Alright, I think I've probably left that poll open long enough. Thanks so much to those of you who responded! The results are pretty varied-there doesn't seem to be a marked preference for one pairing over another. And one of you geniuses out there recommended that I go for Tobato during the games, then switch to Tobick later. That's what I'm probably going to go for. As far as the scenes are concerned, it seemed that most people wanted training with Cato, and then some outside scenes with Cato and potentially Finnick interference? I don't know-I'll go check again. But for now, here's what I came up with! Let me know if it's what you guys were looking for.
Final note: I am not very good with action scenes-as in, detailing fights and the like. This is one of my first attempts with that, so let me know if it comes across awkward (because there will be a lot more of these before the story ends...)
Now then, on to this rather long chapter...
At first, it feels like I'm back on the sea; floating on my back in the middle of the night. The moon is out, but it's overcast. The soft, soothing sounds of the waves hitting rocky beach strike my ears as from a great distance. I close my eyes, focus on that constant lull, allow it to fill my mind…
My eyes snap open. That isn't waves…what is that? I try to sit up, swim toward the sound, but find that I can't move. Are those…screams? My voice is caught in my throat—I'm choking on it.
"Yes, those are screams," a voice calls. I can't see…
"Who are you?" The screams grow steadily louder—a deafening cacophony of terror, pain, pleas for help. "Who are they?!" Why can't I move?
"Don't you remember us?" the voice whispers, clicks its tongue in disapproval. "What a shame…" As the voice fades, my head snaps to the side, controlled by puppet strings. I nearly choke on the thick, briny water. There, on the shoreline, Caesar Flickerman's navy hair catches the thin moonlight. He's standing with President Snow.
"Congratulations! You've won the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" What? My head whips to the other side. There's a shadowy figure. I squint as it steps into the light…
"Congratulations," it gurgles. The screams have gotten louder: "Help!" "No!"
"No…" I sit bolt upright in bed, hands clapped to the sides of my head. No more screaming! My throat is hoarse, eyes wide and staring.
"Tobi!" The light clicks on; I'm blind. Firm arms encircle me. They're trembling…or I am. "Tobi, it's okay—calm down!" Finnick? I feel my breathing slow, heart rate drop. The trembling stops…whichever of us it was.
"…Finnick?" my voice is small, rough.
"Yeah, it's me, little fish" he breathes. For a moment, neither of us moves. But I have to pull away before long.
"Sorry," I murmur, shame-faced. "Nightmare." He nods, sits back. I can't look at his face. Did he ever have such dreams? Of course he did—he was fourteen when he was a tribute. But I bet he toughed it out alone instead of screaming like a child.
"Care to share?" He asks, staring into space. I shrug.
"Lots of blood," I realize suddenly. I suppose that wasn't even the ocean, really. "I won the hunger games." Finally, he turns to look at me. "Everyone…I killed everyone…" I choke on the words. Finnick doesn't say anything, merely pats my shoulder. And what could he say? That it was just a dream—that it wasn't real? He'd be lying. If I want to survive, that dream will prove a premonition for a day a week and a half from now.
The silence has grown thick and heavy by the time Finnick pushes off the bed, walks back toward the door. He doesn't turn to look at me again. I can't blame him, now that he knows what gruesome images float around my subconscious. After all, most tributes have night terrors about their own deaths…not about killing everyone.
"Well…you might as well get yourself ready," he says. "Today's a big day." I glance to the window as he leaves the room. It's already morning—doubtless Blye will wobble in any moment, screeching her usual morning call.
With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs out from under the quilt, pad across the cold floor to the shower. The initial burst of water is frigid, but I allow it to send my body into tingling wakefulness. Finnick's right, after all: Today will be a very big day.
I stand alone in a back corner of the elevator as we speed toward the training room, making mental notes. Today is the day for forming alliances—the last training day before we hit the arena; individual assessment day. The question is do I want to team up with anyone? The careers are going to be a team for sure—that's 1, 2 and 3…Most years, Oscar and I would have teamed up with them. Technically, district four is a career district. But this year…I glance over at Oscar. We're not really career material.
Katniss and Peeta will probably partner up. Or maybe not…I think with a tiny half-smile, remembering the look on Katniss' face when it was plastered all over the stadium. After my interview the night before, the broadcast continued largely as it has any other year. Until, of course, district 12 brought the fire. I knew she'd have something up her sleeve. I just wasn't expecting it to be romance. Apparently, neither was she. The cameras will be on that pair like barnacles on harbor pillars. I certainly don't want that kind of attention.
By the time we're filing off the elevator, having systematically gone through the tributes, I've come to the conclusion that it's safest to go it alone. Though, inexplicably, I've had to continuously force Cato's face out of my head.
