Chapter Six
"So, Dyson, are you enjoying your time in the Capitol?"
Dyson paused to consider how he should answer Caesar's question. In his case, the honest answer was that he was not enjoying himself in the least, that he would sooner be back in District 5 with his friends and family than here trying to impress people who would shortly be baying for his blood. His biggest fear had always been that he would end up in the Hunger Games; that was why he'd developed his little ritual of telling himself he just had to hang on until he outgrew the reaping and then he would be all right. This had worked for his first three reapings, but at his fourth his luck had run out. And, by this time tomorrow, he could be dead. The Capitol sucked and so did pretty much everyone in it.
But he couldn't say all this. The Capitol had a history of making examples of those who said or did anything to oppose them, especially victors. Of course, he was at present a long way from being a victor, but if he won the Games after having made seditious remarks on live TV, there was no telling what the consequences would be for himself and for his family.
"To be honest, I've been too busy training for the Games to think about enjoying myself." A safe answer, one which was neither positive nor negative. "Besides," he added, "I haven't seen any part of the Capitol apart from the inside of the Training Centre since the tribute parade." Unless he counted the view from his bedroom window, but he tried to avoid looking through it as much as possible; it only served to remind him that he and the other twenty-three tributes were prisoners here, that only one of them would still be alive in a few weeks' time, that he was unlikely to be that one.
"Ah, yes, the tribute parade," said Caesar. "And was that you and your partner I saw with lightning bolts coming out of your heads?"
A rhetorical question since everyone in Panem knew District 5 was responsible for generating the nation's electricity, but Dyson replied anyway. "Yes, it was."
"I thought so. With costumes like that, you couldn't come from any district other than 5. An Adonis and Candida creation, wasn't it?"
"That's right. Adonis is my stylist; Candida is Astra's. But you probably know that already." Dyson stole a glance at Astra, who sat with the other tributes, her face a picture of relief now that her interview was over. At the same time, the cameras turned in the direction of District 5's stylists, giving those watching at home a close-up of Adonis's blue Mohican and Candida's lavender bubble perm. Both made a big show of standing up in their seats and waving and bowing to the audience, only sitting back down when the cameras returned their gaze to Caesar and Dyson.
"The stylists for District 5!" Caesar acknowledged Adonis and Candida, then turned back to the boy he was interviewing. "Now, Dyson, you got the lowest training score of this year's tributes. Do you think that's going to affect your chances going into the Games?"
Dyson shrugged as if the three he had received was no big deal. "Well, high-scoring tributes don't always win. Besides, for all you know, I did badly on purpose." He recalled his session with the Gamemakers, deliberately missing the targets he threw the spears at in order to get a low score and avoid being seen as competition. "Not that I'm allowed to tell you anything else," he added, miming the act of pulling a zip shut across his lips.
"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," said Caesar. "In the meantime, I'm positively dying to know who's rooting for you back in 5. Do you have anyone special you're trying to get home to?"
At the mention of the word "special", Dyson's mind went straight to Paula, recalling how he had suddenly found himself becoming attracted to her just when she and Trent had come to say goodbye after the reaping, how she had given him her crescent moon pendant as a token, how she had kissed him on the cheek. He could almost feel that kiss, his first from a girl and possibly his last - unless he could survive the Games and the odds of him doing that were not in his favour.
"Well, there is this one girl," he replied, acutely aware of the same fluttering sensation he'd felt back in the Justice Building. "Paula Saxon. We've been friends since we were five, us and her twin brother. Only, when they came to see me after the reaping . . ." He paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. ". . . I found myself looking at her in a way I never had before, like she was more than a friend. But I told myself to forget it because I knew we'd probably never see each other again . . ." He trailed off, wondering once again why he'd suddenly become aware of how attractive Paula was when it was too late to do anything about it. If he'd noticed her earlier . . .
"Never say never," said Caesar. "I bet you've got it in you to win these Games and then you and Paula can live happily ever after." Unless Paula became a fatality of the Games in the next three years, but he avoided mentioning that. The idea of a tribute fighting to get back to the girl he loved was just the sort of thing that went down well in the Capitol. No sense in spoiling it by reminding people that, even if the boy survived his Games, there would be no happy ending unless the girl either became a victor herself or escaped the reaping altogether. "Now, we still have a little time left," he added. "So who else is waiting for you?"
"My parents and Tia - she's my kid sister and she can be rather annoying, but I wouldn't want anything to happen to her." Dyson mentally added such as getting reaped, but did not say this out loud. "Oh, and Paula's brother, Trent. Like I said, we've known each other since we were kids and I hope we'll be friends for many more years to come." The interview continued until the buzzer sounded to signal that Dyson's three minutes were up, that it was time for him to make way for Monica.
Dressed in a maroon gown, Monica took her seat opposite Caesar. The District 6 girl presented herself as determined to do whatever it took to get home to her widowed mother and her ten-year-old sister, Amelia, with whom she lived in a rundown tenement. "But, if I can win, we'll be able to escape all that," she said. "That's why I claimed tesserae as soon as I was old enough. Mom didn't want me to, but what else could I do? Dad had died about six months before and her job in the workshops barely pays enough to make ends meet. So, since we needed the extra rations anyway, I went to the Justice Building and signed up." She'd had to renew her claim every year since, meaning she'd had a total of twenty-four entries in this year's reaping, six because she was now seventeen years old and that was the minimum number allowed for her age, plus another eighteen for tesserae for herself, her mother and Amelia. And one of those twenty-four entries had been drawn by District 6's escort.
