iii. THE GAMEPLAN
Icara's mere presence was enough to chase the Sevens away from the axe-throwing station on the second day of training. The small kid from Five, judging by the number on his shoulder, didn't seem to notice her, but he flinched as Icara's axe came soaring through his peripheral, burying itself blade-first into the target.
"You're fine," Icara said as he started to stammer out an apology, her voice taking on the reassuring tone she usually used with her students. "There's enough room for both of us." She nodded expectantly to the axe in Five's hands.
Taking the hint, he hefted it awkwardly, sending the weapon flying towards the target some ten meters away. It was a miracle the thing stuck to the board.
Icara gave an approving nod. "Not bad, but you might want to try holding it like this…"
Slowly, the expression of disappointment on Five's face faded to one of focus as he heeded her words. Icara knew she wasn't supposed to be helping Five; if anything, she should be tearing at his confidence with cruel threats like Alpha and the others.
But Icara couldn't bring herself to be so callous. In fact, it was hardly even a conscious decision, Icara slipping so easily back into the role of teacher, trainer. And the kid… Perhaps it was the way his brow furrowed in determination, or maybe it was the same curly brown hair, or their similarity in ages even though Lara didn't wear rectangular glasses, and Icara's heart nearly seized in her chest when she realized.
Five's axe landed straight in the head of the human-shaped target, and he shot her a smile, all genuine and daring. "Aye, nice one, kid," Icara said, giving him an appreciative nudge on the shoulder.
"Actually, you can call me—"
She cut him off. "Don't tell me your name."
The grin slid from Five's face like water, and even Icara was surprised at the sudden coldness in her tone.
He's going to die. That was the reality of it. There was nothing she could do about it because Icara intended to make it home, and the only way she could do that was if Five and every other tribute in this gym dropped dead. Hell, she might end up killing Five herself, and how was she supposed to do that if she knew his name?
Icara smiled, stiff and apologetic. "Sorry kid. Go learn to throw some knives. It'll be easier for you than this, trust me." He scampered off obediently, not-quite-fear in his eyes, and Icara returned to her allies and their weapons and taunts and bloodlust.
Alpha immediately rounded on her. "What the fuck are you playing at, Slate?"
Automatically, Icara's shoulders tensed. "Nothing?"
The answer didn't seem to satisfy her district partner, his lips curling into a snarl. "You wanna make friends with the bloodbath fodder, then don't bother crawling back to us, Miss Icky."
"I was just talking to him," Icara said defensively, careful not to match his aggression.
"Yeah, well don't," Alpha snapped. "My pack, my rules."
Icara bit back a scoff, barely managing not to roll her eyes as a bell rang for their lunch. Kindness and arrogance, she'd told Lara on more than one occasion, are two things that'll get you killed in there. As she sat down between Henrietta and Murray at the lunch table, the Three girl leaned over to whisper in her ear, shooting their pack leader a furtive glance. "That shit's gonna get old real fast."
A nervous energy seemed to permeate the gymnasium on the last day of training.
Icara sensed it clearly among the outliers — their private examination by the Gamemakers compounded with the ever-looming threat of the Games themselves tended to do that, she figured. Even among her fellow Careers, it ran, mingled with excitement as fate barreled towards them like a speeding train.
Training or not, at the end of the day, twenty-five of them would be dead. Icara tried not to let that get to her.
Even Murray couldn't find the energy to be as chatty as usual, though he blamed it on a late start and a lack of coffee. "Better wake up quick unless you want the Gamemakers to give you a seven," she jibed when his javelin struck the outermost ring. He flipped her a rude gesture; somehow, it helped alleviate some of the tension.
Of course, the morning passed too quickly, and before Icara knew it, she was sitting in line between Alpha and Henrietta's district partner Leighton, waiting for the Gamemakers to call her name. Semi-consciously, she tucked her hands under her lap, a sudden chill in the waiting room now that she'd paused exercising. Icara had been careful not to stuff her face in during lunch (not that she usually did), expecting to feel a flutter of nerves at the upcoming private sessions and not wanting to risk it and share the same fate as the poor Six girl, currently sprinting towards the nearest wastebasket. She caught the eye of the Five boy as he flinched out of her path, though he quickly glanced away.
