The One Thing
"I am the one thing in life I can control."
Charlotte Jacquard, 17
District One
It takes all the control I have not to immediately stuff every bit of food I can see into my mouth. Everything at the table looks delicious. I don't even bother filling one of the plates that sits in front of me. I simply choose one of the largest pieces of cake and take a bite. Then another. It tastes so good. Even before the war, I'd never tasted anything like this. Since then, I've had to settle for whatever people are kind enough to offer, whatever I can manage to steal, or whatever I find thrown away outside of the shops. Needless to say, it's been a long time since my stomach has been full.
Maverick takes a seat next to me. "Slow. Take it slow." But I can't. Everything looks so inviting. Once I finish the piece of cake, I reach for some kind of fruity bread. Then a doughnut. Then a few of the muffins that are on the nearest plate. Only once I've finished four of those do I finally slow down a little. My stomach is starting to feel … full. And not just the somewhat satisfying feeling of having filled it with the best garbage I can find for the night. Actually full of warm, delicious food.
Only then do I realize that they're all watching me. Ra is standing in the corner, a hint of a smile on his lips. Gloria is seated across from me, waiting – maybe waiting for me to take a breath. But Maverick – he's sitting next to me, smiling a little. But not the sort of smug smile that colors Ra's face. Maverick's smile is genuine. "Good, isn't it."
I swallow the last bite of one of the muffins, and manage to nod a little. "Yes. I've never…"
Maverick nods. "I know."
I can't help watching as he does the same – grabs a few muffins and begins eating. "Save a little room for dinner," Gloria advises. "And don't worry, dear. He did the same thing."
Dinner. I'd assumed this was dinner. Silly, now that I think about it. Cake and cookies and muffins – I guess that's not really dinner. But after so many years of being content eating whatever I could find … well, any food seems like dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. Any concept I may have once had of what food is supposed to be eaten at what specific time – that's all gone. Has been for a long time.
But maybe … well, maybe that's a good thing. As my gaze follows Maverick, I can't help but think of how he looked last year. Scrawny and hungry and dirty – just like me. It helped him in the arena. He was used to dealing with the hunger. Used to going without. Maybe that will help me, too.
Finally, when I simply can't eat any more, I lean back a little – and barely manage to stifle a cry. Gloria hurries over, and catches a glimpse of the blood that's dried to the back of my shirt. "Oh, dear. Why don't you come with me, and we'll get you cleaned up. Ra, Maverick, play nice – we girls will be back in a flash."
We girls. As if I really have anything in common with her – this woman who seems delighted by the prospect of cleaning me up before sending me off to fight for my life. Maybe it's silly to hold that against her. She's just doing her job, after all. But I've spent the last two years routinely being arrested and whipped by people who are just doing their jobs. The fact that it's what they're supposed to do – that doesn't make it any better. That doesn't make it right.
But it's hard to be mad at Gloria when she leads me to a room with a large sink. She helps me out of my dirty clothes – little more than rags – and gently washes my back with a cloth. It stings, but I know better than to say so. She's doing the best she can. Hell, she's probably never done this before. She applies some sort of medicine to the wounds, and, instantly, the pain is gone. "Thank you," I whisper, but I can barely hear my own voice. Everything is getting a bit fuzzy…
"Don't worry, dear – it's the medicine. It'll make you sleepy for a while, but don't fret. You can have dinner whenever you wake up." She half-carries me to a room with a bed. The softest bed I've ever felt. I smile a little as she helps me lie down. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. I'm asleep before my head even reaches the pillow.
Bentley Norman, 13
District Seven
It takes all my control not to shrink away as General Tyrone ushers us onto the train. "Have a seat anywhere you like." He gestures around the room. "There are some things we need to get out of the way." He takes a seat on one of the couches. I sink down into a chair on the opposite side of the room, part of me wishing I could sink down further and disappear from his sight. Aria shakes her head, crossing her arms. "I'd rather stand."
