Okay, here's chapter nine for all you lovely people who keep reading my work! You probably know how much it means, but seriously: checking my traffic stats always makes my day because of you guys. And of course, the five reviews I've received have been like early Christmas. Unfortunately, three of you are "guests" so I can't respond to you through PMs, but honestly: it makes me unbelievably happy to know that you cared enough to take time to send me your thoughts.
About this installment: this one's a bit weird, I'll just tell you now. Basically, Tobi is having a bit of a crisis, though she just calls it her metamorphosis...
Lastly, to those of you who pointed out things in earlier chapters that could be changed, I will be doing that right after this posts, so feel free to go back and take a look if you feel like it!
Now then...on to what you really want! ;)
As the elevator steadily climbs, I replay the last couple hours in my head, particularly the last conversation. A whirlpool forms, complete with little moments that wear away at me like bottom feeders. I am changing…some part of my core, a fundamental piece of what it means to be Tobi, is slowly morphing into something unrecognizable: the ice in my gaze, the bite in my words; the wild madness that seems to wait in the back of my mind, circling like a shark around a shipwreck. I wonder when it started happening. Was it when I stepped into the training room? When I was stripped, remolded, altered to a level I foolishly thought only skin-deep? Was it all the way back, in the beginning, when my name hovered on the lips of Blye Cobalt? Or just a few moments ago, when I could practically taste my own death on my tongue, see it in the blank walls of my decorated cage?
The elevator grinds to a halt alongside the torrent of thoughts and memories. One word seems stuck on replay, Cato's voice simply echoing louder and softer and louder again: Performance. That's right—everything is a performance. My death, along with everyone else's. Something in me seems to fall into place, as though my metamorphosis is complete. click. The elevator doors open and I step off, walk into the sitting room where Flux and Blye recline casually on the couch, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil that has formed a small, invisible ring about my person. I wonder idly if I look different on the outside; if Grandma and Brook would recognize me. I've always been aloof, withdrawn, calm but friendly. Never the ice that I feel now, or the wildness.
"Ah—Tobi, my dear!" Flux greets cheerily as I approach the couch and gingerly take a seat. His deep, mellow voice snaps me out of my thoughts, returns a little of the normal color to my suddenly stark mind.
"Hello," I nod with a soft smile.
"Your interviews are tonight!" Blye exclaims, as excited and blunt as ever. Flux sighs in her general direction and I smile wider.
"Indeed," he grumbles, turns back to me. "Anyway, dear, we have a couple of hours before we're expected to get you ready. Why don't we go over your strategy some?" For a moment I stare at him, blank. Then years of watching the games floats back into my head. Right. The tried and true way of using these interviews is to find an approach and stick to it. Overplay one angle of yourself—something that will make sponsors want to keep you around. We're all characters in a drama to them; the goal is to be everyone's favorite character. Performance, indeed…I think bitterly, feeling slightly thawed, as though my old self is clawing its way out of the ice.
"That would probably be a good idea," I agree nervously. Flux hears the worry in my voice, pats my hand lightly.
"Any ideas, Tobi?" Blye asks, chipper and oblivious. I shrug.
"Not really…I don't really know my own angles, let alone which one the sponsors would like…" I glance up to meet Flux's gaze. He is leaning away from me, scanning me with a critical eye. I've seen him make this face before, when he's coming up with ideas for a costume.
"You know, I think we can use something a little unexpected," he muses. I frown, and he continues thoughtfully. "You're small, pale, white-haired, dainty looking." I try not to scoff—I've worked at staying not dainty for years. It's not a compliment for a sailor.
"I wouldn't call myself a dainty person." My voice only comes off slightly insulted. Flux grins.
"Yes, that's exactly it. You don't match your own image, Tobi. You look like a doll, a ghost doll. And at first, you seem rather like one," he tosses me a look at my muffled protest. "The first time I met you, I thought you seemed made of porcelain: you just sat there, stared at me with those great ocean eyes of yours. But Tobi," he leans forward, clasps my hand, and the designs on his head catch in the light. "You're wild, icy, bitter…fierce. Even when you're still as glass, your eyes hold all the unpredictable fury of the open sea." I smile, fighting the blush that rises to my cheeks. It's the most flattering description of myself I've ever heard. Then Cato's voice pops into my head again, performance, and I wonder how much of this is genuine.
"Where are you going with this, Flux?" Blye chirps from her corner of the couch. She's carefully examining her neon yellow nails, bored. She has one of the worst cases of attention deficit disorder I've ever seen.