"Alright, you two," Finnick starts as we hover outside the training room. "The important part of today comes later—make sure you take it easy in the circuit. Nothing straining, no blunders."
"What about alliances?" Oscar asks quietly. I cut my gaze at him. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me. Finnick shakes his head.
"Not worth it." I thought as much. "The careers would kill you a day into the games. Twelve is jaded and stubborn—they'll never team up; the rest are too weak or too brutal to be any help. No," he locks eyes with us individually. "Best go it alone." We nod curtly, and step through the doors.
The other tributes are already here, set up and ready to go. Many have started with the survival stations; those with weapons are carelessly tossing them around with no real motivation. Today is nothing like that first day of training. The room still thrums with energy, but it's crisp; tense. Tributes trade guarded glances and keep to themselves or their teams.
Today we take the first steps toward becoming enemies.
For a moment Oscar and I just stand in the doorway. Oscar shrinks a bit as the wiry kid from three shoots him a look. I huff a sigh through my nose before striding through the middle of the room. As I walk, I pointedly allow my frame to fall into a leisurely slink—a posture I've perfected since last night's interview. At a glance I am lazy, slumped, utterly un-threatening and completely forgettable. But in reality my muscles are coiled, ready to spring, like a coral snake, floating along and always prepared to strike. Dangerous.
Taking my cue, Oscar scurries over to the camouflage station. I watch him go—he's already been to that station, and supposedly he's bad at it. Maybe he wants to improve? Or…Ah. Peeta's over there painting his arm into a tree. I wonder if Oscar's hoping to team up. Not that it's remotely my business.
I stop casually in the middle of the room and look around for a suitable station. Most of the careers, shockingly, are at the survival stations. Well, but I suppose it makes sense. They've all run straight to weapons since day one. And they're supposed to save their strength—might as well learn the essentials, today. I grin, head toward the station for swordplay. That first day I discovered that I'm not terrible with a sword, if I can find one light enough. Plus, Finnick gave me a lot of pointers during our private training session and left me feeling pretty confident.
The station is relatively unoccupied, the line composed only of tributes from districts three, nine and eleven. Well, but I'd hate to go up against eleven. He's a monster, easily batting at the instructor like a bear with a doll. I feel sorry for the boy from nine, in line right after him.
Before long, it's my turn to step up on the little platform.
"Pick your sword," the new instructor commands as she swaps out with the guy clobbered by eleven. I amble over to the sword rack, carefully lift and weigh my options. After four, my heart sinks—there isn't one I can lift. Then I pick up the fifth one. It's unexpectedly light, though it's the same general size and shape as the others. I throw a puzzled look to the trainer, who's grinning.
"It's a special mineral," she says. "Lighter…but also weaker. It will break." With a gulp, I notice her bulky, exposed shoulders. No doubt she's using a much stronger sword. There isn't anything to do, of course, but walk to the middle of the platform, square off. Alright, I tell myself. Pretend it's real. This person will kill you if you can't defend yourself. Whether because she knows what I'm thinking or planned to go hard, the trainer rushes forward without any warning. I duck out of the way, heart in my throat, but her sword flashes toward my face.
The sword-on-sword clang rattles my brain. Already breathing hard, I peer at her through our crossed blades. She grins, presses forward. As expected, she's a lot stronger than me…and her words about the sword breaking echo through my head. But most of the tributes will be stronger than me. And mind games are all part of it…
With a growl, I leap to the side; she stumbles forward at the sudden loss of opposition. I sweep my blade down toward her back. The idea is solid…unfortunately everything about my form is clumsy. She drops, rolls away from the blade…but towards me? Before I can register what's happening, she's hooked her legs around my feet, yanked them out from under me—a maneuver made possible by my sloppy posture.
I hit the ground hard, almost lose my grip on the hilt. Rule number one, Finnick's voice echoes. Never let go of your weapon. So I manage to keep my fingers curled around the sword, but it does little good. Within seconds, the instructor straddles my chest, knees pinning my arms at the wrists. I can't move.
"What do you do in this situation?" She asks, cool as a codfish. I frown.
"You die," I mutter. She laughs, shakes her head.
"Only if you're not creative," she insists, stands and hoists me to my feet. "Remember—you still had your legs. As long as you have a limb available, use it." I nod thoughtfully, descend the opposite side of the platform, only to freeze at a series of slow, mocking claps. I turn, face held carefully blank. Cato. Of course.
"Well done, four," he sneers. "You've officially proven that you're no threat at all." He saunters forward, leans in. "Looks like we should just let you have a sword—you'll fall on it all by yourself." I offer the ghost of a smile, remember that I've forgotten to put my weapon away. I whisk it up, narrowly missing Cato's face. To his credit, he doesn't flinch—doesn't even blink. It's infuriating.