To my surprise, Tyrone simply shrugs. "Suit yourself. When you get to be my age, you won't pass up a comfortable seat."
Aria scoffs. "As if you really expect either of us to live to be your age. You just drew our names for a fight to the death." Her tone is accusing, and I can't really blame her for that – I'm just as upset as she is – but is it really a good idea to antagonize such a powerful figure in the Capitol?
But Tyrone doesn't seem offended. "You're angry. That's understandable. And you're honest – that's even better. So be honest with me, Aria. Your brother Branden and your boyfriend Landon. Tell me what happened."
"As if you don't know. They were executed."
"For being rebel leaders."
"Yes."
"Were they?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
Tyrone leans forward a little. "Aria, if they were in any way connected to the rebellion, I assure you the Capitol knows about it. It's better for me to know now, rather than finding out halfway through the interviews. So I'll ask again – are you absolutely certain they had no part in the rebellion?"
"Absolutely."
There's a tense moment of silence, but, finally, Tyrone nods. "Then I am truly sorry for their deaths, Aria. Mistakes are made in war, but an innocent life lost is a tragedy."
"Like the Games?"
"Yes."
Clearly, that wasn't the answer she was expecting. "What?"
"Yes, the Games are tragic. I would not have been in favor of presenting them as a festival, a time for celebration. But that decision wasn't in my hands. What's about to happen to you – to all of you – is regrettable … but it is necessary in order to prevent a worse evil."
Aria looks like she wants to say something, but thinks better of it. Probably for the best. After a moment, Tyrone turns to me. I can feel my face growing warm. He knows. If he knew about Aria's brother and boyfriend, then he certainly knows about my father. But, unlike Aria, I can't claim he wasn't involved in the rebellion.
"My father fought in the war," I blurt out before he can ask.
There's a hint of a smile on Tyrone's lips. "So did I."
"I … I meant he fought for the rebels."
"I assumed as much. Did you?"
"What?"
"Did you fight?"
"I was eight when the war started."
Tyrone nods. "I'll take that as a no."
"Yeah, that's a no."
"Then I don't hold you responsible for what your father did. Just as I wouldn't hold Aria responsible for what her brother and boyfriend had done if they had, indeed, been involved."
"But last year's tributes—" Aria starts, saying what we were both clearly thinking.
"—were involved," Tyrone finishes. "And I did my best to help them. But there was only so much that I could do. There is an element of chance to the Games, to be sure, but the Gamemakers have ways of ensuring that tributes who would make … dangerous Victors don't leave the arena alive."
He gives us a moment to let that sink in. He didn't list any specifics, but he didn't have to. The pedestal explosion that killed Memphis. The storm that injured Aubrey. The fact that the fire in the arena drove Maverick back towards Silver, where he killed her. None of those were coincidences. Maybe there were no coincidences at all. Maybe the Capitol got exactly the Victor they wanted.
"Why are you telling us this?" My voice is quiet. Shakier than I'd like. But what is he saying? That I'm already doomed because the Capitol wouldn't want the son of a rebel as their Victor?
Tyrone shakes his head. "I'm being honest. If you're determined to follow in your father's footsteps, there's nothing I can do for you. But if you can put whatever feelings you have towards the Capitol aside and focus on what you're meant to do here … then maybe I can help you. Both of you."
Put your feelings aside. Can I do that? I can't control what my father did during the war. I can't control what the Capitol did to him. Maybe I can't even control my own feelings about that. But I do get to choose whether I act on them. Whether I let them get in the way, or whether I can put them aside and get the job done. I nod a little. "I can do that."
Jayda Greggory, 18
District Two
I didn't realize it would take this amount of control not to stare at my district partner. Not to ask him to explain as the three of us – Julian, Titus, and I – sit down in front of the screen to watch the other reapings. I take a seat beside Julian, trying to be polite. Trying not to give any indication that my stomach is churning every time I look. Every time I see his eyes – or where his eyes should be. I want to ask – to ask what happened to him. But is this the right time…?
