D: I'm sorry guys! I really was trying to stick to updating every two days, but then I went and got grounded. I won't be writing freely for a week, so any progress I make will be made at midnight and updates may or may not happen. If it's any consolation, the arena launch is up next chapter, along with a scandalous Capitol move and a…er…"smashing" surprise for the tributes. *Snicker* If you bother to read this whole chapter let me know via a review, eh? :)
"Wait," I say, holding out a hand to stop my escort before she leads me back into the hotel. She stops and looks at me grumpily.
"The arena launch is tomorrow, so is there anywhere…else I can stay for a little while? I'm kind of sick of my room."
She doesn't look sympathetic. "That's probably against the rules, and you still have your interview tonight to consider. Get in there."
I shoot her a dirty look but go inside anyway. I only wanted to breathe a little before I was shot back into the whirlwind of Capitol ceremonies and brightly colored people. And yeah, maybe I was thinking halfheartedly about a last minute escape attempt. Would it be better to be shot down by these "officials" during an escape or get hacked to pieces by some crazed kid? I'm not sure, but I'm also not eager to tempt fate.
I sigh and walk after her. "What about my interview clothes? Am I supposed to make those, too?"
She shakes her head. "Your tuxedo will be delivered to your room shortly before the ceremony."
I snort. "I thought we weren't supposed to get any help. Now people are making my interview outfit for me?"
My escort watches me blandly. "It's not up to you to decide the rules, tribute. Just go inside."
I clench my teeth together and do as she says, slamming the door yet again. Like the peacekeepers-that-aren't-peacekeepers, she doesn't react in any way. I hear the clicking of her heels as she trots back to the elevator.
Don't do anything rude, ok? During the interviews, I mean. I know you're going for fierce and surly and all, but don't insult the Capitol people or anything because then you'll become a target. The voice is breathless, talking so fast that I can hardly understand what she's saying. She obviously wants to spit it out as fast as she can before I can shut her down.
"I know that!" I snap back. "Don't you think I know that? That's what I've been doing this whole time!" I hear my words echo around the empty room and I realize how crazy I must seem – yelling to myself in my hotel room. I push on, though, determined to drive her away again. "You died! How good can I expect your advice to be when it never worked for you?" I know that the best way to deal with her is probably to just ignore her, but I can't help myself. I want to tear her to shreds. "Just go away," I snarl quietly. "I feel like I'm losing my mind every time you say something. If you want to help so badly, disappear."
I hear a snuffling sound, and it sounds so real for a second that I feel a quick pang. It sounds like I've actually made a real girl cry and it takes me a minute to remind myself that she's not real. She can't even cry. Stony-faced, I wait for her to slink away.
My name's Day, you know, she whimpers, and then she's gone.
"Uhhh…sir?" The new voice isn't timid, like the one in my head, but she sounds perplexed and muffled from the other side of my door.
She knocks. "Can you even hear me?" I hear her sigh and mutter something about having to knock so many times.
I must have missed her in the wake of all my yelling, and all she would have heard was me raging at myself. I push my hair back, embarrassed, and open the door with a sheepish look. I catch the tail end of her muttering again, "…Darren was right, the tributes this year really have lost it."
My embarrassed half-smile quickly drops to a glare, and it's her turn to look uncomfortable.
"Uh…sorry," she says, looking up at me. "But you were talking to yourself," she points out and a defensive look crosses her young face. She can only be 14 and she's built like a weed, but something about her makes me instantly dislike her. She's too convinced of her own wit.
I narrow my eyes at her. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to give you your interview clothes. Hurry up and change; then we're headed down to the cable car. I'd suggest a shower, but I don't have time for that."
I dwarf her in size, so when I stare down at her I just get a peek of eyelashes and cocked eyebrows. I don't even know how to respond to her bossiness. "Who are you?" I repeat through gritted teeth.
This time she responds by giving me a forceful shove into my room. "Seriously," she says, "we do have a schedule to stick to."
I shove the bundle of cloth back into her arms and cross my own arms. "You look young enough to be a tribute." I narrow my eyes at her when her face twists in disgust at my blunt tone.
"I'm twenty-two," she snaps and throws the tuxedo over my head and into my room. "Now go change or the officials will have something to say about this." Her round face is contorted into an impressive snarl, but she still looks too young to even be wandering around without her parents. It had something to do with her twiggy figure and fatty face, I decided. Her hair was baby-fine as well, hanging down in wispy black strands.
Before she can have the satisfaction of slamming the door on me and forcing me back into the room I step back and lock the door in her face. She huffs audibly and I can't help but grin at how different she is from the stiff workers around here. She's much more annoying, but it's refreshing to know that I'm not living in a world of wax figures that only resemble people with real emotions.
I yank the clothes on, disgruntled by how well they fit (how did these people get the measurements?) and don't bother to run a comb through my still-tangled hair, which has experienced a period of explosive growth since my arrival in the Capitol. When I fling the door open again, the first words out of the girl's mouth are that I look like a complete slob.
"Good. I look like a brute, don't I?" The sincere question slips out before I remember who I'm talking to. I honestly do want to know, though, whether my interview angle is going to reflect what I look like. I want to at least look mildly rumpled, like I'd rather kill small children than bother with hygiene.
The thought is disturbing enough to make me remember, despite all of this easy living I've had recently, that I'm going into the Hunger Games tomorrow.
Obviously the girl isn't thinking about the same thing, because she just snorts at my question as if it was obvious and hauls me into the elevator. This time we don't walk to wherever the interviews are going to be held. Instead we board a strange, tiny train that rides high above the roads on slimly coiled wires. The girl informs me that it's a cable car reserved for only the highest officials. She doesn't look much like one of those to me, but I nod complacently and watch the sights fly by.