"Maybe that's all part of the act," I wave the tip of the blade under his chin. Maddeningly, he chuckles.
"I could believe that, "he sneers, circling me like some kind of vulture, "if it weren't for your hold." I resisted the urge to follow his movement—big mistake. Standing at my back he suddenly reaches forward, around my shoulders to grip both my wrists. His chest is flush against my back, chin almost resting on top of my head. My heart is a snare drum, face on fire.
"M-my hold is fine," I contend, forcing my voice to stay firm. I try to pull away, but he holds me in place. I should not be reacting this way! I glance toward my heart with a scowl. What on earth are you playing at?
"No," Cato murmurs above my head. "Relax your wrists—just keep your grip solid. Like…that." He readjusts my hands, releases them just as I try to break free again. With only a momentary stumble, I whirl to face him, grip the sword with both hands and hold it out at him. To my chagrin, my hold is much steadier… He chuckles, and for a moment I straighten, caught off guard. His laugh was so…genuine. No bitterness, none of his usual vicious cruelty. Just the happy laugh of some little boy having fun. Since when does that sound come from Cato?
"Well, at least you learn quickly," he chuckles, shrugs to someone over my shoulder. I turn to find my gaze met by Clove's fierce glare. Suddenly, to my horror, I realize that most of the tributes—certainly all of the careers—are staring at me. Perform.
I glare around the room, lean back into my dangerous pose, put the sword away.
"Watch out in the arena, two," I growl as I pass. "I'm sure my grip will be just fine when I slice and dice you to ribbons." He laughs. I grind my teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a rapid, downward blue, followed by a pained grunt. I turn toward the sounds; it's from the station for hand to hand combat. Don't do it, Tobi, a voice in my head warns. After all, the Careers are still watching. I'm more confident in my unarmed fighting than my swordplay…but there's no guarantee I won't make a fool of myself.
Well, but if they think less of me, perhaps they'll forget about me in the arena, I realize bitterly, walk toward the station and get in line. The tributes in front of me appear average at best, most of them lasting only a few moments against the instructor. Then again, the cynical part of my mind reminds me that any one of them could be acting…As I get closer, my confidence nevertheless grows. The instructor is good, but no better than Hiram or any of the King Fisher's seasoned sailors. I bet I can beat him…
"He doesn't look like he should really be teaching, does he?" My heart flips; I force myself to turn slowly, unaffected.
"Are you following me, two?" The question is soft, bored, but I find myself far too interested in the answer.
"Nah," he shrugs, quirks a cocky smile. "I just want to show this guy how to actually use his fists." He points to the trainer. I say nothing, merely stare for a moment, and turn back around.
"Next!" the voice is thick, winded. I ascend the stairs slowly, give the girl from ten a chance to regain her feet and scramble down the stars. By the time the instructor takes his position, I'm in a comfortable fighting stance: knees loose, hands in front; body angled and balanced. My brain is swirling as I try to remember all of Hiram's lessons, and Finnick's pointers since.
For a moment, we simply stand there. I don't know what I'm expecting…some sign to start, I suppose. I don't get one.
Without warning, he moves. In two steps, the guy is right in front of me with a jab toward my face. I breathe the way Hiram always taught me: keep the breath warm, alive. Let it settle you…slow down time.
I grab the instructor's wrist, duck under it and twist. As expected, he leans with the twist. As he should, if he doesn't want his elbow to snap.
He counters with a knee to my side. I take the hit—I'm not flexible enough to dodge without releasing his wrist, which is what he's probably aiming for. I clench my jaw—he kicked hard. Who'd have thought I had a stubborn streak?
He uses the same leg to hook my foot. Bad idea... I go ahead and fall, pulling on the wrist. He topples toward me, fist raised. I land on my back, kick both feet up and catch him in the stomach, sending him over my head. Use an opponent's superior weight against him.
I've finally released him. Unfortunately, his wrist and whatever he hit in the fall probably hurt a lot less than where he kicked my ribs. Standing is slightly painful. That will leave a bruise. I remember Finnick's advise today with a grimace, but find it quickly becoming a smile. For the past few days, my mind has been plagued by thoughts of the tributes I will kill. Ironically, when I'm actually fighting in practice for those deaths, my head is blissfully empty. Just action and reaction, I think, grin widening to reveal my canines. Yes…this way is much simpler.
My relief is short-lived, however, as the instructor straightens, nods to someone off the platform.
"Why don't you let me interject?" I fight not to roll my eyes as Cato saunters onto the platform. The trainer gives him a doubtful glance, but Cato simply claps him on the shoulder, offers a smile somewhere between friendly and threatening. The instructor nods reluctantly, allows Cato to take his place after whispering something into the career's ear. I narrow my eyes as we square off.