Titus, on the other hand, isn't so concerned with Julian's feelings. He immediately takes a seat next to me, making it clear that he's already made a choice about who has a better chance in the Games. And, on some level, I understand. I'm the one who has a fighting chance. Since only one of us can win, why waste time with a contestant who's so clearly hopeless?
"So what's with the eyes, kid?" Titus asks. I'm not really sure whether that's better or worse. At least he's showing some sort of interest in Julian, but if it's something he doesn't want to talk about…
Julian shrugged. "Some guys thought I looked better without them, I guess."
Titus raises an eyebrow. "You were in a fight?"
Julian chuckles a little. "If you want to call it that, I suppose. Wasn't much of a fight. But, sure, if it'll look better for the Capitol, you can call it a fight. Makes me sound like I have a little chance. Then again, it was clearly a fight I lost, so I don't know what that says."
"That you're an idiot for volunteering?" Titus offers.
"Maybe," Julian admits. "But the alternative was worse."
The alternative. Letting his friend Clarence go into the Games. His friend – and, judging from their interaction when Clarence came to say goodbye, maybe more than a friend. Letting his friend die seemed like a worse choice than volunteering for the Games himself.
I suppose that makes sense. It's the same reason I'm here, after all. Not for my friends, but for my family. For our honor, for our name. Is that really so different?
Yes. Yes, it is. There is a difference. Because, unlike Julian, I actually have a chance at winning this. Titus shrugs and turns to me. "And you?"
He wants to know why I'm here. Everyone will want to know why I'm here – especially after what happened to District Two's tributes last year. Why would anyone overlook that and volunteer anyway? I practiced what I would say – to the cameras, at least. But, now that I'm sitting here, none of that sounds right.
"I'm here because I can win," I say at last, and Titus nods. As if that's enough of an answer. As if 'because I can' is a good enough reason for volunteering for what could possibly be my death. Suddenly, that answer sounds completely inadequate. "I've been training," I blurt out before I can think it through. Before I can worry about whether or not I should even be saying that in front of Julian. In front of my competition.
Titus nods a little. "Training," he repeats. "Because you knew you wanted to volunteer?"
"Exactly. I've been getting up in the mornings to run. I've been taking harder jobs at work. I'm ready for this."
But am I? Am I really? Physically, yes, I'm as ready as I can be. As ready as any of us can expect to be. Sure, I've never been in a fight, but I'm in good shape. And having been in a fight certainly isn't going to help Julian.
Titus smiles a little. I'm not sure if he's impressed or just amused. "Have you given any thought to what sort of person you might want to team up with?"
It's a question I was expecting eventually. Nearly every tribute last year ended up working with one or two of the other tributes. And that ended up helping most of them. Or, at least, helping them more than it hurt them. "I was thinking maybe a larger group," I answer at last. "Three or four of us – maybe even five or so. That way we won't make as tempting a target."
Titus shakes his head a little. "If that's the reason, don't bother. You're a loyalist from a Capitol-supporting district. You're going to be a target to the rebels no matter what you do. But if you can find a few others who share the same ideas, others who are useful, others who … what's so funny, Julian?"
Julian is chuckling quietly. But he doesn't share the joke. Is he laughing at the fact that I want allies? Is he amused because I'll probably have my choice of allies, while he'll be lucky to find anyone who wants to work with him? Is he trying to make light of the fact that Titus is focusing on me? Or did he get a chuckle out of the fact that Titus assumed I'm a loyalist just because I'm from District Two?
It doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter. He's as good as dead, anyway. But there's something about the way he's chuckling in the face of certain death that makes me wish he didn't have to die. But he does. They all do. And the only way I have a chance is if I accept that.
