Gobber turns to Gia and gives her a quick up and down.
"Stand over 'ere. Both o' ye." He demands us.
We both obey again, but give each other a quick glance, sharing our confusion with Gobber's new interest. We stand side by side as the man circles us, all the while poking at us, squeezing our muscles, checking our faces. I watch him like a hawk, snarling warningly when he goes to grab my bicep.
"Oh, shut it, ya wee baby!" Gobber sneers before squeezing my arm a little too hard.
I hold back a roar and chuff through my nostrils.
I feel like a piece of merchandise that's on sale and Gobber's out looking for something worth his time and efforts.
Said man takes a step back and pulls up his sagging trousers.
"Well, yer both fit, that's good." Says Gobber. "And yer not ugly, but once the stylists ge' a hold of ye, yer'll look decent enou'."
Wow. The guy can really make you feel special.
"Then what?" I ask harshly.
"Then I'll figure ou' wha' to do wit' ye two." He says.
My mind reels at his change of attitude. Not barely five minutes ago he was acting like a drunk who didn't give a damn about anything. But now he looks at us like we might actually have a chance. That maybe we, I, have a chance.
The idea makes me smile inwardly.
"But there's a catch." He says pointing a finger at us.
My mental smile flips into a frown.
Well, I should've seen that one coming.
"If yer don't mess wit my drinkin, then I'll stay sober enou' to help yer." He says with a crooked grin. "And if yer don' want to find yerself stranded in te arena, I sighed' yer stay on my good' side. Got i'?" He adds, directing his cold eyes to me as well as his words.
We both nod our heads in agreement, me more reluctant to. Gobber reaches over, now satisfied with our terms and conditions, and grabs the bottles once again and heads out the door he came through. Gia and I stand there in silence for an awkwardly long time, neither of us sure what to do next.
"Well, that was invigorating." Tooth speaks up with her hands on her hips, still fluttering a foot in the air, the motion of her wings breezing over my mane. She looks and sounds just as confused as us.
Later on, we decide to watch the reaping recaps, or more specifically, Tooth decides for us. Tooth leads the way to a lavish living area with a giant tv suspended in mid air. We watch one by one the different tributes that step up to the stage on the curved, flat screen. First it's District 1, then District 2, and so on. I keep in mind the ones that'll most likely be the most dangerous and threatening. A monster of a man from District 1 steps up, practically overflowing with pride. He wears a smug grin that for some strange reason, makes me feel anger at the sight. A fox girl from District 3 with mischievous eyes and a sleek, blazing coat of red fur. A boy from District 8 with a bad leg.
Tribute after tribute, child after child. They all walk, or stumble, up the staircase. Some nearly brawl for the spotlight in the higher districts. Others, not so much.
Angry fire suddenly ignites in my chest when a small girl is called up the stage for District 11. She has brown skin and amazing green eyes that are partly hidden behind a curtain of short, curly hair. She can't be older than twelve.
In most districts, or so were told, it's considered unfair that a mere child is forced to go through this torture. But rules are rules, and there's nothing we can do about it.
Then we watch our own district. Marty being called up, me running through the crowds and volunteering, me stepping up to the stage and watching as Gia soon follows. Out of it all, I cringe at the sight of myself looking so mortified yet, thankfully, determined.
Thank goodness. I have to give myself some credit for that, right? I could've looked a lot worse.
Afterwards, we go our separate ways and I enter my room. I rub at my tired eyes, explosions of red green and blue fizzing on the back of my eyelids. When I open them all I see is a dim blur of the furniture. Unfortunately, it's still as disgustingly clean and fashionable as it was before. My eyes find the small box of cookies that I was given and like the collision of two race cars crashing into each other, I remember every event from today and my stomach sinks.
How could I have forgotten about everyone? How could I have been so easily deceived into the flamboyant delicacies of the Capitol and betray my district by indulging in them so willingly? How can I be so weak and give into the temporary fantasy of good food and hot showers and forget my friends and family who are still suffering a hundred miles away?!
This is exactly what the Capitol wants: to make me forget about the ones closest to me by throwing me into the comfortable, fabulous lifestyle of the rich before being sent to slaughter. Like giving a sheep sugar cubes before slicing off its head.
This is sick!
I snatch the box of cookies off the bed and fling it across the room. The contents burst on impact, spilling bits of cardboard and cookie all over the floor with a muted crash.
No more. I will no longer forget where I've come from and who I am. I will no longer forget my friends and family who await my performance in the Games. I will no longer give into the Capitol's twisted ways of tricking tributes into ease.
Without even changing, I crawl under the thick blanket of my bed and settle in for the night, still fuming. My bed back in District 12 is a joke compared to this bad boy. Winning by a landslide. The comforter is thick and fluffy, as if it's sewn with clouds. My head sinks into the pillow, enveloping my cranium in a comforting warmth. My fiery unintentionally summers down as drowsiness takes over.
If there was ever a time to cry my eyes out, now would be it, you know, since I'm alone and I've basically been ripped away from my friends and family and sentenced to be executed on live TV. But no tears come. My tear ducts are as dry as a desert. And trust me when I say I want to cry. I want to bawl and howl with snot and all of that jazz. I want to cry till I make myself sick. I want to cry till I fall asleep.