"Can't you just save it for the arena, two?" I mumble. He grins like he's genuinely having fun.
"You know, Bob just said the same thing."
"Bob?" I repeat. He shrugs.
"I don't know his actual name," he nods toward the instructor, who is observing from beside the platform. I don't respond. How typical of a career to randomly re-name the instructors.
"Are you going to make a move?" I drawl tonelessly. We've been circling for nearly a minute. He shrugs, offers that cocky grin.
"Maybe…maybe not. You?" For a moment, I say nothing, merely shrug. Then, hopefully out of the blue, I spring forward. Normally, I prefer defensive fighting. But with Cato, my patience has long worn thin.
He laughs once as I speed forward—an excited bark. I feint for his face with a right hook, but swing my left foot around at his side. Unfortunately, he dodges both by moving closer to my person. My heel hits the floor with a loud thud as I spring back, but he catches my left ankle, all the while maintaining that grin. I lose my balance, and he pulls me toward him, drops my ankle in favor of my wrist. I can barely catch my breath as he spins me, and wind up with my back to his chest, arms crossed and wrists captive.
"Shall we dance?" he whispers into my ear. My jaw juts forward in irritation, and I stomp on his foot, hard. He sucks air through his teeth, loosens his grip, and I yank both of my hands in toward my body, spring away. I stand there, panting, for a moment, watch him straighten and send me an unexpectedly open look. Then he grins as broadly as ever, lunges forward.
I manage to dodge his first attack, but not the second. He's fast! As I'm ducking an elbow to the face, he brings the other one around, hooks my neck. I yelp as he throws me forward but manage to latch on to his forearm as I fall.
What worked on "Bob" doesn't work on Cato. He simply twists his arm free of my grasp, allows me to roll away and regain my feet. My hair has slipped from Flux's careful bun, hangs around my face. I'm breathing hard. As I watch, Cato saunters forward; his cocky smile has morphed into something mildly dangerous. A line of cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Pretend it's real. The mantra consumes my mind, pushes the tendril of fear back with adrenaline.
Like an eel, Cato darts forward. I throw up a block in the nick of time—that blow would have broken my nose. My heart sinks—he's only just gotten serious.
He's behind me before I know it. I glare forward, direct my attention to my ears. A short whoosh of air announces his attack, and I lunge sideways, spin into a high kick with y right foot. His eyes are wide as the foot speeds toward his jaw, but he recovers quickly, leans back out of range and grabs my foot. Here we go, again…I yelp as he uses it to yank me off my feet and throw me on the ground. He's pinned me before my eyes reopen.
I'm breathing hard, sore...beaten. He's captured both my wrists, one knee hovering on my sternum. If he pushes too hard, I'll suffocate. If a limb is free, use it. I smirk at him, pull my knee up between his legs. His smirk twists, and the career curls up and falls to the side. I only feel guilty for a moment as I push myself to y feet. It was a low blow. But guess which one of us is still alive.
I descend the stairs with a bounce in my step, despite my exhaustion. I feel much more...capable. Unfortunately, I haven't gone five feet past the station when strong arms encircle me from behind, trap my arms in place. I sigh—this feels familiar. My heart even does that little flop again, and I freeze against his chest.
"Low blow," he murmurs into my ear. I quirk my head to the side—the laughter is gone from his voice, replaced with something almost mean.
"You have strange obsessions," I growl under my breath, struggled against his hold. "But of the two of us, who survived that simulation?" He scoffs at my bravado; the bitterness is back in his voice.
"You think you would be alive if that had happened in the arena?" he demands, voice oddly forced. No…in real time, there were quite a few opportunities for him to kill me. Cato chuckles cruelly at my silence; his breath tickles my ear before he abruptly lets me go.
I spin to face him. The grin is still there, but there's something off about it. Something sad…He backs away, gives me a trite thumbs-up before turning to stride back to the glaring careers.
"You had a nice roundhouse, four," he calls over his shoulder. "If you're not careful, you'll actually kick someone next time." I watch him rejoin Clove and Glimmer at the plant station, turn to go find Oscar. Once again, he's left me puzzling over which Cato is the real one. But when we get to the arena, there won't be time for any of that. I harden my heart, sit down next to Oscar and begin methodically mixing dyes. I'm sick of mind games.
yeah...sorry this was so long. I'm thinking about going back and merging a few of the earlier chapters, just for the sake of continuity and pacing. I haven't decided yet...anyway, let me know what you think! And if you're a new reader who still wants to reply to the polls in chapter 11, feel free-after all, this stuff will continue to develop as the story continues, and is always subject to change ;P