So how does one procure sponsorships for one's poor tributes? The first thing I did upon receiving the information packet was read it of course. I read it twice. But knowing technically what I'm meant to do isn't the same as managing to do it. There's a part of me that thinks they came up with this just to make me agonize more (although this is the place where, as a first-time mentor, I am on equal footing as the rest- no one has looked for sponsors before). Because it's not just get them into the arena and they're on their own- no, now they can still sink or swim based on my ability to get sponsors, pick gifts, and time their distribution wisely.
"Excuse me," I adjust my headphones so they're still on my head, but not completely blocking my hearing. "Do I, uh, have these on right?" I ask Shy, although on either side is a victor I'd judge more technically savvy than me.
"That's good," Shy reassures me, "And you'll be able to tell better if you need to move them around a bit more after you actually hear through them."
Beto turns and looks at us. And smiles. "'Allo, operator, Districts Four and Five requesting expert assistance?"
It takes me a minute to realize that he's talking to us and not the actual operator. He rolls his chair back to lean down and delve into his bag. He takes out a box and offers each of us a piece of some kind of candy, dark within its transparent wrappers with a mesmerizing swirl of golden caramel in the center. Instead of waiting for me to pass her the box, Shy leans over me to get one. "I haven't been able to analyze all the factors involved in this sponsoring scenario well enough to determine whether or not I favor it," Beto declares.
"Uh, same, but less analytically," Shy agrees.
"Well," Beto turns his attention back to the various screens in front of him, the viewing screen straight ahead and the touchscreen set into the desk, "Soon to the countdown."
I tap through the various menus on my own touchscreen. There are already funds in District 4's sponsorship account. Some may be the result of Aulie's working the phone lines yesterday, but I assume most of it is just our fans coming straight to us. I appreciate that immensely. If it saves either of them, I think either Shaya or Salvador will have themselves to thank. Maybe some of it's just generic curiosity on the part of these first-time sponsors, but the best work that went toward selling my tributes, they did themselves.
I realize that Shy hasn't stopped leaning over. She has her elbow on the arm of my chair. "Shy, you're peeking." While partners like Hector and Gerik have their own chairs and screens, they're settled side by side without anything between them to block their view (I guess if they hated one another or something and didn't want to be able to share info they'd have to put up a partition of their own), the rest of us are separated with wooden sides sticking up out of each of the neatly lined up desk-like stations (this set-up seemed to perplex Emmy greatly, but neither Beto nor Shy so much as batted an eye so perhaps it's familiar from some school that's nicer than the majority of us know or a factory or something).
"Does it bother you with no one on the playing field yet? You can look at how much money my tributes have got if you want."
"Err, that's okay."
"Hmm, then, here's the thing that's bothering me," she sits up, sliding back into her chair, though she keeps her fingers on the arm of mine, drumming her perfect pink nails along the arm. Without warning she jumps up to stand on her chair, which wobbles backward with the force in a way that makes me nervous. She looks down the row over my head and Beto's to Hector and Gerik. Jack isn't here yet, though the rest of us are settled in. His chair remains empty, angled away from his station. "Did you know about the sponsorships before Zimmer's announcement?" she points at them challengingly.
"Sit down and shut up," Luna berates her from the opposite side of the set-up (her station is the one that's lined up against Beto's), "I am trying to speak to a sponsor."
"My money's on blondie," the District 12 coach chuckles in the direction of his 11-appointed counterpart.
This comment instantly shifts all of Luna's anger toward him. If looks could kill. The victors are a varied bunch, but they're distinctly different from the coaches. The coaches (well, to the best of my knowledge), aren't killers. And the coaches are on their way out, really, as the pool of past victors increases.
"Hey now," Jack Umber enters the room, "Stand down there, Arcium, Luna. …And…" one eyebrow raises as he contemplates the strange situation, "…You literally stand down, Shy."
"Oh, thank you so much, so much," Sunny heaves a huge sigh of relief as Shy follows Jack's instructions.
I wonder what would happen if a fight did break out here. This crowd could make for a pretty deadly melee even without any traditional weapons present. Even victors I don't think would like to fight, like Sunny and Emmy, might be provoked into action by that kind of scenario. It would be bad for all our mental states.
They'd have to send in Peacekeepers to stop it. But how quickly would they- the Gamemakers, Victor Affairs, whoever- learn about it?
Haven't I learned my lessons about the Capitol yet? I admonish myself for my foolishness. There are probably cameras. They show mentor reactions to surprising in-game events, don't they? Someone watches the watchers. Capitol in a nutshell.
"Answer my question, Jack," Shy speaks softly as she challenges him instead, leading me to think Gerik and Hector were only a distraction from 1's victor, "Did you know about the sponsorships before the Zimmer on-air announcement?" She suspected Gerik and Hector too, but is it somehow less reprehensible if they withheld insider knowledge from her than if Jack did it?
Jack is wearing his green First Annual Hunger Games t-shirt.
The pause of his silence hanging in the air is palpable. I can't force myself to turn and look at him straight on, but Beto is and so, obviously, is Shy. I can imagine that he's also where some of the others have trained their eyes, even if I can't see them around the others or on the other side of the line of mentoring stations.
"I'm the same as everyone else here," Jack answers. No matter how earnest he sounds, with Jack there is some reason to suspect his words may be a put-on. I hate to think so as much, or more, than any of the rest of us. "I may have heard more rumors and I may have taken those rumors more seriously than you did because this was the outcome I was gunning for by supporting the fan petitions, but I didn't know the official word a second earlier than any of the rest of you."
"But all of us aren't the same," Shy whispers.
"Shy, don't-" Sunny starts.
She doesn't say any more and Jack doesn't respond to that last accusation of sorts. That doesn't mean that no one is thinking that Shy's wrong though. "Let's all do our best," he says instead and takes his seat. Gerik scoots over to speak with him at a volume I can't hear.
I get a message on my screen. It's from Apple, prompting me to "Write a nice blurb about each of your tributes for the official sponsorship page if you get a chance." I am not particularly familiar with typing, let alone on this flat touchscreen without an actual keyboard, but I try to fulfill her request. Even someone like me can manage that much.
The viewing screens- the big one overhead and the more ordinary one on my personal screen- blink to life. "Tributes secure and preparing for ascent," it informs us.
"Here we go…" Kayta speaks for all of us as he makes this nervous pronouncement.
The countdown will begin at any moment.
While sitting I can't see the smallest trace of anyone on the other side of the mentoring stations. I haven't heard anything out of Pal the whole time I've been here. When I arrived he was speaking into his headset in his usual meek tone while carrying on sewing sequins onto some project laid across his lap. Kayta has been rather reserved as well (he has little faith in even sponsors turning things around for his one- and two-scoring young tributes).
I look left, wondering if I can make eye contact and exchange some sort of silent greeting with Jack, although Beto, Hector, and Gerik sit between us. Beto lifts up his glasses and peers under them at his touchscreen, clearing one obstacle from my line of sight.
Jack looks my way. At me.
I can't bring myself to smile. I give him a thumbs-up.
The booming voice of Longinus Bronze draws my attention away from Jack's response. The screens show a large white "60" that turns to black to stay visible with our first shot of the arena. I tense along with the countdown. It echoes in my ears through the headset, past and present overlapping. I'm glad I'm not in there (yet I picture myself there all the same). The tributes are arranged in a circle around a small body of clear water. There are some small bags of supplies scattered here and there around the lake and larger ones piled on a floating platform in the center (the water is so clear I can see to the bottom- the taller tributes could probably trudge out to the center on foot). This particular spot would appear picturesque under other circumstances, but I feel a growing sense of unease for my tributes as the cameras pan out. There was a lot of water in my Games and a good proportion of it was drinkable. …This is the only water in the arena. Or maybe not, but that's what I'm afraid of.
There is scruffy chaparral and scattered trees. There are hills of orangish sand. I catch sight of a trickle of a creek further afield- so there is more water somewhere. None of the overhead landscape shots give me much context when it comes to knowing how close these features are to our tributes.
The introductory shots wrap up and my screen splits to show focus on both of my tributes simultaneously- Shaya on the right side and Salvador on the left. If I want to see what the live feed audience is seeing, I have to switch my screen away from my tributes or spare a moment to glance up at a larger, muted screen above us (the required viewing late afternoon program will be edited together mainly from the live feed footage, but the Games editing wizards will use whatever is most interesting).
Shaya is breathing fast. I'm concerned that she's going to start hyperventilating.
Salvador looks focused, as calm as one can be in this sort of situation.
The countdown finishes and my tributes spring into action. At a moment like this, I'm glad that I'm not looking at wider view of the situation. There are too many people moving at once, too many things to take note of, as it is, coming in and out of frame around Shaya and Salvador.