Elinor Siesto, 18
District Six
It's taking all my control not to punch our escort in the face – and, from the look on Jae's face as we sit down to watch the other reapings, he feels the same way. I'm sure Maia's nice enough in a normal situation. But this isn't a normal situation. We've just been picked for a fight to the death. And she isn't exactly being helpful.
By that, of course, I mean that she isn't being helpful at all. As the first reaping begins to play, all she can comment on is how pretty the other escort – Gloria – looks. How lucky she is to have Maverick with her this year. She's right about that, at least. District One's tributes are lucky to have two people helping them. I'd trade Maia for just one of them right about now. Maverick might have some good ideas about how to survive this. And apparently Gloria did something right last year if she managed to bring him home.
Maia, on the other hand, doesn't seem all that interested in discussing strategy. Or finding allies. Or … well, anything, really. "Oh, poor dear," she croons when the first name is called and a scrawny-looking girl makes her way to the stage. And maybe it's only natural to feel sorry for her, but this isn't natural. Nothing about the Games is natural. And if I'm going to make it through this, I can't afford to feel sorry for my opponents.
The boy looks a bit more promising, but all Maia seems to care about is his outfit. "What a lovely scarf," she gushes, and Jae rolls his eyes. I shake my head and scoot a little farther away from Maia on the couch. Towards Jae. Shit, I hope he doesn't take that the wrong way. I just want to get away from her.
Jae doesn't even seem to notice. His attention is focused on the screen. At least he's got the right idea. I wish he was my escort and Maia was the person I might have to kill. No, that's not quite right. I wish I was the escort and didn't have to kill anyone. But I do. And any information I might be able to glean between her giggling and sympathetic sighs might be the thing that saves my life.
District Two has two volunteers, which is … well, a bit surprising. Last year, the girl from Seven tortured the boy from Two to death. I didn't think anyone from their district would want to volunteer after that happened. Then again, I can't quite wrap my mind around the idea that anyone would want to volunteer. That someone would actually want to be in the Games.
The girl, at least, seems confident. Healthy. Fit. Like she actually wants to volunteer. The boy is a different story. He's blind, and once the camera zooms in on his face, I realize it's worse than that. His eyes are gone. He's volunteered for a friend – that much is clear as he and the boy whose name was called argue quietly before the boy – Julian – takes the stage. His friend clearly isn't happy with the arrangement, but doesn't manage to stop the blind boy from sacrificing himself.
I can't help a twinge of jealousy as the camera lingers on the pair of them. I wish someone had volunteered for me. But wishing for it – that isn't going to make things any better. I have to focus on what is happening – not how I'd like things to be.
District Three's reaping proceeds without incident – a fifteen-year-old girl and a boy a few years older. Perfectly normal. Normal. It's a bit unnerving, how quickly the thought of all this has become normal. How quickly we've accepted that this is just how things are now. If I hadn't been the one chosen this year, I would have gone home without thinking twice about the poor tributes who had been chosen. They would die – and that's just the way things are now.
Another fifteen-year-old girl from District Four, along with a younger boy who's laughing as he takes the stage. District Five is even less remarkable, aside from the girl's rather fierce-looking expression. Then it's our turn. District Six flashes on the screen, and I hear my own name called. See myself walking to the stage. Bumping into the other girl in the crowd, knocking her down. I didn't mean to do it – I was just so distracted. So overwhelmed. I wasn't really looking…
But seeing it now – it almost looks good. Looks like I'm ready for a fight. And when Jae takes the stage next to me, at least we look prepared. As prepared as we can be. Maybe…
I glance over at Jae. Maybe if Maia isn't going to be of much help – to either of us – maybe we could at least help each other. Maybe I'll ask him later. After we finish watching the reapings. After I'm sure there aren't any better options.
Jethro Brackish, 14
District Four
It takes all my control not to burst out laughing when June suggests we watch the reapings again. For a third time. What does she think we're going to see this time that we didn't last time, or the time before? For that matter, what makes her think that anything we see on this tape is going to be helpful? Why should this give us any idea how the other tributes are actually going to act in the arena?