"I think we need to play up the wildness, Tobi," Flux addresses me as though Blye never spoke, and she looks mildly affronted. Nevertheless, she scoots closer, interested in spite of herself. "You can be charming, you can be quiet, but always you must be fierce." I nod slowly. I can't say that I fully comprehend what he's asking me to do…yet at the same time, I understand perfectly. It's as though he's perfectly grasped this new change that has come over me. Or perhaps I was wild all along, and I just didn't notice.
We spend a bit longer going over my approach for the interview, pinpointing things about my life that I should highlight if given the chance, finding things I should downplay. Flux tells me a number of times to trust Flickerman. MC of the Hunger Games for quite a few years in a row, Caesar Flickerman is known as a brilliant host. He always manages to up a tribute's natural appeal. I trust him about as far as I can throw him—he's a capitol maggot like the rest of them, turning our deaths into profit—but at least he seems to try to make the games as humane as possible, tries to give all of us the best chances possible. I wonder if he really cares, or if it's all in the interest of creating the best show.
When Oscar and Finnick return from their training session, Flux and I go our separate ways, leave Oscar with Blye, Finnick and his personal designer to go over interview plans. I return to my little room, collapse on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Fierce, huh…It's not a word I would previously have used to describe myself. Yet, for the coming events, it will certainly be a good one to embody. I smile broadly, an eel's grin, at the ceiling. For the second or third time today, I must look crazy. I can be fierce.
"Tobi?" Oscar calls from my doorway. I can't tell how long it's been, but my whirlpool of thought has formed again...and it's put me in a mood. I fight not to scowl—I don't particularly feel like interacting with him. But in a way, he's here because of me. The thought hits me like a rock, but of course it's true. If Brook had volunteered, this little boy would have been spared this horror. But for how long? He'd still have five years of reapings. And after all, I think, watching as he hovers awkwardly in the doorway, better to kill him than my own brother.
"What's up, Oscar?" I ask, voice slightly crisp. Might as well start breaking it off now, whether or not he flinches pitifully into the doorway. I sniff pointedly, try not to care.
"Finnick thinks we should head down, now. You know, to give Flux and Sabille enough time…" he trails off, looks nervous. Like I might bite him. I mentally run over my appearance. I haven't fixed my hair, which is still tangled from my earlier…fit; my eyes are as cold and hard as I can make them; I'm still smiling a little bit, but it probably comes off a bit evil. Well, I've done this much.
"Oh, does he," I murmur, stand smoothly and glide toward Oscar. Even though he's young, he's about my height. It's easy to lock his gaze, lean forward to rest my forearm on the door frame. He leans away, averts his gaze, and I chuckle softly. Fierce…I can do fierce.
"Y-yes. You know, the costumes could take some time, and we want to have plenty of time so we make a good impression and everything." My heart clenches. He's just so young, clearly miserable. I can see it in his azure gaze, anchored desperately on the floorboards: he knows he's going to die. Before I realize it, a touch of sympathy has leaked into my face, bled into my voice.
"A good impression, hm? Yes, you'll definitely need that, though I wonder how far it will carry." With that, I brush past him, leave him to stand frozen in the doorway. I can already imagine what's going through his mind: all our previous interactions, back when I still tried to be nice to him, help him out. He's wondering if that was fake, or what changed. He's wondering if maybe I'll be the one to kill him in the arena. He's thinking about his family back home, coming to the realization that he'll never see them again. He's figuring it out: everything is a performance, except the dying part. That is as real as it gets.
I almost collapse halfway toward the living room; crumble against the wall and cry. I hate this, all of it. I hate having to act that way to a little boy who's going to die…and I hate thinking that I might have to kill him. But I don't collapse, and I don't crumble and I don't cry. No more of that, not until I've won and I'm home. At least, that's what I tell myself: if I can just stay strong, fierce…perform! I can get home. Even though by the time I get there, I might be broken; even though I will be a ghost of my former self, covered in the blood of 23 other children.
See what I mean? She's definitely having some issues...I don't really know what to do with her, so I'll just let her do her thing. I mean really, I'm just the writer-I don't actually get any say over these things. Haha. Alrighty then, let me know what you think! Are the changes too abrupt? Confusing? The best thing since Crime and Punishment? Oh wait...that stuff's super depressing...
Well then, Happy Thanksgiving to all! See you again soon.