They pass one another. Salvador running in and Shaya running out. The little slip of a girl from 8 bumps into Shaya and they both stumble a step or two, but neither hits the ground or engages with the other.
It's hard to watch both screens at once when everything is changing on a second by second basis.
Salvador rips open a backpack and shuffles around a tin canteen (probably empty) and a can of beans. Between them is a small hatchet, the type we might keep on a boat. A pale hand jumps in and grabs onto the handle of the hatchet above Salvador's grip. Someone thinks they can take it from him, but Salvador is willing to fight. Whoever it is (a guy, but I can't see enough to tell which), isn't letting go and Salvador isn't strong enough to merely wrest the item from his grasp. With his free hand he swings the backpack toward the head of his opponent, striking him on the side of the face (it's the boy from 2). The can of beans falls out, but this breaks the 2 boy's grip on the hatchet enough for Salvador to wrest it away.
Will he run now? Or stay and fight?
In my mind, I will him to run.
Shaya's scream fills my ears. She falls to the ground, just barely shielding her face from the soil with her arms as she crashes down to the bear earth. I see blood rise up between the strands of her hair where the rock struck her.
The girl from 1- the girl I helped Jack pick the token for- may not have been the one who threw the rock (I didn't see), but she's the one who comes. She turns the short sword around in her hand, deciding which way is best to wield it. It looks like a smaller version of the blade that Kayta Hiro favored. If it's of similar make, its edge will be sharp. Mercifully so, if she handles it well. Mercilessly, if she's hesitant or sadistic.
Shaya turns over.
I'm torn between wanting her, at the same time, to get up and run, and to not look and go down without having to see that. Because the girl from 1 is going to do it if she can. She is Mr. Bronze's favorite this year.
There's still so much noise in the background, but Shaya's second screech is mic'ed just for me as the girl with the strawberry blond hair takes a slice at her and cuts off a chuck of Shaya's hair and part of her ear.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Salvador turning to look. Has he been keeping a cautious eye on her this whole time? Does he know Shaya's scream?
She scrambles in the dirt.
I look at Salvador, gaping, as Shaya's throat is slashed and she rapidly bleeds out onto the dry ground.
When her vital signs cease and she is officially dead, her side of the screen goes dark. Her official photo is displayed alongside the freezeframe of her bloody body. Shaya Current. District 4. Female. Age: 18 (it's strange to think- she was three months older than me). Height: 5'5". Weight: 110 lbs. To my perception, she is the first tribute to die, and, for my intents and purposes as a mentor, she is the first. My first. The first of what, statistically, are going to be many.
According to the onscreen information, she died fifteen minutes and twenty-four seconds in. She was the third tribute killed.
The Thirteenth Hunger Games have only been going for sixteen minutes and counting.
I stare sort of numbly at Salvador. …is there something I should be doing now? …Does he need anything? Should I be considering what kind of use to make of the meager (compared to the prices of all the significant non-food items listed in the digital catalogue) funds I've acquired for my tributes thus far? …Because there's no point in holding onto them for later if neither of my tributes are going to make it out of the bloodbath.
But I don't do anything. My hands linger over the controls. I have no good ideas. Everything feels like it would be useless. For Shaya, everything we did was useless.
Salvador and the girl from 1 make eye contact, but neither pursues the other.
Across the mentors' control room, directly opposite me though invisible to me from this position, Emmy Pollack lets out a strangled screech as her female tribute is drowned in the lake by the 12 girl. I think this distracts nearly all of us for a second. To my right, I can see the hair standing up on Shy's arm as she glances up, spooked by Emmy's reaction.
I look back at Salvador to see him run.
Salvador leaves the bloodbath behind. He runs. He runs until he trips on a rise in the sandy ground. At this point, he appears to be very alone. He breathes hard and pushes himself up off his hands and knees to sit and catch his breath and appraise things.
I also appraise the situation.
It's real, though I can hardly believe it. Shaya is dead. As fast as that.
Kayta Hiro has left his station to sit on a couch in the back of the room. It occurs to me what his abandoning his station so permanently must mean. 7 is the first district to be knocked out. Both of his tributes are dead just as he unfortunately expected.
The day settles into an uneasy rhythm. Avoxes come and go taking orders from other victors for lunch and other things. At about noon Aulie brings mine. The District 12 coach calls in his official speller at a time when no victor has left for longer than a bathroom break and Kayta heckles him from his place on the couch but the man doesn't seem to care.
Salvador is thirsty after his run, but he's not dried out enough for me to be worried about him yet. I check the price of water- it varies based on the amount and container. I hope he can find the creek I saw in the overhead shot instead of going back toward the Cornucopia pond.
The boy from 8, wounded during the initial bloodbath, expires. I am not paying enough attention to the general feed to notice the details, but when I readjust my headphones to scratch the side of my head I hear a sound that I think might be Pal crying gently.
Escort Ferdinand shows up to sit with Emmy just in time for the District 10 boy to meet a rather messy end. I am relieved he's here because her reaction to it is unintelligible and worrisome. He walks her out quickly. It's probably for the best that she doesn't stay. I assume that if anyone can calm her down it will be Ferdinand.
One of my general wonderings is confirmed when I learn I have an official fan club. A number of small donations that built up into much of what I have in the account now came through them. Because I was too clueless to tap into this potential source of sponsor revenue, Apple has contacted the club president on my behalf and promised that I will specially acknowledge my fans for their kind contribution. Initially she wants me to speak with them live (though not face to face), but this idea brings out the shyness in me, so I promise to let her record me thanking them instead at a quieter time in the Games.
Apple sends me a list of the names of the fan club members who contributed and I skim over it. Some of the names seem vaguely familiar. Maybe they sent me birthday cards or gifts. It's certainly possible if they have the disposable income to give their money away to my- Salvador's- cause.
Up on the main screen, the tributes from 2 kill a snake and discuss whether or not they think it's safe to eat.
They receive the first sponsor gift in the history of the Hunger Games: a toothpick.
"Clever!" I hear Jack remark, impressed.
The gift sends its message. "What I learned from my mother," Hector comments into his headset- whether for the benefit of an operator or for a Gamemaker-requested soundbite, I can't tell, "How to be frugal!" The 2s eat the snake. Neither of them is particularly impressed with the taste. The boy makes use of the toothpick afterward, joking that he'd like a better gift next time and that this is an indication of how little his mentor loves him. The girl is quietly grateful.
This first gift opens the floodgates of spending, though I doubt anyone is acting recklessly. Beto, Luna, and the District 11 coach send water to their tributes (Luna's are together and only the boy from 11 remains). Beto, despite having both tributes still in the running, sends a plastic bottle only to his girl. The boy's not better off. It's just some sort of favoritism.
The tributes from 1 returned to the Cornucopia pool and have water that way. The tributes from 2 took water from it with them before they left. The girl from 8 has stumbled upon the creek. I wonder if this means that Shy, Sunny, and the District 12 coach lack the funds to send even a small amount of water to their needy tributes or if they are holding out for some reason.
I wonder if I should send Salvador something to drink. Opening the digital catalogue, I can see right away that even a small bottle of water like Beto sent his female tribute boasts an over-inflated price in my eyes. …Of course, I don't know what things cost in the Capitol. Maybe a bottle of water does cost this much. It is a third of the funds I have.
The way Salvador rubs his temples, I think he has a headache. The sun is headed downward. It's hot in the arena. Even if it didn't look it, the onscreen statistics tell me so. At least the night will provide some relief from the temperature, but that's not likely to do anything to restore the moisture he's lost.
I manage to clumsily ring Aulie to ask for his opinion. "I was thinking I should send him water, since I can afford at least a little bit. I know how bad it feels getting dehydrated and, well, I was wondering what you thought?"
"I have some possible sponsorship prospects lined up assuming that he makes it through the night. 'Talk to me again tomorrow' so many of them said. I shouldn't make the decision for you, Mags, but if it were up to me, I'd send it to him."
This is all the encouragement I need. It's good that he doesn't need the water in any particular rush because it takes me a bit of wrangling to figure out how to order it from the operator, but eventually I work things out (and the woman on the end of the line is very nice) and after a moment a parachute arrives, drifting down to meet my tribute. The one I haven't failed yet. I think about Shaya.
Salvador drinks his first swig with relish then cautiously slows his consumption. "Thank you, Mags," he says quietly.
I feel bad about Shaya. I feel bad thinking Salvador should've made a bigger show out of his prize.
The water, at least, will keep him fighting on a little while longer.