Lexi, on the other hand, readily agrees – as she's agreed to everything June's suggested – so in the tape goes … again. Name after name. District after district. The reapings pass without many surprises. Actually, the most surprising thing isn't the tributes who were reaped – it's the ones who volunteered. Four of them. Four. Four teenagers actually thought that going into the Games was a good choice. I'd love to know what's going on inside their heads.
Actually, I probably wouldn't. Wouldn't want to know what's happened in their lives to make them think that the Games are a better option than whatever they're facing. Maverick volunteered last year, after all – volunteered to escape a life on the streets. Is that what they're escaping – these four?
Maybe some of them. But the girl from Two – she seems a bit too healthy and fit to be living on the streets. And her district partner clearly didn't volunteer because he thought he had a chance at a better life. The girl from Ten, maybe – she's thin and has a rather wild look about her. But the boy from Eleven – no, he doesn't look like a street kid.
I shake my head, trying to turn my attention back to the screen. It doesn't matter why they volunteered. Why they're here. Shouldn't matter, at least. But I can't help wondering. Wondering whether whatever desperate circumstances drove them to volunteer will give them more of a drive to win … or whether, when it comes down to it, they don't really want to go home because they don't have anything to go back to.
Anything to go back to. But I do. I have my uncle. His shop. My work. But if I win … I won't have to work. He won't have to work. What then? What would we even do all day? Whatever Capitolites do, I suppose, when they're not busy watching children pummel each other to death. What do they do?
"So what do you do?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.
It takes June a moment to realize that I'm talking to her. She pauses the tape. "What do you do when? Here on the train? During training? During the Games?"
I shake my head. "No. Not what do I do. What do you do when you're not … well, doing this. When you're not dragging kids off to a death match."
She hesitates. Maybe because of the way I worded it. Maybe because my question seemed to come out of nowhere. But, after a moment, she answers. "I'm a cook."
"A cook?" Lexi repeats, taking her eyes off the screen for the first time in what seems like hours. "Really?"
Clearly, that wasn't the answer she was expecting. And I have to admit, I was assuming that the job of escorting tributes to the Games would go to people with a bit more … prestige. "So how'd you end up with this job?"
June smirks. "No one else wanted it."
Fair enough. After what happened to last year's escort, I can't exactly blame anyone who was a bit reluctant to give it a try. "And you did?"
"I've got a bit of a soft spot for any place that supplies us with seafood." I can't tell whether she's joking or not. "And I served here during the rebellion."
"You were a soldier?"
"I was a cook. Armies need to eat, too, you know."
"Did you…" For once, I hesitate. There's a part of me that doesn't want to ask. Maybe a part that doesn't want to know. But my curiosity gets the better of me. "Did you ever meet a Calvin or Jemima Brackish?"
June shakes her head. "Can't say I did. Your parents?"
"Father and sister. My mother and brother … they were on the other side."
June nods. "And you?"
I shrug. "As long as I can keep helping with that seafood you love so much, I don't really care one way or the other."
Lexi can't hide a look of surprise – as if she can't fathom the idea of being impartial. Of not caring about what happened during the rebellion. Makes me wonder what side her family fell on. But June is smiling. "I think we're going to get along just fine after all."
Mantle Grimes, 15
District Eleven
It takes all my control not to shout at Lucius as he asks – for the third time – why I volunteered. Why anyone would want to volunteer for the Hunger Games. It's obvious from his tone that he doesn't really care. That he doesn't really want to know what prompted me to volunteer. He just wants to make it thoroughly clear that he thinks it was a dumb move.
Not that I would tell him, anyway. Not that I would tell anyone why I really volunteered. No, they don't need to know. All they need to know is that I'm here. I volunteered. I'm going into the Games. Everything has already been decided, and the train has been chugging along steadily for hours. There's no stopping it now. No going back. So why bother to ask for a reason?