Ignoring Alpha's mean-spirited snicker, Icara waved to Starla as her name sounded over the speaker, a silent gesture of goodwill. Starla didn't seem to notice.
Whatever. Fifteen minutes later, she didn't return, and Alpha sprang to his feet, already sporting a confident smirk. "Time to show the 'Makers something good before you disappoint them."
"Good luck," Icara said placidly, and he snorted, disappearing into the gym.
Play it safe around him, Dagmara had warned her. Don't be a threat, but don't be incompetent either.
Feeling the prickle of someone staring, Icara turned to catch Henrietta's cold, calculating eyes tracing over the encounter. The Three girl blinked, nudging her district partner. "Hey, Leighton, now would be a good time to use the bathroom if you don't want to end up pissing on the mat." Leighton gave her a dirty look, but heeded her words; as soon as he vacated his seat, Henrietta slid right over, leaning her head to whisper into Icara's ear. "I think you should try for a lower score."
Icara frowned. "Why would I do that?" she mumbled back.
The other girl rolled her eyes at Icara's apparent ineptitude. "Because you've got a problem in the shape of a Greek letter, and if you score higher than him, he will kill you first chance."
"And if I score too low, everyone else will kill me first chance," Icara pointed out.
"Please, I didn't say go for a five," Henrietta scoffed lightly. "Just low enough to stay under the radar."
Icara pursed her lip, digesting the idea. No matter what she did, her heart would always want that perfect thirteen, but she knew that was a fever dream. Why would she care if Alpha kills me anyways? Raising an eyebrow, Icara turned to the Three girl. "You'd rather fight me than him, is that it?"
Henrietta shrugged nonchalantly, her mouth barely stretching into a half-smile. "Wouldn't you?"
The intercom crackled with Icara's name, and she almost jumped at the noise.
"Think about it," Henrietta said as Icara padded through the gymnasium doors. They slipped shut behind her with hardly a sound, sealing off all forms of noise emanating from the waiting room.
Icara kept her chin high as she strode into the center of the gym, the judgemental eyes of the Gamemakers tracking her like a hunter did a harvest bird. The room itself boasted no evidence of her district partner's performance; he may as well not have existed. "Icara Slate, District Two," she announced, bowing politely.
"Welcome, Miss Slate." The voice of the Head Gamemaker, judging by his commanding posture, was eerily monotonous compared to the standard Capitol inflections. "You may begin."
With another inclination of her head, Icara made her way confidently towards the javelins. Time to decide, Icara thought, testing its weight unnecessarily in her hands. Fake it or ace it?
Drawing her arm back, Icara hurled the javelin towards her target.
It landed exactly where she'd intended.
The entirety of Two's league of Victors seemed to be infesting the apartment when she returned. Icara drew back from the sudden onset of noise upon opening the door, eyes wide at the unexpected… party?
'Makers, they're… definitely having a party.
"If there's any chance you'd like to get drunk and celebrate before going in," Dagmara's voice sounded over the din as she appeared from the crowd, "the time is now." She wore a genuine smile on her face, and Icara frowned in confusion. Dagmara shrugged. "Since you guys usually pull good scores, we tend to celebrate," she explained. "Better now than nursing a hangover the morning of the Games. All we've got on our plate tomorrow is interview prep, which we really don't need."
Warily, she accepted a glass from Dagmara; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alpha toss back a shot, egged on by a handful of the younger Victors. "What… time is it?" Icara asked incredulously.
Dagmara checked her cellular. "Fifteen hundred." Icara snorted, setting down her drink. "Don't worry, those of us that are mentoring are prohibited from drinking," the Victor reassured her.
Even with the spacious nature of the District Two suite, the crowd pressed with the company of the Victors as well as their entourage of Capitol stylists and escort team. Icara knew that all of them, excluding those too old to travel, were required in the Capitol for the Games, though they hadn't all accompanied the tributes and their mentors to the suite; until now, at least.
If she were to win, these people would be her neighbors; no harm in socializing now. While Icara recognized most of the younger Victors from her years at the Academy, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little bit starstruck at the opportunity to chat idly with the retired legends.
After dipping into her room for a quick shower and a change of clothes, Icara switched out her beverage for a glass of iced water, preferring clear-headedness in the moment. She floated easily around the room, making it her mission to greet every one of the Victors with a smile, a laugh, and a subtle compliment, eager to make a good impression of herself. Even Dagmara's husband seemed to be allowed re-entry to the suite; Icara greeted him as if their previous conversation had never happened.
