When we're ushered into a car, I take the opportunity to examine Gia to take my mind off the swelling emotions thrashing inside of me. She's obviously been crying; her wide, chocolate brown eyes bloodshot, the fur on her cheeks streaked with moisture. But more than anything, she doesn't seem to care who sees her like this.
I wonder if it's part of her strategy; to seem like a weak contestant and the others not bothering to deal with her until the very end when there are only a handful. Then it turns out that she's a vicious killer. This has happened on a number of occasions, the most famous being a young raccoon about a decade ago.
Yet she has physique; a sturdy, lean body. Strong, maybe even flexible. Years of eating well has her in good shape. It'll take an awful lot of weeping to make the other tributes see her as a sniveling coward. And as a bonus, I was right not to cry because as soon as we pull up to the train station, cameras are shoved into our faces. I've learned not to show any emotion in the last few years, courtesy of Tigress, and thank goodness because they're literally devouring our pictures. All of that hard work has finally paid off.
The train station in District 12 is normally used to transport coal to other districts in old, grimy trains. But when we get there, the train we are led to is a slick, white bullet train. The windows tinted to a pitch black and the metal is polished spotless. It's like it had been just made and brought here fresh from the factory.
We climb aboard and the train moves forward, away from the place I was enslaved to. The interior is absolutely magnificent. It contains furniture that twists at odd angles accompanied with the richest and brightest shades of pink and green I have ever seen. The chandeliers are surrounded by exquisite crystals carved in the shapes of graceful swans and angels. The plush carpet is the color of blackberries, and there are a number of treats and decorations littering the car. The walls are a shining silver, reflecting our figures in warbled waves.
We're directed to different rooms where we'll prepare for dinner in an hour. I don't remember walking there, but by the time I come to my senses I'm standing in my room, which is large and spacious with a big, king-sized bed. It could probably hold an entire herd of zebras.
At this point, I've become numb. Numb to my thoughts and feelings, numb to my senses, numb to the point where I function like a rusting machine. With what little control I have of myself, I take a shower to wash away today's events. The shower itself is a lot more complicated than it looks with a large variety of devices and buttons for different controls. I mash them all for the hell of it. It scrubs me down in a yellow foam that literally gets every speck of dirt out of my fur, leaving it gleaming. I get a shampoo and conditioner that smells like peaches and cologne— not bad combination, by the way. The water is so hot and soothing, it's the most blissful thing I've felt in years. Like liquid pleasure pouring over my skinny, ragged body. And when I step out, I am blow dried by an air vent from underneath my hind paws. It reminds me of the blow dryers the zookeepers used for me back in New York. Multiple men and women whistling to some musical and blasting hot air at all angles. That's nothing compared to the whirlwind beneath me.
I get dressed and find a dark blue sweater with a pair of comfortable denim jeans. I remember to put the pin back onto my shirt before I can forget. I look in the mirror and my eyes widen at the sight. The reflection, staring back at me, is a lion with a glossy, handsome mane and soft, golden fur who looks at me with bright blue eyes. He follows my every movement, perfectly matching mine. But it doesn't feel like it's me.
I've forgotten what it was like to be so clean and… civil looking, if you can even call it that. I've gotten so used to seeing dirt smudged into the fur of my face, wedged under my claws, shadows under my eyes, that for a while I thought my hide had been dyed a deeper shade of brown from the sun. Then again, I not only look different but feel different, as well. The Alex now is the lion who hunts in the woods and provides food for his friends and family, who'd lost his father, and is now a tribute to the Hunger Games. This is not the Alex, the King of New York, I know from the zoo.
I hear knocking coming from the other side of the room that snaps me out of my thoughts.
"It's time for dinner, Alex!" Tooth Fairy yells through the door.
"Ok." I open the door and follow the lady to the dining car where Gia is probably already eating. Walking behind Tooth, I inspect the large wings attached to her back. They're long and slender, like those of a giant hummingbird's. They flutter in a blur of green and purple before my very eyes, shimmering.
Many people in the Capitol do a bunch of surgeries and implants to look more "stylish". Horns, fangs, dyed pigments, and so much more horrific attributes that make them look like Halloween monsters come to life. But Tooth's look completely natural, which I find very odd.
We enter the next car and, as predicted, Gia is there sitting at a wide table. She wears a spring green dress with a golden waist band, her necklace still hangs around her neck. Covering the said table is a huge assortment of food; a beef stew with black and white rice, a large turkey overflowing with stuffing and gravy, a salad with multicolored vegetables and vinaigrettes. This could feed an entire family for months to come, and I should know.
