Nobody is willing to break the silence that has spanned the length of our elevator ride. Eilidh looks uncomfortable whilst Mags is trying to contain a silent fury. It's clear both women have a better idea of what just unfolded than either myself or Murray, whose brows are now furrowed, as if sure concentrating will help him unravel whatever he is clearly missing.
Despite the time they have spent together these last few days, I'm not sure how many of Finnick and Murray's conversations have ventured into non-game related territory. Surely the number is low. Perhaps they have only ever discussed the games. If that is the case, then there is a good chance my best friend is the least clued in of us all. Utterly lost in regards to the scene that has just unfolded.
At least I can combine the handful of limited knowledge I have been offered and attempt to muddle together some sort of theory as to what just happened.
I know Finnick had openly implied that he didn't get a choice when it came to the parties he attended. I know he puts on some sort of show, though I still don't understand why. I know he's not happy, or at least, he's not as happy with his life as one would expect a victor to be. I can't help but feel stupid as I try to work through the information, failing to draw a set conclusion. Am I missing something obvious?
Probably.
Whatever our mentor is doing now however, this isn't the time to think about it. In a matter of hours I will be in the arena and that has to be my focus. Surviving has to be my priority.
The elevator doors open, and we all shuffle out awkwardly. It's clear no-one is entirely sure what to do now. Will Mags and Eilidh send us to immediately bed? Knowing that to do so will result in us sleeping away some of the last of the few short hours we have remaining? Will they suggest we stay up and prepare, risking the tiredness that would come with it? I doubt that is an option. Going into the games already exhausted is a sure-fire way to find yourself dead within the first day. Though even if Mags does send us to bed, how am I meant to sleep without dreaming of arenas and killer children?
"Your stylists will come to dress you in the morning. They will be responsible for you from now on, or until you are in the arena at least." Eilidh breaks the silence, though her voice has lost the friendlier tone it had been developing over the previous days. As if already detaching herself from the situation.
I suppose it must be easier that way. Watching year after year as children you have come to know get slaughtered surely has to be draining, even for those in the Capital. At least, I hope that would be the case. But then their barbarism has never failed to baffle me before.
Maybe she's just ready to move on to her next project?
We both nod, and even Murray seems robbed of words. Has it finally hit him? Just how terrible the situation we have found ourselves in really is? That both of us can't survive the games and more than likely neither of us will?
And then Mags is hugging us, and telling us it has been a pleasure, and reminding us to stick together. She's smiling, but there's a lingering sadness behind the look that threatens to make me weep. Hastily I swipe at my suddenly too warm eyes and allow myself to be pulled into a hug. Murray doesn't bother to wait his turn, engulfing the pair of us in one swift motion.
And for a moment, we stand there. The three of us. Knowing that this is likely the last time we will ever see our mentor.
"Thank you." I half whisper the words, if only because my face is so close to hers in our lingering three way hug. "For everything." My chances of surviving the games might be small, but they are still far greater than they would have ever been without my Mags as my mentor. "Tell Finnick as well."
"Don't worry about that girlie." She returns, before placing a soft kiss against my cheek and removing herself from the embrace and taking a step back. "Now go to bed. Both of you." It's an instruction rather than a suggestion. Eilidh has already made her way back to the elevator door where she lingers. I can't help but think it's a tactical retreat, in case she had accidentally found herself unwittingly involved in our embrace on account of standing too close. She gives us both a nod and makes her way out of the room.
"Goodbye Eilidh." Murray calls, because he simply can't help himself. I catch his eye, and briefly we smile at each other before Mags is reminding us that we need to get as much rest as possible.
"She says that like it's going to be easy." I half mutter as we make our way along the small corridor that leads to our rooms. Sleep has avoided me for days now, and tonight will surely be worse than most.
"Tomorrow's going to come, no matter what." Murray says simply, his shoulders pulling into a shrug. "May as well try and sleep." Before I can argue that trying to sleep isn't the issue, Murray captures my hand and pulls me close for one last hug. "It wasn't meant to be like this."
He's right. It wasn't. Whilst my best friend had long ago committed himself to these games, they have never been something I wanted to be a part of. I should be at home, in District Four. Watching the recap of the interviews with my Father and trying to convince myself I will see my best friend in person again.