She steered clear of her district partner; not a difficult task once the kid ended up in the bathroom with his head over the toilet, his mentor following with an exasperated eye-roll.
Alpha managed to get right back on his feet by the time the television flicked on with their scores. Icara would be impressed if she didn't hate his guts.
Either way, she made sure to sit far away from him once they migrated to the couches, just in case.
The upbeat fanfare of the national anthem quieted the last of the conversation, kicking the program into gear. Get on with it, Icara thought irritably as the host made idle chatter with his counterpart. Finally, he cleared his throat, shuffling the stack of papers in his hands.
District One raked in a decent set of scores, a ten for the boy Mortimer and an eleven for Starla. The eleven that flashed next to Alpha's picture earned a round of cheers from the gathered party of Victors. Icara's hands found the bracelet on her wrist, the one Lara gave her, as she held her breath for her own score, the smoothed edges of the quartz stone cold against her fingers.
Icara's portrait appeared on the screen, proud and confident; next to it, the number nine.
The reveal was met with silence. Icara forced her hands still, ignoring, ignoring the cold grin on Alpha's face dominating her peripheral. "It's not too bad," one of the Victors said; Icara didn't bother figuring out who. Almost out of habit, she met Dagmara's gaze; her mentor's expression clearly said 'We need to talk about this', her lips pressed together in a thin line.
The rest of the scores passed quickly in Icara's anxiety, Henrietta scraping the last of the elevens, though the rest of the pack scored higher than Icara. Her discomfort increased.
She barely noticed the Five boy scoring a seven, notable amongst the sea of threes, fours, and fives. A couple sixes, another seven (District Ten, a small part of her brain noted), more threes, Alpha smirking at her from the corner of her eye like she's dead fucking meat, a whopping two to round off the night—
"Icara."
Dagmara, standing from her chair; she beckoned to Icara, nodding to the mentoring room.
"I did it on purpose," Icara said when the door closed behind them.
She had. And she'd been expecting the disappointment of the others, the vindication in Alpha's body language at her sub-par score, but what she hadn't planned for — and it's ridiculous, it really is; she'd gotten what she'd wanted — was how the number grated at her stupid fucking pride. The part of her that had strived for a perfect thirteen now ached for a mere ten, and it was her own damn fault.
"Why."
Could Dagmara see it too? Could she see what Icara was feeling, or perhaps she was thinking that Lara could've done a better job. It was true, Icara knew; Lara would've easily secured herself an eleven, in the very least… "I don't want to be a threat." Immediately she cursed herself for the words, Dagmara's half-incredulous half-mocking snort of laughter enough to tell her how stupid she was. "I meant to Alpha," she amended. "If I scored higher than him, he'd make sure to kill me first."
"And now he won't bother," Dagmara said, shaking her head. She paused, folding her arms testily. "I told you to be competent, but…" she trailed off thoughtfully.
Icara didn't say anything, watching the gears turn in her mentor's head.
Dagmara's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Was it your idea?"
"Not… exactly." Dagmara sighed in exasperation, and Icara jumped to her own defense. "Look, I get that Henrietta isn't personally looking out for me—"
"The Three girl?"
Icara nodded, and her mentor pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Just—be careful," Dagmara said, and Icara didn't miss the note of worry in her tone.
Even though the spindly heels pinched angrily at her toes, Icara found herself comforted by the silky embrace of her interview dress. Once again wreathed in finery — this time, a long, sleeveless fitted number, gold stitching and a deep purple color reminiscent of her chariot outfit — Icara's nerves seemed to organize themselves into something bearable, allowing her a blessed moment of something like joy before the storm of the Games engulfed her and the other twenty-five.
She hardly felt anything like stage fright encroaching, even being on the tail end of Starla and Mortimer's interviews. Studying them year after year gave Icara something to expect.
The interviewer, Marcus Argentus, started easy, with compliments to her outfit, her demeanor, her smile even, promoting Icara to showcase one specially for the crowd. Icara floated through easily, responding with grace and more compliments, until they hit the snag Icara knew was coming.