Salvador doesn't turn his axe on any people that day, though he does wield it to ably cut into a stand of thick thorn bushes. He's making himself a hiding place for the night. It's a good idea. Once he's into the bush and settled down, he carefully pulls the swathes of thorny branches he hacked away back in front of him. They may not provide perfect protection, but they're a very clever deterrent. He is shielded a bit from view and the way the sharp points scratch Salvador's hands and arms even when he tries to work carefully around them is a good indication of how treacherous they would prove to anyone who attempted to rush in.
The sponsors Aulie mentioned will bite now, I hope. As the field narrows, the number of choices diminishes (though not sponsoring anyone always remains an option). The sooner I record my message to the fan club the sooner they may be spurred to drum up further funds for Salvador's sake. I hope they aren't put off by how quickly I lost Shaya. …I wonder what I will say to her family when I go home…
But Salvador is smart. By now they should be able to see.
I hear the national anthem heralding the show in the sky through my headset and automatically look up to see it. This takes my eyes up past the raised screen to the blank white ceiling. Old habits, I suppose, die hard. I look back to the large screen to see what Salvador is seeing (my personal screen keeps the camera focused on his face, providing his reaction to this show).
Although he was out of the running by the end of the bloodbath, Kayta has stayed until the evening's presentation of the fallen tributes. He rubs his hands over his face. He looks old beyond his years and very tired. He's giving Pal's dark-eyed tiredness a run for its money.
Seven tributes were killed in the bloodbath. Nine are dead with the setting of the sun. Many more than the first day of my Games. These Games might be shorter, or they might just have a different character.
Because they go in district order, it turns out mine is first. Having failed to completely keep track of all the other tributes as they fell (I mean, I was just noticing the completed sets from the other inner districts, wasn't I?), it's a punch to the gut. It's her file photo from her time here in the Capitol. Shaya died and there was nothing I could do for her. What could I have done differently? Anything?
It didn't matter what her story was if someone meant to kill her right out of the dock. It had nothing to do with Shaya at all. It's just the way of the Games.
I stand up for her. Out of respect. Standing, I can see further to each side from my station and a little over the barriers to catch the faces of my fellow mentors.
The tributes are proceeding while my mind stalls. My gaze trails slowly over the people here, but either no one notices or no one cares. Onscreen (in the sky) there's the boy from 6 (Sunny's face is tear-stained, Teejay is sleeping in his chair), both from 7 (they were all but the opposites of Haakon and Meridew, though they were clearly allied together, they were so hapless and so young), the boy from 8 (Pal isn't looking at him, his eyes glued to his girl and whatever she's doing on his personal screen), both from 10 (but Emmy is gone, having left in the midst of, well, it was hard to decide if it were some kind of fit or what), the District 11 girl, and finally the District 12 boy. The coaches for the victor-less districts don't seem affected at all by this recapping of their losses. They don't relate like victors do. They don't relate like even plain old district citizens would.
Even victors from other districts would have a more personal investment in the success or failure of the 11s and 12s. Maybe there are advantages to not being emotionally involved, but I have to admit I can't see them yet.
I can't imagine that there won't be at least one per district someday, but comparing the way these coaches are mentoring to the way even the most neutral or clouded victors appear to have, until some tributes come along who are so superlative that they can sell and save themselves, 11 and 12 may be doomed.
Once the anthem is over, everyone seems to relax a bit. It's not as if our tributes are safe or there's any real break in the Games, but the end of the salute to the fallen concludes the material that will be included in tonight's required viewing, so it's unlikely the Gamemakers will introduce any twists or purposely hassle the tributes at this time this early in the game.
It's strange that it's dark in the arena, but we're still several hours from sunset here. Obviously the arena isn't all that near the Capitol, but is it in another timezone, or is it artificially set that way?
Salvador lies on his back with his arms underneath his head, staring through the cover of thorns up at the sky (up at me, though he doesn't quite know that). He sort of sniffles (maybe he's thinking about his friends and family back home, maybe he's thinking about Shaya), then smiles. A brave face is the right face for the camera.
…so what do I do to keep on selling him?
…who do I sell him to?
"Good night, troopers," Kayta waves at the room as he leaves, "If you want me, you know where to find me."
"…Is there something I should know about this?" I lean over and ask Shy.
"He's going up to his floor to drink a bottle of something hard and call his girl." Once again, she doesn't seem to mind cluing me in. "It's kind of rare, I think, for Kayta to be out this fast. It's 'cuz they were just little kids. The bigger Sevens can do things."
"You still have both your tributes, Shy."
"We'll just have to see how this goes," she shrugs. This means that either her tributes have no special secret talents to draw upon or she's doing a good job of being pokerfaced about them. With Shy, I have to admit, it could be either. She's very friendly and nice, but that doesn't mean she's not also calculating.
We turn back to our stations. I try to decide who I can call. I can't simply rely on the fans of the game (the fans of my district? of me? of Shaya or Salvador specifically?) who are stepping up of their own accord. I have to take full advantage of what the sponsorships' existence affords me.
I listen to the dial tone. It doesn't offer me any suggestions.
Aulie comes down and swaps places with me so I can go up to my quarters and make a recording for the fan club with Apple. She patiently tapes me on that tiny computer-device she uses so much as I stumble through take after take of thanking the donators by name, playing up my hopes for Salvador (I mean, seeing him outlast so many other tributes does raise my hopes, but not as high as I'm acting for the fan club's sake), and then "baiting the fans" in Apple's words by answering some of their questions about me and examining some, um, "fan works" on their webpage.
There's a faction that would like to see me in a romantic relationship. Alternately, there are fans who would prefer we just stay friends and suggest various other possible romantic interests for me (Pal and Shy (the screen cap collection one girl has put together about us is rather convincing in suggesting some level of attraction…) figure prominently, though there are also more generic wishes that I fall for someone in the Capitol or back home in 4). I get a bit flustered looking at all of this which Apple thinks will please them just perfectly. No one that into me expects more than momentary displays of suave coolness.
"Is it good enough?" I inquire over Apple's shoulder as she does a quick run-through, looking over and clipping together the best parts of the various snippets of material.
"It will do just fine, dear."
We eat dinner together, than I take back over from Aulie for a while. It's still too early to go to sleep (and it's going to be hard to sleep at all with Salvador in the arena and Shaya on my conscious), but I'll have to try.
The remaining victors seem a bit listless. Most of the tributes are sleeping. The girl from 2 stays guard while her partner sleeps. Sunny is crying softly, her face pressed against a blanket, that with its precise stitching and homey patchwork suggests to me a Pal Fields-make. Pal is gone and an athletic-looking woman has taken his place at the District 8 station, though he seems to have left a good number of sewing supplies behind on the desk area surrounding the touchscreen. …Is he finally done with that seemingly endless task of sewing that he was involved in before?
One of several insets showing sleeping tributes on the general live feed reveals his girl, her cheeks pink-flushed with the cool of the night air, breathing quietly through her slightly parted lips. I can picture her being friends with Faline. They share the same dark hair and daintiness.
"Yes, Beto," the man who has taken the District 3 spot is saying into his headset. He reads Beto a long string of numbers off a sheet of paper. I haven't the slightest idea what it means.
In another sleeping tribute inset I see that Shy's boy, the amateur painter, has smudged his cheeks with the orange-ish soil of the region of the arena he's trying to blend into to good effect. He has also managed to find some kind of darker dirt or other material (or maybe Shy sent him something while I was away?) and drawn a shaky, mirror-less rendition of open eyes onto his eyelids. It's a very clever idea. I'm impressed. It should buy him at least some second-guessing from any would-be attacker, especially at night.
"Good, huh?" Shy catches me looking. "He came up with that all by himself."
"You never know what skills are going to come in handy in the arena…"
Jack, apparently away for some break or business, returns to mentor central. He smiles at me. "Will they do any mentor interviews?" Shy asks him, "I mean, there's always room for filler blurbs, right?"
"They might," he shrugs, "Ask Danae. Your Victor Affairs guy is in the studio now too. Between the two of them, they've got to be able to work something out."
"I'll go too," Hector gets up to accompany her.
"Do me a favor?" Jack points his speller over to Shy's emptied spot, which is probably not proper, but is a kind courtesy. The gold-haired (not blond, a really gold gold) woman hesitates, but follows his instructions.
"Did you watch the tape from your birthday?" he asks me.
I can't lie about it. "N-no," I avoid his green eyes and settle for looking at this patiently smiling mouth. "I was too embarrassed. I, uh, I'll get to it eventually. I promise."
His smile collapses into a sad, thin line.
"T-tonight," I amend my words. "I will. Don't worry about it, Jack. Get back to Samantha and, uh-" What's the name of the boy? "Indi? Err, Indiana."
"I'm sorry about Shaya. And I want to reassure you that it wasn't your fault, okay, because I'm sure that you're thinking that. No one can ever win more than halfway here."
"I know."
