Geeky's A/N: When he thinks 'we', it's not just tributes.
Agustis Hurlen, 15 ~ District 3 Male
geekysmartnerd
I leapt for joy when Rameses accepted my alliance proposal on Training Day 2.
Inside, I mean. A calm façade remained on my exterior as I thanked Rameses, telling him that "I look forward to working with" him. A white lie, of course.
True, I am sorta' looking forward to working with him in the future. In fact, we seem to get along. Kinda'. Our lovely relationship involves minimal talking and cold shoulders, but we stick together, and always sit in a corner of the room during lunch.
I learned a lot about this Rameses person. What he's capable and incapable of. What his opinions are. He's slightly younger than me, yet he's much taller than I am - much to my chagrin. I get the feeling that he's just as likely to kill me in my sleep as I am him. That's the part that I'm not looking forward to.
I turn my attention to the District 1 homosapien Gleam Jewett as he comes out of the Private Demonstrations room. The other District 1 tribute, Blye Ivory, goes in.
Huh. So at least fifteen minutes has passed.
You see, every tribute has to, well, demonstrate to those amazingly amazing Capitol Gamemakers what they can do, and they'll be given a score that is (more likely than not) biased. Those wonderful, patient, and biased Gamemakers give each tribute at least fifteen minutes to demonstrate their fantastic skills.
So, there're four tributes that go before me. Each gets at least fifteen minutes of judging. Equals me having to wait for at least an hour (most likely more, 'cause Careers like to show off and Gamemakers like them), which means I'm bored.
After the District 1 and 2 tributes have gone and left, it's my turn.
Standing up, I make my way towards the door of the Private Demonstrations room. Rameses catches my eye and gives me a curt nod. I suppose that's his way of saying "Good luck."
Well, thanks, Rameses, I'll need it. I return the favor to him.
Truth be told, I don't know what to do. But I do know that I want to show those Gamemakers their place.
An idea forms as I eye the knife rack. I stride over to it, scanning.
I remember seeing one here - Aha! I found it! I pull it out of the rack by its rubber handle, its serrated blade gleaming in the fluorescent light. An electrician knife, is what it's called. It's used to cut stuff like wires without shocking oneself (hence its rubber handle). I've used them several times in my job.
The arena probably has some wires if an electrician knife is on the rack.
I also pick up a rubber glove used for the climbing station. A Gamemaker clears his throat. I ignore him and wander towards the survival stations. Bending down, I pick up something.
"What is your name?" that Gamemaker asks.
I turn towards the Gamemaker platform and smirk. "I thought you already knew, but I guess not." I walk over. "Fine, I'll tell. Agustis Hurlen, District Three tribute." By now, I'm so close that I can touch it, and the only thing they can see of me is my head. Good. "I don't suppose you all are going to give me an unbiased score, right?"
"You are here to demonstrate what you can do, not talk," one Gamemaker says irritably.
I glance down. And then back up.
"Well, maybe I am going t-" The room goes dark.
Confused Gamemakers shout words of surprise, and one of them even emits a scream. The room has no window, so it's pitch-black.
Boosting myself onto the platform, I flick on a torchlight and stick it under my chin, grinning like a crazed maniac. Queue more screams and shouts.
"You may leave," the Head Gamemaker says icily.
The grin turns into a smile. I shine the light to the edge of the platform, and hop off.
I decide to do something nice. I fix the wires controlling the lights, although it's not going to last. I exit the room after tossing the rubber gloves, knife, and torchlight.
Lesson of the day, children: when arrogance gets the better of you, there will be consequences, but the brief glory is oh. . .so. . .sweet. I could care less if they give me a 0; in fact, let them. I could turn it into an advantage.
Scanning the sea of tributes, sleeping, or with bored or anxious expressions plain on their faces, I spot my rival Erin Flight absorbed in a book. Smirking, I walk over to her.
She still hasn't noticed me.
I lean closer and whisper, "Watch your back."
Seeing her jump makes me laugh.
If looks could kill. Standing up, she bites her thumb in my direction; I only smile.
Scowling, she storms into the Private Demonstrations room.
I look at the book Erin was reading: 'Romeo and Juliet'. Oh, so that's how she knows about it.
I walk out of the waiting room, and someone approaches me. Turns out, it's Rameses.
"Agustis, what was that all about?" He must've seen the exchange Erin and I had. Heck, everyone probably saw it.
"What was what about?"
Rameses frowns. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I don't know exactly what you're talking about if I don't know what you're talking about."
"The thumb-biting and that gesture you made," Rameses said, irritation lacing his monotonous voice.
I smile. "In Shakespeare's time, biting your thumb to someone was like me flipping my middle finger at you." With that, I turn on my heel and walk.
"You can't afford to play these childish games, Agustis," Rameses calls. I say nothing.