"Icara, darling, I hate to bring it up like this, but you've been given the lowest training score of your allies. I'm sure we all would love a comment on this."
"I know what I'm doing, Marcus," Icara said with a polite smile; a lie so obvious even Alpha could see through it. What choice did she have but to keep going? "Training scores are one thing, but those numbers don't mean much once you get into the arena. It's a clean slate, if you will."
Marcus spouted a loud guffaw at that. "Very clever, my dear! Such a joy to have you on my stage!"
And then came the question to which Icara still did not have an answer.
"What prompted you to volunteer?"
Smoothing the fabric of her dress over her knees, Icara gathered her thoughts. "It's… always been my dream, since I was a girl. Bringing honor to my district, getting to visit the Capitol…" Icara paused, giving a breathless laugh. "I didn't know if I would get the chance, so when I saw the opportunity rise in front of me," she said, turning to face the live, glittering audience, "I took it."
Marcus beamed as the buzzer for her three minutes went off. "Well, Miss Icara Slate," he concluded, shaking her hand graciously, "we look forward to seeing you rise."
"Thank you, Marcus," Icara said with a smile, knowing that they'd be just as eager to see her fall.
"'I know what I'm doing, Marcus'," Alpha mocked once they'd returned to the privacy of the District Two apartments. "So you're incompetent and an idiot. This'll make my job almost too easy."
The mentors had gone on ahead to their rooms, leaving Icara and her district partner to cool off from the interviews at their own pace. Last night before the Games; Icara had no intention of spending it with Alpha of all people. "I'm not incompetent," she protested, finding it only half-reassuring that he wouldn't believe her. "I trained just as much as you did."
"Bullshit, Nine," he sneered, leaning against the granite countertop with folded arms. "You were trained to fight, not to kill, and judging by that score, not well either."
Icara's lip curled. "What's the difference?"
A knowing air overtook his face, painting his mouth into a smirk, almost trademark at this point. He leered at her, lowering his voice. "I was. And Lara was. But not you, Slate."
She wished it weren't so easy for him to make her skin crawl. "What's that supposed to mean?" she retorted, though it didn't carry as much bite as she intended.
Unbidden, a memory floated to the top of Icara's mind, the feeling of Lara's arms wrapped around her as she sobbed into Icara's shirt the day of her graduation party. Icara had never found out what specifically had upset her so much; she'd assumed it had been the stress of it all, the culmination of everything, from the rigorous training to the vicious ire of her peers that led up to her inability to volunteer on Reaping day.
She should've asked.
Alpha only chuckled at whatever expression her face had shifted into. "You're gonna fucking choke at the Bloodbath," he hissed. "That's what that means."
Icara slept poorly. She didn't really expect anything else.
Dagmara woke her with an escort of Peacekeepers already waiting outside her door, as well as the bubbly stylist who Icara recalled was named Heavenly. "There's still a couple minutes before you have to go," she said, pointedly eyeing the Peacekeeping team, "and we need to have a quick chat."
Immediately alert, Icara nodded. Dagmara left to allow her to change, and in a minute, Icara met her in the mentoring room, the officers and the yawning stylist waiting outside.
"I wanted to talk to you about your targets," Dagmara started when she sat down.
"My targets?"
"Bloodbath targets," Dagmara clarified at Icara's confusion. "And for the rest of your time in the arena."
Icara blinked. "Is it not random?"
Her mentor folded her hands contemplatively. "If you make it out, I can explain better, but for now, this is all you need to know." Dagmara cleared her throat. "Thirteen and Nine, but that's a given. Ten and Seven next, the girl and boy respectively."
Eyes wide, Icara nodded. "I… don't think I can get that many in the Bloodbath," she said uncertainly.
"I don't expect you to," Dagmara said briskly, and Icara wasn't sure if she should be mildly offended or not. "Lastly, if you'd really like to make my husband happy—" (her tone was sardonic, but Icara didn't miss the way her eyes gleamed)— "the Eleven girl and the Four boy."
Murray. Icara would be an idiot if she didn't know what that was about, but her mind immediately protested the thought of killing her ally, her companion. He has to die anyways, Icara thought bitterly, but why should I have to placate a man who wanted me dead in the first place?
Nevertheless, she nodded, and Dagmara smiled approvingly. "My luck to you, Icara Slate. Make us all proud."