"I think it helps to be reminded sometimes." He holds his hand out to me. What does he mean by it? I'm not sure how to respond to his gesture.
He wants to be reminded too? "You could win halfway," I turn his statement around. It's funny how when I'm telling it to someone else I go for the positive spin. "Your chances aren't bad. You still have both your tributes in there and each of them seems capable." I take his hand. "Samantha has that lucky clover."
"I suppose you're right. Maybe I can. …I appreciate it," he wraps his fingers around mine.
I suppose I chose my words correctly.
"I'm glad we're friends," he shakes my hand and retreats to his station to do his job. As always, he makes me wonder.
When I make my last check over Salvador and the account standing before turning things over to Aulie for the night I am left even more off-balance by the additions I see to our sponsor funds. There is an extremely modest addition that was apparently wired in by Papa ("Dan said he found some money in his couch so I doubled it," reads the added description) that makes me smile. It's the "J. Umber" donation that gets me. There is no other J. Umber, I think. There can't be.
If that money were to save Salvador, how would I ever make it up to him?
I don't remember reading any rule against putting money toward your own tributes, so it's not like he's voting Salvador as his third choice victor.
I don't understand it. I'm awed as always by how much I don't understand.
"I'll call and wake you if there's a problem," Aulie assures me.
I go up to my room. It's very quiet. Either I'm all alone there or Apple is sleeping. I cue up the recording that Jack gave me. I have to keep my promise.
"And now a very special happy birthday message to my friend Mags, who, as you all know, is turning eighteen today," Jack chirps onscreen. His white and yellow attire underscores his cheerful mood. There is a vase filled with daffodils and purple irises to his left.
This was several months ago when it was still winter.
"Mags, I hope you're happy today, doing something fun and having something good to eat, of course, because we all know that's what you like. We all like to see you laugh too, right?" he prompts the people who staff and star in the other segments of the program and the camera cuts to two female reporters nodding and smiling. "So, I don't know, maybe my singing's not so good, but I hope that it makes you laugh."
Jack's television coworkers look expectant before the camera zooms back in to leave him alone onscreen. "Hello, happy birthday, I wish the best for you!" I've never heard this birthday song before. Is it from 1? "Happy birthday, Maa-ags, may this next year be great too!"
He finishes and is only able to hold his silence for several seconds before he bursts out laughing. There is a touch of color in his cheeks that causes a similar shade to rise in mine. I am relieved that no one is watching with me (never mind that any number of people already saw this back when it first aired- that's not the same as it would be sharing the viewing with them).
"Thanks for being my friend, Mags! See you around!" The recording cuts off choppily where it switches to the last part of the program following Jack's segment. That's it.
I turns off the screen and sit on my bed in the dark.
When I try to sleep, I think about Shaya again. It's a bad night.
Fortunately, however, it was a comparatively good night for Salvador as arena nights go. "Kid sleeps like a rock out there," Aulie chuckles when I meet him at the mentoring station, "Funny considering the trouble he was having here."
"Wore himself out, I guess."
Many of the other mentors have beaten me back. This isn't to say a lot of interest is happening now, but the tributes are waking up and that means things will begin again in earnest. When Salvador awakes he remain lying in his thorn bush hiding place for a while. He takes his token out of his pocket and runs his fingers over its surface, looking at it. "Oh, I'm hungry," he groans. He drinks a little water, but remains thankfully conservative with its use.
I idly browse the catalogue. The price of water has jumped since yesterday. The other prices have risen too, I think. All of them, though not necessarily at the same rate. It might relate to their perceived utility.
"Ah, sparks!" Shy curses mildly at something on her screen. I can't help but wonder if she's bothered by the same thing as me. But both her tributes are out there. There could be a lot of things happening that would provoke that reaction.
Shy's boy happily receives a very small gift of water. That might have been the problem. She doesn't send anything to her girl. With her quick death, Shaya spared me this one pain- I'm not forced to chose. Beto and Shy, who have both their tributes in the game yet but not allied together have the worst of this, I imagine. Even if you have a preference, with your pair together they can't necessarily determine it. They'll split the gifts on their own. That's what the Nines are doing with some sort of protein bar Luna sent.
"You watched?"
I turn around to see Jack standing behind me. "Um, sorry if this is impolite," he gestures vaguely toward my screen while looking away from it. What he means is that he doesn't want me to think I'm there to spy on Salvador. Not that he can tell his tributes about what Salvador's doing (considering whether or not it would be possible to climb one of those thorny trees without getting all cut up) anyway.
"It's okay." I'm more concerned about his willingness to walk away from his tributes and interact with me. Constant vigilance seems to be the order of the day for most of us (according to Hector, Pal's departure from the mentoring center lasted only about two hours which he found rather peculiar, despite looking exhausted he preferred dozing in the chair at this station to being anywhere else). Jack is comparatively lackadaisical. I can't parse this. Not when he would go to that trouble to find a suitable token for his girl. Not when he's selling those shirts to support them. The puzzle just won't piece itself together in my mind.
"…I did watch it." To say so makes me timid.
My mind is in one place and my eyes in another as I track Salvador's apparent decision to forget about the thorn trees and hike about to, I don't know, see what he can see? I'm sure he's hungry. It's going to take a toll on him, but he can manage a lot longer without food than without water. I'm afraid to get into a tight spot where I desperately need to spend but don't have the funds.
Jack awaits some comment on his performance. I think about him blushing in the recording.
"I liked it. I mean, it was embarrassing, but I liked it. You're very nice to me. I'm glad too, you know. That we're friends."
"Thanks. I'm always happy to hear that."
"N-now get back to your tributes," I scold him.
"No, don't get back to your tributes," Shy counters in a whiny joking around sort of tone, "Stay and flirt with Mags and let them take care of themselves like every other year. You have too many advantages."
"What she said," the District 11 coach agrees.
"I'm not flirting," I comment mildly. No point in protesting too much. But that's certainly not my intent. I don't flirt, at least not on purpose. Can you flirt by accident? Salvador is using his axe to dig around near some leaves that look sort of turnip-ish. He's definitely got food on the brain.
Up on the big screen the 1s are arguing. The girl shoves the boy. He shoves her back, into the pool of water at the Cornucopia. Jack abruptly leaves us to return to his station. Is this going to be it for one of the 1s? It could be.
But instead of going in for the kill, holding Samantha down or anything, Indiana lets her flail her way back to the surface. She curses colorfully at him and at great length, stumbles out of the water, sits down, and checks on her token to see that she hasn't lost it in the shuffle.
Indiana laughs at her, but overall they seem to have made up as fast they began to argue. "Hey, look," Samantha says. She points out across the grass. Someone has poked their head up in response to the sounds of the struggle. It's the District 12 girl.
I don't watch. I figure I'm not obligated. I'm adding enough fuel to the fire of my guilt and nightmares as it is without bearing witness to every tribute's death. I made up my mind that my only obligation is to my own.
The District 12 girl screams a lot and for what seems like a long time. The 12 coach rattles off some curses that instantly put the District 1 tributes to shame before kicking over his chair and marching out with the noise of the canon. "Sore loser," the District 11 coach laughs. I think they must have made a bet.
Salvador doesn't hear any of this. He digs up some weird roots but is afraid to eat them (I am glad he doesn't- they're unfamiliar and make me nervous). Instead he puts two into his backpack and carries on hiking around.
Kayta shows up to watch everything for a while from the couch and he brings a big thermos of soup with him. It smells good and he clearly enjoys making everyone hungry. A bunch of food orders go out at once.
I feel sorrier for Salvador in his hunger now, but I stand by my position of not purchasing any food for him yet.
Sponsor funds trickle in in small amounts (many of them are earmarked as "fan club" though, so I think they must have received and been pleased with my response to their donations).
It seems shaping up to be a quiet day. There are a lot of near misses between different tributes traveling up and down the hills and fields and ditches of the not particularly leaf-heavy arena. Some of these near misses are not as coincidental as we expect Mr. Zimmer will paint them for the audience's sake.
The girl from 5 definitely saw her counterpart engaged in his quiet camouflage gambit, but when her paused dragged on, she acted as if she had only stopped to wipe her glasses and kept on moving. It's still early for one of the less gutsy players to go for their district partner (and the players I'd guess are the gutsier ones here are holding onto theirs as allies in the meantime- which partnership will snap first, since odds are at least one has to- 1's, 2's, or 9's?).
The girl from 6, shaken from the single kill she made (and probably uncomfortable with thirst), caught up in the fear and fury surrounding the gong's tolling at the Cornucopia has purposely avoided the boy from 3, the girl from 5, and the pair from 9. It would be better for her to stop moving around and conserve her strength, I think, hoping that Sunny can scrape together the money to hydrate her.