He's right. I can't afford to joke around or let my arrogance get the better of me, especially not in the Games. I need an edge over the other tributes.
I ask myself if there's a way to give me an edge over Erin. Of course, it's too late to pull a Christopher Silver (him - unintentionally - killing Alison Rain, and all), and it's against the rules to hurt another tribute.
An idea forms in my mind. I smile slightly.
Yes, no one will suspect. No one at all.
My smile broadens.
This is going to be great.
My eyes widen, and I roughly shake my head to be rid of those thoughts. Gus, this is not like you, I think.
But in these Games, if you want to win them, you have to do anything, be it cruel or kind. If you want to go back home, Gus, you have to do anything: cheat, kill, deceive.
No, I shouldn't!
No one's going to be playing nice with you, and they'll kill you without hesitation if you let them, both Tribute and Gamemaker.
Okay, I'll do it.
I stop in front of a window. The gray skies Fahres loves reflect off of the windows of the nearby buildings, dulling the garish Capitol lights.
God, what have I become? What have we become?
XOXO's A/N: Sorry about the huge delay in updating. . .I'm afraid everyone was waiting for my chapter to come on. *hangs head it shame*
My dah-ling sister (see, Priscilla? I am giving you credit!) helped me write part of this chapter, just so you'd know.
So. . .enjoy? (Hopefully.)
Angela Jaxson, 13 ~ District 9 Female
XOXOFutureFame
My hands felt slightly damp as I reached, fingers fumbling slightly, and undid the complicated braid my stylist worked so hard on.
She insisted that first impressions mattered as I shrieked the apartment down. I replied saying that the Gamemakers were demented idiots; I didn't give a damn for their opinions, and that their opinions "simply didn't matter".
We both knew who was lying.
"Grey Whitton!"
I gave a startled jolt as the name of my district partner was announced. He got up, his eyes darting nervously.
"Good luck," I murmured – to both him and myself, for I was next. He gave me a faint nod of acknowledgement before stumbling off.
I squirmed in my seat, my eyes glued to the clock. The second-hand seemed to tick by twice its normal speed, the minute-hand creeping forward rapidly. I would never admit it – in fact, if I were asked I'd laugh it off and deny it – but I was nervous. Really nervous.
My ADHD was worse than ever, and I fought the urge to jump up and start skipping. And I definitely wasn't in the "skipping-cheerily-through-meadows" mood.
"Angela Jaxson!"
It took all my self-control (which I had very little of) not to scream every foul word (which I took pride in knowing a lot of) at the announcer. Without realizing it, a small squeak emerged from the back of my throat. The remaining tributes glanced at me questioningly.
I cleared my throat, getting up quickly.
"I am so ready for this!" I exclaimed, my voice cool and confident, the exact opposite of the raging battle in my heart. The other tributes looked at me in disbelief. "Psh, I'm not nervous at all. I am pumped. This will be so awesome!"
My voice cracked slightly at the end, and I let out a whoop, putting as much energy and excitement into it as possible. The other tributes stared at me as if I were crazy. I took this as a sign to shut up and leave.
They were right. I was – in fact, I had been for a long, long time.
Turning around, I skipped into the private training room.
Inside, the Gamemakers were huddled around the buffet table. I stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Seconds ticked past and they didn't seem to acknowledge my presence. They were almost ignoring me, and I did not like being ignored. Oh no, they did not go there.
"Ahem?" I cleared my throat, letting the slightest bit of annoyance seep through. My instinct was to start screaming and cussing at them until I held their attention, but I had a feeling that would not help my odds, which barely existed in the first place.
They turned around, looking surprised to see me, my expression showing impatience.
Regaining their posture and attempting to appear more professional, they sat, looking at me expectantly.
"Angela Demeter Jaxson, District Nine female tribute," I declared grandly.
They stared down at me, unimpressed.
Looking at the Gamemakers sitting on a balcony, I felt especially small. Puffing up to my full height of 4'10", I walked with as much dignity as I could muster to the center of the room. I gazed around, pondering which weapon to start out with. My eyes fell on a scythe.
Having come from District 9, I was expected to be good with a scythe. That was not the case, something I learned the hard way on the first day of training: I attempted to use the weapon, but the size weighed me down, causing me to fall forward and narrowly miss being punctured by it. I got up, mortified and furious. Looking back, I was glad I didn't meet a similar fate to the girl from 4 – what was her name? Alison?
The Gamemakers stared at me impatiently, their eyes darting greedily to the buffet table. Not wanting to lose what little of their attention I had, I reached for the nearest weapon – a bow and arrow. It was one of the weapons I was better at; it was light enough for me to hold, and I didn't have any near-fatal accidents.
Standing about twenty feet from the target, I positioned the arrow to aim for the dummy's heart.