To my surprise, Phoebe's also glaring up at Lucius as we take our places at the table. "Why does it matter?" she shoots back. "He's here. We both are. I wish someone had volunteered for me, too, but they didn't. We're the tributes you've got. Deal with it."
She has a point – about wishing someone had volunteered for her, too, that is. The boy I volunteered for was seventeen. Two years older than me. If I'd had the choice between taking his place or taking hers…
Which would I have chosen? I'm not as sure as I'd like to be. I'd like to think that I would have chosen to take Phoebe's place. That I would have wanted to save the life of a younger, more helpless tribute – and leave the guy who actually had a chance. But another part of me – a part that's already thinking about how to survive this – doesn't want opponents who have a chance. If I want to win, after all, they have to die – all of them. So maybe it's better to be up against tributes who don't really have a chance.
I turn my gaze from Phoebe and back to the plate of food in front of me. It doesn't matter. It doesn't really make any difference which one I would have chosen. I didn't have that choice. She didn't have any choice at all. But none of that matters now, because we're both here.
And so are twenty-two other tributes. We got a pretty good look at our competition earlier, when we watched the reapings. Lucius didn't seem all that interested, but Phoebe and I wanted to see what we're up against. There weren't too many surprises. Some tributes were older, some younger – although all of them were either older than Phoebe or the same age. Some looked like they might pose a threat, and others … well, didn't. There were three other volunteers – both the tributes from District Two and the girl from Ten. All three of them are older than me.
Lucius shrugs and turns his attention back to his dinner. He doesn't really care. It doesn't matter to him that we're the tributes he's stuck with. Just like it didn't matter last year when he chose a crippled boy and a fourteen-year-old girl. Our lives don't really matter to him.
So there's no reason he should matter to us. Phoebe and I ignore him for the rest of the meal. She doesn't seem to be much of a talker, but that's just fine as far as I'm concerned. Silence is fine. It's almost a relief, really. And it's certainly better than shouting. When dessert is brought out, she serves me the first slice of cake. She even volunteers to help clean the table before Lucius rolls his eyes and informs her it'll be taken care of.
She's trying to be helpful. Trying to be useful. Maybe she's trying to get on my good side. Trying to convince me to work with her. Most of the tributes last year ended up working with one or two of the others. The boy from our district – Aldous – ended up working with the girl from Six. And the girl from Eleven – Felicity … well, I'm not really sure who she was working with. She didn't get the chance, really. She was dead only a few minutes after the Games began.
Which is why I don't really want to work with Phoebe. She's sweet and all – and she means well – but that's exactly the problem. How long is she going to last once the Games actually begin? If I'm going to work with anyone – and I'm not even sure I want to do that – then I want it to be someone who's going to be useful … not just nice.
But I don't have the heart to tell her that. Not yet. After all, we're going to be on this train for a while. There's no harm in being friendly. Nothing wrong with getting to know each other.
All the same, I can't shake the thought from my head. The idea that there is something wrong – something dangerous, even – about letting her get close. About getting attached. Because she has to die. And, already, I know that I don't want to be there to see that.
Jim Demetrius, 18
District Nine
It takes all my control to keep a smile on my face as Mel, Phoenix, and I finish watching the reapings. Tribute after tribute. District after district. I glance over at Mel, who's gone white as a sheet. As if it's beginning to sink in – just how many of the tributes are older and stronger than her. Just how much of a disadvantage she's already at.
But I can't afford to worry about that. Can't afford to care. She has to die if I want to go home. I turn my attention to Phoenix. "So what do you think?"
It's a moment before she answers. "I think it's going to be a tough year … but I think one of you might be able to win this."
One of you. A vague answer. A diplomatic answer. But, judging from the reapings, it's obvious which one of us she's talking about. I'm one of the older tributes. Mel is one of the youngest. But that doesn't mean I can simply ignore her chances. A thirteen-year-old won last year, after all…
"That's awful sweet of you." I give Phoenix's shoulder a gentle punch. "Any advice?"