The boy from 5's got his face- and hand-painting going on, but the really well hidden tribute is the girl from 3. Sure, the cameras were able to find her, but as far as I can tell, no other tribute has the slightest idea where she is since she climbed up into a dead tree and expanded on the hollowed out interior until she could fit her whole body inside.
In the late afternoon, it turns out the tribute who gets the blood spilling again may be mine. Cautiously, Salvador has worked his way back to the Cornucopia. The 1s have left. Every obviously useful supply has been ransacked from the place. He picks through some of the trash left behind- some bags the 1s didn't need, having consolidated their supplies, some food wrappers. "At least I can get some more water," he says to himself, "I can't imagine it'd kill me any faster than the Ones." It's a decent assumption. It appears safe enough.
He looks up at the sound of shifting gravel. The boy from 3 is on the other side of the pond. Salvador pulls his axe out of his pack, sitting on the ground in front of him. "Hey, Three," he calls, "Do you have anything to eat?"
"Not to share with you," the 3 boy answers.
Salvador holds the hand axe over his head, "You got anything like this?"
His opponent doesn't like that. I automatically skip through the sponsor catalogue to the page displaying the various bandages and other first aid supplies. I don't want Salvador to start this. I don't want to watch him kill. But if he's going to live, at some point he'll have to.
"Come on over here why don't you and find out," the boy from 3 counters.
They stare at each other over the water for a while, stalemated. The 3 boy makes the first move, but even though it may slow him, Salvador comes at his opponent at an angle, cutting into the water. The 3 boy's hand goes straight for the shaft of the axe. Any suggestion that he might have had a similarly deadly item on hand is dismissed in my mind as pure bluff.
"Ooooh," I hear Beto sigh alongside me.
Salvador pulls the axe away. And flings it back over his shoulder to the deepest part of the pool. He can get it back later, but the boy from 3 probably can't- at least not by swimming (he could fish for it through). They grapple a bit. The boy from 3 wants to stay out of the water as much as he can. I don't blame him. I squeeze the edge of the desk helplessly. Even if I there's something I could send Salvador to help him kill this boy, I can't do that. Not yet.
Someday that's a step I may have to take.
Salvador is stronger than the 3 boy. He pulls him deeper into the water, but as his opponent is seized by panic he only fights back all the harder, kicking and flailing.
The image on the main screen is identical to the one before me. Everyone is watching this. Looking from my small screen up to the large one I feel sort of disassociated from the event taking place. Like it's staged. Maybe that's how people in the Capitol feel. Two boys are roughhousing particularly harshly.
Salvador holds his opponent down, pushing his head underwater.
Is this it? Will he do it?
Then his eyes grow wide in disbelief. "What am I doing?!" he must be thinking. He lets the paler, arena-sunburnt boy up. He gasps for air, choking and coughing.
But if Salvador doesn't kill this boy, then what? Will Salvador walk or swim away? Will they just go their separate ways? "Mags, it's hard!" Salvador shouts, looking up into the air (he doesn't immediately meet the 'eye' of the camera, but it swivels to meet him), appealing directly to me. His eyes are tearing up. "What do I do?"
The boy from 3 recovers his breath enough to strike back against Salvador, biting his hand hard. Salvador yelps in pain and surprise, but this seems to be enough for him to make up his mind about what course of action to take. He pushes his valiantly struggling opponent back down.
It seems to take a long time before the canon fires, officially confirming the death.
Still, Salvador lifts up one hand, tentatively. Then the other. He wades back to the bank and lays down on his stomach, exhausted. He would be easy pickings now.
The main screen shows an inset of the 2s wondering who was killed, which then expands to become the larger picture, focusing on their exploits, leaving Salvador lying on the ground in the inset.
He slowly moves his arm to cover his face. "Oh," he moans to himself, "Oh, God." No one will hear it but the editors and me.
Beto wheels his chair back out and stands up. He puts his hand to his chest in a gesture both pained and sincere. "No hard feelings," he tells me.
I killed one of this tributes too. I'm impressed by his ability to stay distanced from this. Of course, I don't feel any special anger toward Jack for his girl's killing Shaya. There was no special malice in it. Ada, Shaya, this boy- none of them were killed for who they were specifically or even what district they came from. "I appreciate it," I thank Beto for his understanding.
He returns to his seat. He has his girl still to play guardian angel to. There can only be one survivor, but I hope that she does well. Doesn't die too miserably at least.
I feel dazed. Salvador snaps out of it faster than I do, I think. Slowly, so slowly, he rises up onto his elbows, then his knees. He wades back into the water. He swims out to roughly the deepest point, around the platform in the center, which bobs gently in the middle of the pool, dives down and retrieves the axe, bringing it awkwardly back to dry land with him. He peels off his shirt and sits down in the scraggly grass, enjoying the temperature of the arena slightly after his dip. The water is clearly his element. He seems refreshed by the act of swimming.
If he has to die, it should be here.
I'm shocked at this thought as soon as it passes through my mind. I mean, one has to understand that such a thing is still likely- more than half the tributes are still out there and that includes all the ones I'd guess are toughest- and it's not going to help either Salvador or me to be delusional, but- I've gone crazy if I hadn't before, haven't I?
After enjoying the sun a while (though he's developing some sunburn, the same as pretty much everyone else though not as bad as many), he picks the bundle the boy from 3 left behind. It isn't a bag as I initially thought. It's just the outermost layer of his arena uniform rolled up around his water bottle, a piece of some kind of rough-looking hardtack-ish bread (that's not District 3's typical tiny bread), and a coil of rope. He didn't think to use the rope against Salvador. Maybe he didn't have a good idea how.
"Oh, I'm glad," Salvador says and tries taking a big bite out of the bread, before wincing back, "Augh!" It must be really hard- it hurts his teeth. He massages his jaw and dips the bread in the pond, hoping to soften it up.
That's the rest of Salvador's day, taking his supplies out to the floating platform and picking at the unpleasant brick of bread. He mostly tries to stay low, lying flat on the wood to keep from sticking out too much and attracting attention. The pond would at least slow down and would-be attackers, assuming no one shows up with a long-range weapon and the skills to deploy it (the boy from 5 has a bow and arrows).
I don't do anything more useful than bear witness. Today that will have to be enough.
Only two deaths makes for a short showing of the fallen. The boy from 3; the girl from 12.
Salvador sleeps on the platform.
He sleeps well again. I sleep better.
The tributes from 2 are doing stretches together, like warm-ups, when I return in the morning. They eat dried fruit and jerky for breakfast. "Turkey jerky," the girl laughs, "Aww, I would've liked beef."
"Don't complain- if you don't like it, then give it to me," the boy replies.
Salvador finishes off the bread brick, though his expression tells me that it was clearly pretty awful. He swims around in the pond for a while, though there isn't a whole lot of distance to cover in any given direction. He settles for making circles. He mutters to himself words that even I can't hear, not over the splashing of the water.
"Did anyone watch the official required viewing broadcast?" Sunny asks the room.
"…Part of it," Jack supplies, which seems to be the best answer she's going to get.
"Oh, okay," Sunny gets up to talk to him, though she turns a cautious look back toward Teejay who gives some kind of "I've got it," answer. It's his coherency she has to be worried about, not his dedication. He's stuck it out watching her as much as anyone.
Sunny goes over to Jack's station. "Did they feature her any?" I can hear her speaking softly to him. "What did they focus on?"
"Well, the killing of course." Jack's voice is louder. His tone is wry. "But I know you know that. Jeff spotlighted the camo-tactics. There was lots about the sponsoring, which is also obvious, I suppose. I think the editors are doing a good job being largely unbiased. Watching, I wouldn't say anyone jumps out as the favorite tribute."
"…it wouldn't be her though," Sunny whispers. Her voice is cracking.
Jack's voice drops too, but I can still hear him, "Are you having trouble getting sponsors? I-" at least for a few more seconds. Salvador is making too much noise now, swimming to shore. He heads away from the pond to the nearest copse of spiny trees. I don't know why he's decided to leave the Cornucopia. I don't think he should, but it's not up to me. How long will it take me to figure out this decision?
I glance at the main screen. The 2s are listening to something. The girl is making a "shh, be quiet" gesture to her partner. I hold my breath. Even without any of the particularly neat editing that will accompany the main broadcast whatever TV wizard selects which camera to highlight on the main feed sure makes a good, tension-raising selection.
The 2 girl points with a hammer. No, nothing ominous about that at all.
They're on high ground and can see someone moving around down further belong. Carefully, they begin to pack their things.
I am allowed a feeling of relief as I compare what they're looking at to Salvador's current terrain. He's managed to get up into one of those thorn-covered trees, albeit haphazardly and not without getting scratched. The 2s are looking at an area with tall stalks of dry grass.