On full out hunger, thoughts and numbness aside, I fill my plate to the brim and stuff my face with food. It's warm and tender contents practically melting in my mouth, my insides quivering tingling warmth. I've never tasted anything so delicious in all my life. Then dessert is to die for.: a tall chocolate cake topped with thick cream cheese frosting along with tarts and a fruit bowl.
"I'm surprised at how well mannered you two are. Last year's contestants ate like a bunch of animals." Tooth Fairy chirps up, seated beside me.
The irony.
I may be a lion, but I know how to eat properly. I can handle a fork, knife optional. And from the looks of it, Gia does, too. But I hate her comment, so I use my paws to finish the cake, licking frosting off with my tongue. I even lick the plates clean. This results in Tooth giving me a look of disgust. Her pointed nose wrinkled, but she can't hide the crack of a smile that plays on her lips.
Huh, look at that! Not only am I a tribute of the 74th Hunger Games sent off to be killed like a pig for slaughter, but it turns out I'm a comedian, too.
A door suddenly bursts open with a loud bang, sending us jumping in our seats, snapping our attention to a drunken man who just announced his presence oh so gracefully. He's swaying from side to side as if the ground beneath him is unbalanced, carrying a half empty bottle of white liquor in his hand. He has ratty blond hair and an almost impossibly long mustache resting over his incredible underbite. Ties of leather and brown cloth course through it like it was braided by a blind person. His clothes are stained and unkept, smelling impossibly bad even from where I sit. I notice how he's limping and recognize that he has a peg for a leg and a wooden mallet for a hand. Must've happened in battle.
I recognize him almost immediately and frown in disgust. It's Gobber, the one and only victor in all of District 12. He won the 50th Hunger Games where instead of twenty-four tributes, there were forty-eight and as slim as his chances were, he came out of it victoriously. Since then, he's been the mentor for all the District 12 tributes for the past twenty-five years.
In all honesty, I think he's the main reason why we haven't won. Always drunk, making a fool of himself and our district. No wonder why we haven't had any other victors! Because this idiot of man can't even take care of himself, let alone the lives of two children. And here I am, about to put my life into the hands, or hand and hammer, of a drunk.
Gobber clumsily sits at the table, rattling the silverware as his burly form lumbers into the chair next to Gia, and starts to spread butter on a roll, the bread resting on the head of his wooden mallet. Gia turns to him, her small snout wrinkling at his stench, and rests her dainty paws in her lap.
"So what's the plan?" She asks hesitantly. Although small and barely audible, I notice that her voice has an Italian accent to it, not quite as thick as Stephano's. It's the first time I have ever heard her speak, at least in English.
Gobber looks up from his task with lazy grey eyes, the butter knife in his hanging from his grip precariously.
"Wha'?" He asks in return, his voice slurred due to the alcohol. But I'm able to catch his thick accent, although I can't place it.
The thing about District 12 is that you've got people from anywhere and everywhere across the globe. Take me for example: I'm from New York, although my family originates from Africa. And Tigress, she's from China. And the list goes on and on. So one way or another, you're bound to find foreigners living right next door to you.
"What's the plan for when we get inside the arena? What's our strategy? Do you have any advice?" She asks again with much more confidence.
I'm more or less surprised that she even asked anything of Gobber because I know he won't give a straight answer. His mind isn't on the best terms due to the liquor buzzing in his brain and his thoughts are most likely too muddled to take this seriously. And even if he wasn't drunk (fat chance), I'd doubt he'd even give her a remotely logical or even viable answer.
He mulls over the thought and leans back in his chair, his large belly pushing against the front of his stained shirt, threatening to burst like a balloon.
"Hmmm. 'Ere's some advice…" He says after a moment, returning her gaze. "Don' die!" His mouth breaks into a maniacal smile and he howls in laughter at his own joke.
Oh great. Another comedian.
The jaguar's face contorts in anger as her black ears flatten against her skull. She obviously doesn't find it very funny.
Tooth, on the other hand, only scoffs at his actions and takes a bite of her salad.
"That's not funny." Gia hisses, her paws curling into fists. "Our lives are on the line and you're sitting here laughing it up as if it is some kind of sick joke!" She suddenly shouts.