Phoenix studies the two of us for a moment. "Last year, District Nine's tributes worked together, but…"
"—but you don't think that's such a good idea this year," Mel finishes.
Phoenix shakes her head. "To be honest, it probably wasn't such a great idea last year, either. They got too close to each other, and when Peter died, Sienna was devastated. I don't want the same thing to happen to you – either of you. Because, eventually, one of you is going to die."
She's not pulling any punches. That's good. I nod, and so does Mel. Apparently, she wasn't counting on working with me during the Games. Good. That way, I won't have to worry about disappointing her. So maybe it's best that we got that out of the way quickly. "So who would you suggest working with?"
"People who won't draw too much attention," Phoenix suggests without a moment of hesitation. "You don't want to make yourself a target. Neither of you was particularly noticeable during the reapings, so—"
"What?" I gasp, feigning surprise. "We weren't noticeable?"
Phoenix sighs impatiently. "You did fine – both of you. I just meant that you didn't try to run, you didn't fight the Peacekeepers, you didn't yell at me—"
"I could if you want me to," I offer.
Phoenix glares. "You've made a good impression so far – with the audience, at least. The other tributes have no reason to target you. Keep it that way."
Mel nods. And maybe that's not a bad strategy for her. The boy who won last year, after all, ended up working with the boy from Three, who was twelve years old and, to be honest, not all that noticeable. But am I really going to be able to avoid attention the same way? "Keep it that way," I echo. "Got it. It's just going to be difficult keeping this much raw talent and appeal in check."
Phoenix closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay. What do you suggest, Mr. Demetrius?"
I can't help a chuckle, and quickly swing my arm around the back of the couch and onto her shoulders. "Oh, please, just Jim. I know we're just getting to know each other, but—"
"We're not getting to know each other," Phoenix interrupts. "I'm trying to help you survive a fight to the death, and all you can do is make jokes about it!"
She's got a point. Maybe I'm overdoing it a bit. Tone it down a little. "I'm sorry." I shake my head. "I'm just … still trying to process all of this. I guess it hasn't quite sunk in that … that I could be dead in a little while."
Phoenix's expression softens a little. "I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen – to either of you." But that last bit, it's obvious, is an afterthought. For better or worse, Mel is already taking Phoenix's advice. She's started blending into the background. And while that means she might not get targeted by the other tributes, it also means that she won't get as much attention. Phoenix is already focusing on me. Perfect.
Maybe I should feel guilty about that – taking up my escort's time, forcing her to ignore my younger district partner. But this is a fight to the death. Whether either of us likes it or not, Mel and I are competing for the same goal: survival. And I can't afford to feel guilty. I can't afford to think about what's best for her. I have to think about what's going to keep me alive.
And, for now, like it or not, that means buttering up to Phoenix. I lower my arm a little around her shoulders, and, this time, she doesn't flinch away. "So who do you think would make a good partner in the Games?" I ask, giving her shoulder a little squeeze.
But, whoever I end up working with, I know my most important partner won't be in the arena with me. She'll be trying to keep me alive from outside. And maybe that's even better.
Hannah Malacek, 18
District Ten
I just have to control my temper a little longer. I roll over in my bed – a much more comfortable bed than I've ever slept in. But I still can't seem to fall asleep. I glance over at the clock on the dresser nearby. It's almost two in the morning – the day after the reaping. Which means it's my birthday.
I wonder if they know. They have to have some sort of record of people's birthdays, after all, in order to keep track of who's old enough to be eligible for the reaping – and who's too old. But I can't help but hope that no one knows. Or, at the very least, that no one mentions it. The last thing I need is to give them another reason to celebrate.
As if there's any reason to celebrate the fact that I'm eighteen. More likely than not, I won't make it to nineteen. So what difference does it make?