At our arrival I am yanked out of the car by several pairs of hands that drag me far out of sight of the car and into a building that flanks a tiny stage that overlooks the huge field crowded with Capitol citizens. A comb is immediately taken to my hair and I wonder if these are my stylists after all until one of them snaps in my ear that they can't have me making a mockery out of their Capitol. From there I am jostled about with not even the time to protest until I land in a secure waiting room. A guard waits by the door, but other than that I am alone. I figure that the other tributes must be in this building somewhere, being interviewed individually, and that the security is so tight because I'm not supposed to catch even a glimpse of them.
And then the wait sets in. I have to put my mind in figurative lockdown to prevent both the girl and rampant thoughts from escaping. I don't need to break down right before walking out in front of Panem for the event that will have the best choice of winning me sponsors. She lurks daintily in the corners of my thoughts and I get the feeling that she'd be biting her tongue if she had one to bite. She feels like she's getting ready to spill some more useless advice on me before my big interview.
I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating only on the wall I throw up against her until the guard outside of my room comes to retrieve me. Only then do the nerves and fear well up. I know that there's hardly a chance of me screwing this up with the one-word answers I have planned, but I still feel uneasy.
The farther we walk the louder the chants and shouts get. I can hear the Capitol crowd vibrating through the walls, all chattering monkeys painted up garishly. I'm beginning to imagine flashing spotlights to accompany the crowd's cheering before I realize that I've been shoved into the entrance to the stage and that a real spotlight is trained on my face. I blink back blindness and nearly stumble onstage, where I catch myself and set my face into a mask of indifference. The walk to the chair beside Amelia Flickerman's is a long one, but I manage not to trip on the way there and maintain my composure.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Amelia begins dramatically, "Arden Wade, representing District 7! Give it up!" She beams and I understand just from that smile that she actually loves what she does up here, and I know that she's good at this. She has a knack of making the tributes seem better than they are.
The applause dies down as Amelia grandly signals with one hand for there to be quiet. I blink again, taking in the wash of bodies stretching out from the stage. They don't really look like people as much as they look like birds all pecking and flapping at one another.
Amelia laughs, a tinkling noise that only sounds prettier coming through the microphone. "Arden, I think they like you," she giggles, shooting me a wink at the same time. Her ease and rapport with the audience make me want to forget all about my strategy of curt answers and spill some secrets, but when the questions begin I realize that I couldn't do that no matter who my interviewer was. Despite her pretty laugh, I hate her like I hate all the rest.
"Let's start out with something exciting, shall we?" She doesn't wait for any assent on my part before moving on. "What'd you think about that training score! A 7 for District 7, huh?" She prods my arm playfully with her elbow. "Pretty impressive."
Her words make me realize that I had never been told what my training score was and that this is the first I've heard of it. It must look bad to come to this revelation in front of all of Panem, so I quickly shut down my face again and take a deep breath before I stutter something out.
"It works," I say, and I'm relieved when I sound almost bored. Like the score was beneath me but that it didn't matter because I knew I would get sponsors anyway.
"It certainly does," Amelia agrees with a warm shake of her head. "I know you haven't been able to meet the other tributes, but with that score in mind, what do you think about your chances in the arena?" She smiles encouragingly.
"They're good." I cut myself off roughly before I say 'good enough,' which was what I initially wanted to say. My answer sounds better without the indecision. I shut my mouth pointedly because Amelia's looking at me as if she wants to hear more, but I'm not willing to deviate from my angle to elaborate on my chances which, frankly, are precarious when I'm not even sure I'll survive just listening to the girl in my head chatter on.
"So that's you after you arrived at our beautiful city," she laughs cheerfully, "but what about back home, Arden?" The familiarity with which she uses my name makes me uncomfortable. "What about your family?"
I can see my mother, eyes glued to the screen, while my father undoubtedly averts his eyes. She's surely leaning over that ratty couch, fingers clenched white to the bone.
"They want me back," I say simply, trying to keep my tone as brusque as possible. I'm not here to get sympathy sponsors. I want to be intimidating, not a sad story for these people to gobble up. Besides, every tribute has a family to cry over, and my story's not original enough to tell.
"With a handsome face like this, who wouldn't?" She jokes, gently angling my chin towards the audience, who laugh back and clap. "Got any girls back home?"
I think of Rom and I have to stifle a laugh at what he'd say in response to this question. It takes me a moment to compose a "no" that sounds stony enough for my intimidating angle.
"All the better for the single ladies around here, no?" She teases, and hands go up all over the crowd. I even hear a few whoops.
"Now, Arden, we're all anxious to see this Quarter Quell because of the amazing theme. Tell me, how great is your new mentor?"
I freeze because I know exactly what she's talking about. She's asking me how I feel about the parasite clinging inside of me, the one that's slowly taking my sanity away from me. And she wants a positive answer, like I should be grateful to get this twelve-year old shrimp of a tribute instead of a team of experienced mentors. Like having her in my head all the time is an advantage instead of a curse. Like having her advice during the actual Games beats out any preparation stylists could have given me.
Slowly, I grit my teeth and fight back the rage bubbling up. "Her?" There's a long pause. "She's going to kill me if I don't kill her first." The edge of my sentence bites with anger and I can hear my voice rising past the tame volume of Amelia's question.
I stand abruptly, clenching a fist and ripping my hair back with the other hand as the buzzer rings, signaling that my time is up.