Teejay curses vehemently, then pushes away from the table, sending his chair skidding backward with the force. "No," he declares, "No, I can't." I think everyone on our side of the stations looks as he rises to his feet and staggers over to Sunny. "Rae," he grabs her- and she is already looking pale, but now she turns several shades paler and quivers in a way that makes me wonder if she's going to faint, "I can't do this," Teejay gives her a small, measured shake.
Sunny pushes past him and throws herself into the chair and situation.
Teejay remains standing near Jack's station, beginning to tremble himself, until Jack walks him over to the couch and sits him down. "Close your eyes, Tee," Jack attempts to soothe him, "Sunny's got this."
And maybe she does, but it's not about to end as quick as that. The 2s have a ways until they catch up with 6's girl and they're not racing to make it obvious that they're attempting to close that gap.
The burst of action that occurs now comes as a surprise to all but perhaps one person in this room. With a gleam of light on metal, a dark-haired girl barrels out of the thorny underbrush at another petite figure. The girl from 8; the girl from 5.
"Oh no," I hear myself gasp as if from far away.
Pal's girl probably manages to do as much damage to herself as Shy's girl does to her in their encounter. It's one of those really messy fights that happen between two determined opponents with little skill and about equal strength.
Mr. Bronze must be loving it.
"Damn, that takes me back," Gerik grits out, distracted from the quiet current meanderings of 2's hunting tributes by the bloody melee playing out above us (I can't say they're likely to need him now anyway, the two of them versus that one girl).
"Are you watching this Jack?" Hector chimes in.
"I wish I weren't," Jack says, "This looks way too familiar to my old eyes."
It's true (and I think most of us, Shy and Pal excepted) are fixated on the awkward melee above. The girl from 5 doesn't have any real weapons, just a thorny branch she broke off one of the arena's many dry, dead trees. There were lots of homemade-job sort of weapons like that in the First Games. There are some in every Games, but after the sheer hand-to-hand desperation and brutality of the First Games, there was an appreciable increase in items intended to kill included in the arenas. It was one part of making the potential deaths and potential victors more varied. …And, therefore, more entertaining (and if it's not entertaining, why would people in the Capitol persist in watching?).
Finally the 8 girl inflicts the sort of damage that will end it. The knife went into the 5 girl's arm deep. She's going to bleed out. The little 8 girl, scratched and blood-spattered and gaping backs away and covers her eyes, smearing more blood across her face. She can't bear to look at what she's done. There isn't a person in this room who can't understand that feeling. She sobs and makes some choking noses, but doesn't actually throw anything up.
You can tell it feels like forever to her until the girl from 5 finally dies. After her cannon, the 8 girl gathers up the strength to venture back over and see what she's done, or at least retrieve her knife, which she left lying in the dirt.
Pal releases a long sigh of relief. I glance over at Shy to see her wipe sweat off her brow with the back of her hand, but she doesn't seem too broken up. She's probably seamlessly directed all of her focus over to the boy. I should be used to that pragmatic side of hers by this point, but it still jars me. Maybe I'm completely wrong though. How can I judge Shy's feelings? Maybe she keeps in all bundled up inside. Maybe she saves up her pains and anxieties to share with Mac (Mac, right?), back in 5.
8 girl doesn't go for her knife first. She picks up 5 girl's glasses. They're not broken, but they are smudged. She wipes them off with the edge of her shirt, kneels down, and put them back on the dead girl's face. It looks like she's saying something and I strain to hear her, lifting my headphones away from one ear, but there are too many competing sounds in the room and the volume of the master screen is kept low. If anyone can understand what she's saying, it can only be Pal.
The pressure of the combined curiosity in the room gets through to him. "…She's not actually saying anything," he speaks up, eyes still down on his own screen, "She's just mouthing it to herself."
"Do you know what she's saying then?" Hector asks.
"Something we say back home. At funerals."
I can understand that.
The girl picks up her knife, frowning at all the blood on it, wipes it halfheartedly against her pants, then sticks it in her backpack.
I look back at my screen, where Salvador is climbing down one of those spiky trees and getting the leg of his pants snagged on the thorns. He mutters a mild curse and a trickle of blood runs down his calf until it's stopped by the fabric of his sock.
The general attention of the watching mentors (and coach- there's still a coach around for 11) begins to divide. The fight is over and there are still twelve tributes out there. Maybe nothing will happen for a while. The 2s could've caught up to their prey if they wanted to, but for some reason they're taking it slow. If the girl from 6 knew about it this dragging things out would strike me the wrong way, but they're not purposely torturing her or anything. They're thinking on it for some reason, following, but slowly.
Then again, maybe something will happen immediately. On an individual tribute-by-tribute level, there's always something happening anyway. Even if it's really boring.
Fear and boredom and the endless unknown. The Games are a microcosm of life in Panem.
Salvador's scrape stops bleeding. He touches a finger to his tongue and rubs some spit on it. He still has water in his canteen, but he doesn't want to use it for this if he doesn't have to, I suppose. As far as I know, he's out of food again as of this morning. I have to think about what I can and should do to take care of him on that front. There has been sponsor activity and interest in him, which surged up around the time of yesterday's official broadcast and continued on today through his swimming session today. I think it's from a combination of factors- Salvador's own personal charm, leftover interest in District 4 from me and my win last year, and his killing the 3 boy. As the field narrows, will sponsors be easier to come by? So far that seems to hold true. There will be less tributes to compete for viewer attention, but the interested parties might be all spent out by then (or still drawn to someone else).
"Ohhh, she's so skinny," Hector says. He doesn't mean his girl. She's pretty well-fed-looking as far as tributes go. This isn't saying a lot, but there hasn't been enough time for any tribute to drop a significant amount of weight yet, so he wouldn't be making that sort of exclamation about the tribute he knows best.
It's Pal's girl. She's gone back to the lake at the Cornucopia, making me glad now that Salvador left it (though maybe if he'd been there she wouldn't have approached- she found that creek earlier after all) which has shriveled somewhat since the beginning of the Games and is crouched among the cattails, dunking her shirt in the water and trying to rub the blood and grime out of it with her hands. And Hector's right. She's very skinny. There is nothing attractive about how visible her ribs are, but the thinness of her waist does catch the eye in a more ambiguous manner.
Blood has soaked through her shirt to the layer beneath as well. She spreads her wet shirt over a rock and peels off her bra, leaving her completely bare from the waist up. I catch sight of Hector very deliberately averting his eyes before he sits back down. I understand not wanting to have dried blood against your skin and I know you aren't aware of where the cameras are watching you from, but little girl, be more discreet. Oh, I wish you would.
I can't stop grimacing as she takes off her socks and shoes, rolls her pants up to her knees and wades into the water. She has left her knife behind in her backpack. She's so vulnerable right now. I am more worried for her at this moment than Salvador.
…But the moment passes. No one attacks her, no one even goes by. She goes back and sits on the shore to dry off, which will happen fast enough under the harsh sunlight that's continued to batter the arena.
The heat of the afternoon is bothering Salvador. He's taken his few supplies out of his pack and turned the open bag upside down, sticking it over his head. This greatly restricts his peripheral vision, so I'm not sure it's a good idea, but it does seem to provide the relief from the sun that he desires. He seems to consider throwing away the roots he dug up, holding one and raising his hand over his head, but then thinks better of it- who knows who might hear or see?- and simply leaves them on the ground. He goes and lies down in a ditch, holding his hatchet and his canteen, which, I suppose, prevents a back attack.
I wonder what he's thinking about. I mean, I know I thought about a lot of total nonsense during my Games, mixed in with all the worrying and bad strategy.
…I am such a bad mentor.
I flip through the digital supply catalogue showing suggested items to send tributes (though you can search up all kinds of more obscure things by typing them in) and prices. I don't think there's much, if any, food to find in this arena- if any other tribute has found some I haven't seen or heard about it, so if Salvador is going to get today, he's going to have to get it off another tribute again (and I hate to think of that) or from me. Bread from home, dried fruit, beef jerky, all kinds of canned food products, all the way up to things like fresh fruit and candy. Things that can help your tribute; things that will put on a show.
"Look," Shy leans over and touches my arm, pointing at the big screen.
Pal has sent his girl a gift (she has her bra back on, but her shirt is still drying). Even the way the items are packaged speaks of Pal's particular character, but in this case, the arrangement also speaks to the amount of sponsor money he has to have received on his tribute's behalf because that pink tissue paper and gold string will have cost him extra. I don't think Pal Fields has poor judgment. I think he has that much to spare.
The girl unwraps the package very carefully. There's a message on a notecard, but she cups it in her hands and keeps it from the camera (this one at least, some other view might have seen it), smiling slightly at whatever words Pal has sent her. After reading it, she folds it up and tucks it in the pocket of her pants.