More likely than not. What a silly way of thinking about it. Even if everyone's chances were even, I'd have a one-in-twenty-four chance of coming out of the arena alive. Dying would be twenty-three times more likely, even if everyone's chances were exactly the same.
But they aren't. If anything, I'm more likely to die in the arena. The Gamemakers saw to it that Aubrey died last year. They sent a storm that crippled her and allowed the girl from Two to take her and her district partner down without much of a fight. They made sure that someone who had fought for the rebels didn't make it out of the arena. I have no reason to expect any different.
And yet here I am. I volunteered. I saved a girl's life. And I don't regret that. Can't regret it. I spent so much of my life fighting, killing, destroying. The idea that I actually saved someone … it feels good.
But I can't carry that feeling into the arena. I'm not going into the Games to save people. I'm here to get revenge on … someone. But who? It was the girl from Two who killed Aubrey. But the tributes from Two this year – they're not that girl. They have no connection to her or what she did. Sure, they both volunteered, but, hell, one of them is blind. He certainly didn't volunteer because he wants to kill.
No. No, he volunteered for the same reason I did. He was saving a life. And, whether anyone else knows it or not, I probably have the same chance of leaving this arena as that blind kid. Which is to say, no chance at all.
But if it's not revenge against them that I want – and it isn't, not really – then who? I close my eyes. Sure, it was the girl from Two who killed Aubrey, but it wasn't really her doing. It was the Capitol's. The Gamemakers. But how can I hope to get revenge against them? What can I possibly do that would affect them?
Just as I'm beginning to finally drift off to sleep, however, there's a knock on the door. "Are you awake?" Darrin. Great. I could pretend to be asleep, I suppose, but he seems like the sort who would just keep knocking, anyway.
"I was," I grumble loudly. I wasn't, of course, but he doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to know that I was having trouble falling asleep, too.
The door creaks open. "Sorry to bother you," Darrin apologizes. "But I couldn't sleep, and I just wanted to say … well, happy birthday."
Great. Just great. "Did Athena tell you?"
"What?"
"That it was my birthday?"
"No. It was on the tape."
"What tape?"
"The reapings. You know, down in the corner of the screen where it said how old the other tributes were. Their birthdays were there, too – in case you wanted to know just how much older or younger the tributes were, who was the exact oldest or youngest, or something like that. And I just happened to notice that yours was today."
Huh. I hadn't even noticed that. Not that it makes much of a difference. A thirteen-year-old won last year. Everyone is a threat, regardless of how harmless their age might make them seem. Still, Darrin noticed something that I hadn't, despite the fact that we watched the reapings together, and I thought I was paying attention. Maybe he was just watching the bottom of the screen because he couldn't stand to look at the tributes. Or maybe he's sharper than I thought. Maybe…
No. No, I can't afford to think that – not for a second. Can't afford to consider working with him, the way Aubrey and Colt helped each other last year. Not for my sake, but for his. He seems like a decent guy. I can't let him get dragged down with me. The Gamemakers will be targeting me. Other tributes may be targeting me. I don't want him to get killed because of something I did. I don't want anyone else dying because of me.
Sorry about the slight delay for this chapter. Holidays pose some difficulty for collaboration, but now that the festivities are over, we should be able to get back on schedule.
Little bios are up on the tribute page of the blog. Nothing too complicated. Just a short summary - more backstory than personality - to help you remember which one is which. It's not meant as a substitute for actually reading the chapters, but let's be honest. It's been a while since the first reapings, and there are 24 tributes. It's nice for those moments when you're thinking, "Hm, I remember there was a tribute who did X, but I can't remember which one and don't want to skim through four reaping chapters to figure it out."
Just a few reminders...
1) Favorite tribute poll is still up on my profile.
2) PM us alliance suggestions if you have them. If you don't have a preference, that's fine. We have some ideas of our own. But so far, we don't have any outside input, so requests will be very easy to work around.
3) Happy New Year!