"I suppose this is what tributes from the outlying districts feel like every year." And even that's not true, because I have come into the games with the distinct advantage of coming from a career district. I've got allies. Potential sponsors who will trust my being from Four has provided me with an advantage. The tributes from District Twelve, or Ten, or Eight would never get that luxury unless they have come into the games with an extraordinary ability to kill from the offset. "We're not meant to get a say in who's chosen." Because we're not meant to be competing for glory, no matter what the Capital says. We're here to be sacrifices.
Career tributes shouldn't be allowed to exist. Perhaps they wouldn't, under other circumstances. But the Capital audience both love and bet heavily on us. And even the Capital with all its wealth can't turn down the kind of money we generate.
"I'm going to keep us both alive Annie. I swear I will." His voice is more urgent now, as if worried somebody is going to come along and drag me away like they did Finnick.
"I know." I'm not sure what else to say. Because I know he will try and do exactly that, but in the end what difference will it really make? There's only one victor, and I would rather die at the hands of another tribute than get far enough into the games that Murray has to kill me himself. Would he even be able to do it? Maybe we would simply stand there so long, reluctant to turn our weapons on one another that the Gamemakers would end up doing the job for us.
It's not like they're haven't killed tributes before, even if they're never credited with the official death blow. It's always a volcano, a landslide, a sudden snowstorm when a tribute who has been causing problems has no immediate access to shelter.
"Get some sleep." Despite the instructions, he doesn't immediately let go of me. I have to wriggle my way out of his arms and take a few steps backwards towards my door. "I'll see you tomorrow Annie."
"See you in the arena."
"I'll be holding the trident." He gives a half-hearted grin at his own joke, and I simply nod in return before opening the door to my room. Leaving him standing there.
I'm not sure if I actually sleep. I spend most of the night tossing under bedcovers, imagining different arenas and various weapons being used against me. Stuck somewhere between consciousness and nightmares.
It's Magnolia who wakes me, my prep team bouncing along behind her as if they have been counting down the days. They don't have much to do for the moment. I will be getting dressed in the arena, in an outfit not yet known to my stylist. So all they can do is put a few touches of make-up on my face that will be rendered obsolete by tomorrow.
If I survive that long.
It's a relatively short flight to the arena, most of which is spent staring at my stinging arm where a tracker has now been placed. From there, we are taken underground to our final destination. A tiny room under the arena where tributes get changed and make their final preparations.
Magnolia helps me into the outfit I am to wear before turning her attention back to my prep team, muttering instructions under her breath as they begin to pull out various products which I assume have to be for hair. I should have known they wouldn't let me keep it down. Instead, it is pulled back into a tight ponytail high on my head, with so many pins keeping it in place that my tender scalp is already protesting. I have been informed twice during the process that I lack the bone structure to properly pull the look off, but that it will have to do. Because a week from now, the look will successfully hide most of the dirt and grease I will have accumulated.
Perhaps I should thank them for believing I have the possibility of lasting that long.
I stand silently as I am poked and prodded one last time, before finally Magnolia declared I am ready. I'm not sure what I expect to happen next. There's still four minutes before I am expected to step into the glass tube that will life me into the arena. Four final minutes of freedom, where I do not have to worry about being hunted. For a moment, I wonder if they will wish me luck, or provide final words of encouragement. Neither come. Instead, the trio immediately huddle in a corner on the opposite side of the room. Complimenting each other on what a fabulous job they had done despite the difficult circumstances and discussing a party that they will be all be attending later that night.
I no longer exist to them.
Alone, I shakily pour myself some water and sip it. Staring hard at my prep team in the hopes one of them will catch my eye and at least have the decency to look guilty. They never do. And sudden rage bubbles silently within me, contrasting wildly against the absolute terror that had been my sole experience just a few minutes beforehand.
I want to throw something at them. Beg them to hide me and sneak me out of the games. Sob on the floor until someone has to physically lift me up again. Instead, I sit and sip my water. Trying to ignore the light shake of my hand until finally I am being called to take my position.
The last thing I see before I am raised out of the room, is Magnolia giving me one last glance, before flipping her hair and turning away. And I am plunged into darkness.