of the stylists asks me, about three inches from my face.

"Oh, just…nothing special. I, uh, I practiced my martial arts on one of the training dummies…made some dents, you know."

"Well, whatever you did, make sure you do it again in the arena," my mentor says, eyes gleaming. "Oh boy, this'll be great. A real talking point for your interview tomorrow."

…Interview? Oh crud.