Her sudden outburst puts an end to Gobber's laughing fit. He grows suspiciously silent. His eyes become as hard as stones and he slowly gets up. He leans forward the table to get right in her face. He is inches away from her nose. I can only imagine how terrible his breath must smell. But she doesn't move. She remains steadfast where she is as if she had been miraculously turned to stone. But I can see the tenseness in her shoulders build, like a winding toy.
"Listen 'ere and listen good." Gobber says lowly. "Ye aren' goin to win. Yer 'ave as much o' a chance a' winning as I do wi- attemptin to stop drinkin. Yer two are a los' cause." He barks out harshly through his crooked teeth, pointing at the both of us with his fat, sausage-like finger.
Gobber stands again, grabs his bottle and another one of brandy with his roll, the contents teetering on his mallet, and heads for the door. Only to turn back and forth, dumbfounded of where he's going.
What an asshole, I think to myself wryly.
But before the man can decide his destination, Gia stands and marches right up into his face and snatches the bottles right out of his hand and slams them onto the table, the impact clattering the dishes. She turns back to him.
My ears erect in surprise, unexpectant of such a scene.
I feel a sudden shift in the room; something bad, something dangerous. Out of instinct, I reach for a cutting knife from dinner, clutching it hard.
Gobber's expression is blank for a moment as if slowly processing what just happened. But I'm a snap, he suddenly lunges towards the jaguar. Tooth shrieks behind me as I leap out of my chair and push him away with a swipe of my arm, holding the knife in front of me like a weapon. I bare my teeth, growling savagely through my canines. Gobber stumbles back, more than I had anticipated, and looks at us with disbelief.
"Wha' the hell was tha'?!" He shrieks.
"You stay away from her or I swear to God I'll rip your goddamn throat out!" I roar out, aiming the knife right at his chest.
I can feel Gia trembling behind me and on instinct, I pull her to my side, barricading her from the man.
Although I sound and look intimidating to threaten my mentor, my insides are shaking. Thankfully, I know how to pull a poker face in the midst of danger. I've had enough run ins with bullies like him to control my body language. Trust me, I didn't get so good at selling and bartering at the Hub if I hadn't learned to pick my fights with meathead dickwads trying to steal and trick me on a daily basis.
Gobber blinks, seeming to realize what just happened and then, out of nowhere, starts to stroke the thick stubble on his chin thoughtfully with a meaty hand, thinking. His eyes flick to and fro at the two of us underneath his bushy unibrow. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
I remain where I am, my sorry excuse of a weapon held out in front of me like a shield.
What the hell is he doing? Trying to find a way to get us thrown off the train?! It wouldn't surprise me with this guy's reputation.
Gobber's laidback expression returns.
"Did I ge' a couple o' fighters this yea'?" He speaks up after studying us for a moment, playing with the tuffs of his long mustache between his thick fingers. With a purpose, he stalks over to the table and picks up another knife and before I can thwart him off , he slaps the handle of the intensional into my paw.
"Throw i'."
"What?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"Throw i'." He gestures to the wall.
I didn't expect him to order me that in the least, but I oblige because I don't know what else to do. I turn my back to him in spite of my instincts warning me not to, and get ready.
"Gobber, what the heck do you think you're doing?" I hear Tooth demand. By the loud rustling of something large and feather-like, she's flown right up to him. She sounds livid. I wonder if her face is burning a bright red from her rage. By the silence that follows her command, it's obvious Gobber isn't taking any crap from some Capitol representative.
I roll my shoulders to prep myself, get comfortable with the grip of the blade in my paw, and chuck it at the wall. It sails through the air with a hiss and hits home with a rattling thud. It embeds itself at least an inch and is dead center between two wooden panels.
"Again." He barks. I do, and it lands right next to the other knife. Robin Hood style.
While Tigress and I would wait for prey to come along in the woods, we would spend our time throwing knives. Actually, we'd do a lot of stuff that involved learning the ways of different weapons. Once again, having a hunting partner who's mastered in an ancient fighting style comes in handy in surviving the cruel ways of Panem. We thought that it would be good if we were able to protect ourselves better and learn a new skill for the future. Especially if we were oh-so unfortunate to be picked for the Hunger Games.
To be fully honest, I wasn't expecting the hit to be that good. But hey! Practice makes perfect, I guess.
I turn around and come to find that Gobber, Gia, and Tooth look at me as if I'd just frown a second head.
"Impressive." The drunk man replies finally, a smirk creeping up his tremendous overbite.