There are three small items wrapped in the tissue paper: a single cherry, a piece of that super flat 8 bread, and a tube of sunscreen. "Thank you, Pal," she says. She looks so happy. "Thank you, everyone," she adds. It's certainly the diplomatic thing to say.
If it's her bare skin that the camera is after, whoever is in charge of editing the program will be happy for the unintended show she gives it, squeezing out that sunscreen cream and rubbing it on her sun-pinked face, arms, and chest.
"Good gears," Shy sighs (my face quirks into a smile almost despite myself- it's a funny expression), "I've gotta get Coy some of that." I don't think he's burning so much now that he's got dirt all over his face as, um, camouflage, but it wouldn't hurt. …or maybe she thinks he will make a good show of that sort of gift?
That's an element of mentorship I haven't been giving as much thought to as I should, especially in light of my haphazard showmanship of joking around in the lead up to my own Games and while on television with Jack. The ability to create a "good show" involving your tributes even once they're in the arena and are even less under your control. I don't know about Shy, but I don't have funds to play around with. I have to be careful. Unless some unexpected trouble arises today that requires medicine or bandages or something, the next thing I plan on sending Salvador is food.
…But it could be entertaining food? I mean, I want to be practical, but you can be fun and practical at the same time, right? Sometimes? Depending on the circumstances?
I wish that Kayta hadn't left to pursue his own schedule- he hasn't been back after his episode of tantalizing us with his soup. If he were here, I know I could ask him questions without distracting anyone from their own mentoring experience. I don't think he'd mind. …I don't think Emmy would mind either, but I'm not sure she'd be much help. I'm sort of relieved that she's gone, actually. When she verges on hysterical, as much as I want to help, I have no idea what to do. It's very uncomfortable. For her too, probably.
Shy likes to help. She likes to talk in general. I just don't feel comfortable asking her anything else for a while.
As far as I can tell, 11 and 12's coaches have only talked to each other. Not really doing their tributes any favors there I think. 11's coach is wearing rhinestone-studded sunglasses inside for whatever reason and looks ridiculous watching his screen through them, but it has little to do with me. I feel sorry for the 11 boy.
The only thing I observe him- Harvest, he's the one with the pretty name- doing that day is killing a snake and trying to decide whether or not it would be safe to eat. Since he doesn't even have the means to make a fire ("Unless I could pull the rubbing two sticks together trick," he muses), he chooses against it. I feel bad because I know the 2s had no problem with their snake meal. Of course, I don't know if this is the same kind of snake.
It's a slow afternoon. Aulie brings me lunch to eat at my station. It seems wrong to get bored of all things, but there's a weird sort of limbo you fall into while watching your tribute wander about doing nothing in particular, aware that most of the other tributes are also doing nothing in particular and don't pose a particularly immediate danger.
This goes on until the 2s, who are playing the most aggressive game out of the entire field (this seems to make sense in light of Hector and Gerik's personalities- at least, it seems like what Hector and Gerik would advise them to do) amp up their quiet stalking through an even thicker section of tall grass. They're close to their target. The camera does a good job of not showing who they're catching up to, though all of us are aware at this point that it's the girl from 6. Sometime between now and Jack's settling him down there, Teejay has fallen asleep.
The 2 boy leads the hunt. Aside from being a volunteer- like I was, not for a family member- the 2 boy is pretty boring, the girl has all the charm for 2 in her corner, so it's probably in his best interests not to drag things out and give viewers too much time to get attached to weaker but more charming tributes.
The 2 girl hasn't shied from violence, but she seems more troubled by it than her counterpart. I'm not really in the position to judge their skills, but when her blue-gray eyes catch the camera and narrow with concern, she becomes a rather compelling character. She is probably the 2 to beat.
When the gap is close, the 2 girl springs forward upon her prey.
The 6 girl is an easy kill for the 2 girl, considering she's weak with dehydration. Though Sunny has been busy all this time since we saw the hunt began, she hasn't been able to buy anything to turn the tables for her girl. After watching the girl wander around, slow and dizzy, for the past day, before sitting down beneath a leafless tree in a barely sheltered position, it's almost a relief. Sunny bursts into tears and pounds her fists on her console. "Missy! Missy! Missy!" she shrills.
Teejay, sleeping on a couch, lifts his head and looks this way and that, but his gaze never settles on Sunny in any way that indicates he understands what she's so upset about. I can't say that's not for the best considering how bothered he was at the outset of this event, calling Sunny "Rae" and all that.
"Pardon me," the door opens. Some junior Gamemaker flunky interrupts the proceedings at this point to retrieve Jack. He stops briefly to look at Sunny, whose outburst seems to be having an uncomfortable effect on him. Pal doesn't look away from whatever his girl is doing (although I've taken some breaks, I think I've only seen him look away twice so far- he may have left for a little while that first night, but I'm not sure he's even been sleeping), but holds out a handkerchief in Sunny's general direction, which she accepts to blow her running nose.
"I'm kind of busy here, Jareth," Jack holds a hand up between his mouth and his headset (I think he's in the process of courting some sort of sponsor).
"I can wait until you finish that call, but Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer are holding for you right now, Jack," the man, Jareth apparently, frets.
"Fine," Jack sighs.
Onscreen in front of me, Salvador is chewing on a blade of grass. He rubs his stomach, which gurgles unhappily. "What I wouldn't give for something to eat. …Not even a meal, just a snack. A piece of fish jerky…a bread crust…I'd eat a lemon!"
I can picture some Capitol citizen giving in to an off-kilter sense of humor and paying in to send a lemon his way. …I suppose it would provide some sort of entertainment value, because I don't doubt Salvador would at least attempt to consume it, but it wouldn't do much to solve his nutritional dilemma.
It's great that he's reaching out on his own in a way, but this is ultimately my job. I have to feed Salvador. …And, actually, as I consider how he's trying to be funny about his predicament, it occurs to me that I might now of someone who'd be interested in providing for him. I call into the sponsorship phone line with a question for the operators: "Who would I contact to find out if Crispco Crackers was interested in sponsoring my tribute? And can you get me their number?"
"We'll connect you directly to Crispco Public Relations Division, miss," the male operator informs me.
"O-oh." Easy as that. "Thank you." The phone makes some noises. I take a deep breath. I vaguely notice as Jack walks out of the mentoring room behind me. There are some noises on the line. Sunny sits down with Teejay and tries to explain to him what's happened to their last tribute. The phone connects. "H-hello," I say, while a man says the same at roughly the same time.
He laughs and I pause to let him speak. "Hello?" he repeats himself, "Mags Gaudet?"
"Yes," I nod, although he can't see it.
"…You're calling regarding a sponsorship?"
"Yeah, I was wondering, um, if Crispco would have any interest in putting any funds toward feeding Salvador Chavez? Because your product made a huge difference toward my own survival last year and I'd be honored if you would see fit to feed a District Four tribute again this year. Salvador and I would both be so grateful and it would be another noteworthy way of advertising your crackers, uh…" The wind behind my sails weakens as I try to figure out what I should say to appeal to this man. …I suppose what I've said can't do any harm, but it might not work either. "I would definitely be willing to try and endorse your product in whatever way possible."
My pitch, weak as it might be, does its job.
Crispco awards me the largest single donation I've received. Maybe they were only waiting for this sort of opportunity to be presented to them. That might make sense in light of their crackers appearing within the default supplies last year- with their brand-name on them even.
I thank the Crispco representative an excessive amount of times because I feel I've truly lucked out more than I deserve having so little trouble acquiring such a significant gift. Finishing up with him, I go right back to sponsor gift menu and find the exact order he promised to give already keyed into the menu, I select it and the operator comes on to take my order.
"Is there any message?" the operator asks.
"Oh, right…" I had forgotten that I could write anything to go along with the item, although the maximum word count for messages is small and there's an entire list of subjects that can't be brought up (I can't give out information about the whereabouts of other tributes, for instance, at least not directly- maybe if you had some kind of code worked out in advance). "'Thank Crispco'," I decide, "Write to him 'Thank Crispco.'" I will hope that the company feels that by doing so they've gotten their money's worth. If the sponsor system is going to become a permanent part of the Games, it is in my best interests to cultivate good relationships with whoever is willing to put money towards my district. Hopefully with Crispco (via the luck of Sparrow's supplies last year, really), I've scored big not only for this year, but for many years to come.
Many years. Years that I can hardly imagine. I've never been good at thinking too far into the future. The operator tells me that my message has been approved and the item is being processed as he speaks. The weight of the years to come confronts me. There is nothing comfortable or easy about it.