Drawing back the string, I let it fly.
Thunk!
The arrow stuck firmly in the dummy's forehead. My first reaction was to crawl in a hole and die. I was aiming for the heart. I felt my cheeks blush fifty shades of red.
Then it dawned on me that the Gamemakers had no idea what I was aiming for.
"I meant to do that!" I blurted out. What they don't know can't hurt them, right? And it sure can benefit me.
I heard their murmurs of approval, and I smiled inwardly. If they caught on to the hastiness in my voice, they didn't show it. Or maybe they just didn't care. I suspect the second.
I shot a few more arrows, unfortunately not receiving a random stroke of luck as before. The Gamemakers began to lose their interest rapidly. I saw one get up and walk to the buffet table, helping himself to a large slice of rich chocolate cake. The nerve of him!
The action seemed to trigger a switch, and I watched furiously as one by one, the rest got up.
I muttered angrily to myself, and stalked to a neat, tidy rack of knives; the carefully arranged blades gleamed in the harsh light of the room, and I snatched one. I did these pretty well, too. Or at least, I thought so.
I resisted the urge to blurt out an even more choice string of insults than the ones I'd been fantasizing about before. I must have been in a pretty bad mood today. At least I had reason.
Curling my fist around the handle of the knife, so that my nails (recently polished to perfection) dug into my skin and left painful red crescent marks, I dragged myself to the dummies I had been aiming arrows at. I drew back my arm and tried to imagine something that might be helpful. Oh, yes, throwing something at one of the people at the orphanage - preferably the headmistress. Or maybe one of the Gamemakers. The thought made me feel better.
I gnashed my teeth and threw the knife as best as I could, seeing it moving almost in slow motion. It landed in the left shoulder, which was far too off for my liking. I looked up as I headed back to the rack of knives, and saw a few select Gamemakers watching me, nodding slightly. But most were still stuffing their mouths. I flushed again in fury and embarrassment.
I grabbed a few more knives and took another shot at it, but they were hardly better than my first. The Gamemakers didn't even have a wisp of attention left in them. I stared at the dummy with narrowed eyes and hurled the last knife.
Thunk!
Yes! A shout of victory echoed through my head as I quickly inspected the heart of the dummy; the knife had landed smack-dab in the center of it. I looked eagerly at the Gamemakers, expecting something different.
The Gamemakers were still stuffing their faces. I saw maybe one taking notes.
I needed to impress them, or at least get their attention. What could I do – throw a knife at them? Pigs.
That was the best insult I could come up with. New low.
My eyes scanned the trainers standing on the balcony – you could tell them apart from the Gamemakers by their uniforms – and selected a short girl of about twenty with a high, blue-streaked ponytail. I announced, as if it were some huge honor, that I chose her as my hand-to-hand combat opponent. She looked surprised, looked me up and down, and sneered – as if the thought amused her.
I immediately regretted the idea at she walked down the steps, head raised. She was much taller close-up. I could make out the muscles on her arms. I thought of backing out, and the humiliation of it. Nope, backing out was not an option. I was going to die before the Games had even begun.
If there was one good thing my announcement did, it was get the attention of the rest of the Gamemakers. They observed me, a thirteen-year-old small for her age, over their wine glasses, looking slightly amused at the thought of watching me get killed. How I hated them.
The trainer – Martha, I read her nametag through squinted eyes – and I stood facing each other in the center of the room. I felt incredibly stupid, and wished that I'd tried out the hand-to-hand combat station during training. Who was supposed to go first? Were we supposed to, like, bow to each other before starting? Shake hands?
I didn't get time to decide – I found myself sprawled on my back with the air knocked out of me.
"Hey!" I yelled, jumping to my feet. "I wasn't ready! I never said to start! How dare you!" I heard the Gamemakers' laughter overhead, and felt the back of my neck burn. "That wasn't fair! I demand a rematch-"
"Sorry," one of the Gamemakers said from above, smiling apologetically. "Your fifteen minutes is up. I'm afraid-"
"WHAT?!" I stomped my feet childishly. I was acting like a brat, and I didn't care. "That's not fair! My time can't be up! I didn't nearly get as much time as I was supposed to!"
"-I'm afraid you have to leave-"
"You guys spend about half of the time stuffing your faces and not paying any attention to me what-so-ever. This is injustice! I-" I barely acknowledged the two Peacekeepers flanking the exit as they came over and lifted me by each arm. "I demand a lawyer; I will sue! How DARE you!" I was still screaming and cursing with flying colours as I was oh-so kindly escorted to the doors. "I was ignored nearly the whole time! Did anyone pay any attention to me? Nooo, because you guys were all too busy cramming your mouth with cake! CAKE! And you didn't even offer ME any! The injustice of this world-"
My glare was met by a huge metal door, slammed in my face.