Salvador sees the package floating down toward him attached to a parachute and hastily scrambles partway up a dead, dry tree to grab if from the air. "Oooh, yes," he declares when he realizes what it is, "Se bueno!" He leans back against the tree trunk and clutches the package of crackers (it's not a big tin like Sparrow shared with me- it's probably about half that amount) to his chest. "Thank you, Mags!"
I wait, hoping he'll follow through with my instructions in the note. "Thank you, Crispco Crackers!" He does, his Down-District accent getting thick on the name "Crispco" and bringing a certain back home charm to the name.
He remains balanced in the tree. He rips open the package and shows what I would consider great restraint by eating only two large crackers.
He drinks a little water.
The sun is beginning to sink. Salvador looks out at the roving silhouettes of two tributes walking together between his position and the falling sun. It's the 2s or the 9s, probably, because as far as I know, they're the only tributes left who've stuck together in pairs (the 1s might still be together, but I'm not sure- there's tension between them and I haven't noticed them onscreen for a while- they echo Jack's ambiguity). Whoever they are, Salvador makes a rude gesture at them, which I would usually chide him for if we were together, but in this context just makes me laugh. Shy leans over to see if she can figure out what's so amusing to me.
"If nothing preferable was happening, it might make the recap," I tell her, "But he's just being snotty."
"Well, whatever the reason, it's good to hear you laugh in here," Shy responds, turning back to Coy, her remaining tribute.
Because the other tributes don't see Salvador, his action makes for little danger, but decent television.
Night comes in the arena and the two casualties, the girls from 5 and 6 are noted for the final time. 6 joins 7, 10, and 12 as the districts whose prospects have been ended. Sunny departs, probably permanently (though when I mention it, Hector suggests that she might come back at the end- a lot of them prefer to watch the final showdowns together to ease the tension, apparently), leaving behind Teejay after he falls to respond to her repeated entreaties for him to wake up, get up, and go back to their quarters.
Jack returns, but dawdles, looking up at the big screen instead of returning immediately to his tributes as the two hour long recap begins to play. "We're down to half already," he notes, moments before Mr. Zimmer informs the viewers of the exact same thing.
Neither of the day's deaths are considered particularly "interesting" to the hosts, but the possible fractures in the alliance between the 1s are another matter, as is the way 5's Coy has delved deep into the art of haphazard camouflage.
It turns out the tributes Salvador heckled were the 9s. The moment after this sequence plays (and Mr. Zimmer enjoys it very much), Luna stands up over her station and shoots me a look that, if it took physical form, could probably slice me like a barber's razor through a stick of butter. I never intended for it be like this, but what can I do? I may never have a chance for friendship with District 9- not their victors at least.
Some of the victors talk over the recap a bit- that the 11 boy has done a good job sticking it out. Gerik and Hector are slightly worked up over the idea of another two district Final Four matchup. And it's certainly not 9's pair of tributes they're thinking about. The 1s versus the 2s. It could happen, but, of course, in my position, I have someone else to be rooting for. My feelings are for Salvador though, not actively against anyone else.
I hate the Games. I hate the death. I hate the killing.
On my screen, Salvador is trying to eat another cracker in the slowest manner possible, taking the tiniest of bites.
The settling of a hand shifts my seat. I tense up for a second, but it turns out it's just Jack standing behind me. I look up at him. "You don't mind?" he inquires.
Well, I don't think he's standing here to watch Salvador nibble and thereby learn something he can somehow convey to his tributes to use against him. "It's okay," I tell him.
The tips of his fingers, laid over the top of the chair, brush against the back of my shoulder.
"You were gone a long time," I comment.
"First was some filming. Then there was something sponsor-related I had to work out."
"You're going to stay now, right?" I look back at him. His expression has a typical lightness to it, masking whatever else might be filling his thoughts. "I'm going to take my break. Swap with my friend."
"You've got some good support here, don't you?"
"I'm lucky. I guess I'm a bit like Emmy in that I like my district escort, but I also get along very well with my coach, Mr. Strong, so he stayed on with us as my designated speller and, uh, all around help I suppose. He's a better coach than I am."
"Better is relative," Jack says.
What's he getting at? "I would help you, if I could," I tell him, "…If you needed it."
"You've helped plenty already."
"M-maybe," I dare, "Maybe it's time for you to help me then."
The suggestion catches fire in his widening green eyes. "Maybe it is."
I remember the money he sent to District 4's account then and get embarrassed, but I feel even more awkward about speaking up and taking back the joking request for help, so I stay quiet.
Aulie comes in to meet me. "Hello, Jack," he nods.
"Always good to work alongside you, Aulus," Jack replies. It makes sense that they would know each other a bit further than merely through me, but I never noticed a sign of it before.
"Go have some dinner," Aulie plucks the headset off my head, "You deserve it."
"Yes, boss," I acquiesce.
Jack walks with me to the door. "Goodnight, Mags." I am dismissed.
I'm not back yet when the boy from 11 dies. It happened in the early morning. He was rooting around and chose a bad hole to stick his arm into. He was bitten by a snake. His coach didn't have the money to send him an antivenom. He suffered a painful death all alone.
I am not disappointed to have missed it. "It was a bad one," Kayta tells me, shaking his head.
"Came back to watch with us?"
"For a little bit. It's one of those things, you know? I hate to watch it with you and I hate to watch it alone." He scuffs his boot on the ground. "I really miss Raisin at times like these."
"I can imagine."
"Well," we break apart, me to my station and Kayta to the couch in the back, "Good luck with your boy."
"Thanks."
It's a slow day until about four in the afternoon. Salvador is dozing in another space he's cut out of a thorn bush to conserve energy during the hottest part of the day. The girl from 3 makes one of her tiny ventures out from her amazingly great hiding place in one of the dead trees.
I am not watching the 9s when it begins, but apparently it starts with an argument about their water. The girl is thirsty, the boy tells her she wants to drink too much. She pouts and turns away from him, crouching down in the grass. She finds some bluish flowers. "Huh," she says, "Go figure. Look, Tim. Forget-me-nots."
Tim doesn't look at the flowers. He has the piece he had torn off his jacket and been wearing like a bandana over his close-cropped head wrapped over his fists and stretched tight between them. He tackles his partner to the ground.
This, in a cloud of dust and surprise and crushed grasses, is where I start watching (Shy fills me in on the lead-up and the recap will certainly feature and confirm the details later). Tim is strangling his district partner- quite determinedly.
I am gaping. I look around to see the reactions of my fellow victors and many of them are gaping too. There aren't many inter-district killings- the odds just don't require it- and there are even fewer prior to the final eight. "Damn," Hector speaks for, presumably, many of us, "Didn't see that coming."
Tim Hazel has suddenly become a tribute to watch.
The girl fights hard, but Tim's just too strong with that element of surprise on his side.
Afterward, he's worn out by the effort he's expended and sits, breathing heavily as the canon fires and his partner's body is taken away. I don't dare even look at Luna to try and guess what she might be thinking- I would be lying if I said she didn't scare me. But I know that some of the others, less timid, are eying her- Kayta and Jack and Gerik.
"…They're gonna want to interview you about that," Jack breaks the ice surrounding her with a reasonable sort of remark/warning.
"Well, I certainly didn't tell him to do that," Luna answers. Her voice sounds…brittle. "I just hope he can commit to that decision he's made."
"Gamemakers have gotta love that," Hector sniffs.
At least there won't be any need for them to force any action after that. I doubt anyone watching was expecting it. I am inclined to guess it will be a quiet rest of the evening up to and through the anthem and into the night, barring accidents. No one is right upon anyone else's current location. The 1s are together, the 2s are together, the 3 girl is in her tree, Coy Eastman is camouflaged, Salvador and Pal's girl are both lying low in different dips in the ground (this is sure some rough terrain when it comes to small hills and rises- there are lots of places to sprain an ankle), and 9's Tim Hazel is just sitting out in the open. He's probably full of adrenaline right now and not afraid of anything.
I wonder what he was thinking. Why he decided at that very moment to kill her. Was it a sudden thing or planned out long in advance? …Even if he wins, I may never know the truth (though if he wins, Mr. Zimmer will certainly ask him).
Salvador has that bored look on his face again.
I can hear crickets in the arena through my headset.
I keep on hearing the crickets.
Salvador keeps on looking bored.
He yawns.
Elsewhere in the arena at this exact same moment, the boy from 1 kicks his counterpart in the back of the knee. She falls and he smashes her head with his makeshift mace. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Wherever they are, it's far enough away that Salvador doesn't hear her scream. And scream. And choke and whimper and gasp and then fall silent.
Jack sucks in a stiff breath, which whistles slightly between his teeth.
"I imagine you didn't tell him to do that either," Luna says, flat and cold.
The cannon counts the girl.
The commentators must be going wild.
And that's it. We have our final eight.