Dyson was just wondering if, had he been born in one of the poorer districts, he would have been prepared to increase his chances of ending up in the Games in exchange for extra grain and oil, not that it mattered, when the buzzer went off to mark the end of Monica's interview. She returned to her seat next to him as Axle, who wore a white shirt and black trousers, made his way across the stage towards Caesar, followed in turn by Lara, Xylon, Pleat, Linus, Valerie and Glean, though none of their interviews made much impression on Dyson. Then it was the turn of the girl tribute from District 10, twelve-year-old Tallulah.
The smallest tribute in the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games attracted a chorus of "aahs" as she walked across the stage. Her stylist had put her in a pale pink dress trimmed with lace and tied a matching ribbon in her hair, making her look like a china doll come to life. Indeed, many of the wealthy Capitol citizens who watched as Tallulah sat down in the interviewee's chair, her feet barely touching the floor, thought she was by far the cutest of this year's tributes. And, despite knowing the odds were against her, several were already seriously considering backing her, if only for the large windfall they would receive in the unlikely event that she managed to win.
Tallulah spent the next three minutes chatting amiably with Caesar; her mentor had clearly decided to present her as a friendly girl one couldn't help but love, not that there were many other angles she could pull off convincingly. She was too small to be a powerful fighter, too cute to be taken seriously as a ruthless killer. But she did have the advantage of being able to get into hiding places too small for most of the other tributes which might give her an edge, albeit a slim one. And, if she could attract some good sponsors, she would never have to want for anything in the arena; she could wait out the Games, hiding and living off supplies delivered to her by parachute. In theory, at least. In practice, very few tributes had won using this strategy and none of them had been twelve years old.
"Is there anyone you'd like to say hello to back home?" Caesar asked when Tallulah's time was almost up.
"Yes, my little brother. His name's Walter and he's six years old." She thought of him back in District 10, sitting between their parents on the threadbare couch, watching the interviews on the old television which rarely had a decent picture. "Hi, Walter!" she called, waving at the camera. "You be good for Mama and Papa! I'll see you real soon!" Before she could think about the fact that she was unlikely to be able to keep this promise, the buzzer went, sending her back to her seat among the tributes.
One by one, the remaining five tributes went up to Caesar. Randall, Mallow, Husk, Stoke and Cormac. Again, Dyson took in very little of the content of their interviews, apart from when Cormac was asked what he felt his chances were of winning the Games, or at least making it to the latter stages. The District 12 boy, dressed in an ash grey suit, answered without hesitation. "Hopefully better than they usually are; my district's had too many tributes go out early as it is." One of the grim statistics of the Hunger Games was that District 12 had had the fewest tributes make it into the final eight, just six in the past sixty-seven years and only two of those six had gone on to win. "But I'm going to change all that," Cormac went on. "I'm going into the arena tomorrow - and I'm not coming out until I'm the last tribute standing."
"Well, good luck with that," said Caesar. At that moment, the buzzer sounded to mark the end of Cormac's time in the spotlight. "And that concludes the pre-Games interviews," he added as Cormac rejoined his fellow tributes and all twenty-four stood for the national anthem. "But, if you want to see our tributes in action, tune in at ten o'clock tomorrow morning for the start of the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games!"
Not that the citizens of Panem would have any choice in the matter. The Hunger Games, especially important events like the opening day, were mandatory viewing and had been for nearly sixty years.
Dyson sighed and turned over, attempting to fall asleep. He knew he had to be well rested for tomorrow, but his mind just wouldn't shut off no matter how hard he tried to ignore the thoughts running through his head. Thoughts of the family and friends he had left behind in District 5. Thoughts of what his fate might be in the next few weeks. Murdered by one or more of his fellow tributes. Torn apart by whatever mutts the Capitol planned to unleash on the tributes this year. Caught in one of the Gamemakers' deadly traps. Holed up somewhere in the arena, dying from exposure and starvation. His face being projected into the sky, announcing his death to any tributes who were still alive.
Crap. He didn't want to die.
But there was no escaping the Games once you had been reaped; all you could do was try to stay alive as long as possible. Trouble was, there were twenty-three other tributes who wanted to do the same and only one could survive. Only one of the kids in the Training Centre would see their home district again and the odds were that it wouldn't be him. Why did Janus have to draw his name at the reaping? Why did . . .?
A light rapping on the door cut through his thoughts and he sat up, switching on the light on his bedside table. Who could it be? It couldn't possibly be Rik; he and Piper had already gone to the Games Headquarters where they and the other mentors, plus most of the victors who weren't mentoring this year, would be stationed while the Games were on. And Janus had gone with them, so it couldn't be him either. Adonis? Dyson recalled being told that his stylist would accompany him as far as the underground room from which he would be launched into the arena, but surely it couldn't be time to leave already.
The knocking came again, this time accompanied by the voice of the knocker. "Dyson? You in there?" A young female voice with a District 5 accent. Astra. So she couldn't sleep either, not that he blamed her considering where they were going tomorrow morning. And the fact that no tribute under fourteen had ever left the arena alive must be weighing on her mind in spite of her promise to her sister. She must have come seeking reassurance, but he wasn't sure how much he would be able to give. What could you say to a thirteen-year-old who would probably be dead in a few days?
Even so, Dyson got out of bed and crossed the room in his bare feet. After all, he probably didn't have long to live himself, so what harm could comforting his district partner on the last night before the Games do? He opened the door to reveal her standing in the corridor, dressed in satin pyjamas, her strawberry blonde hair framing her face. "Hey," he said. "You OK?" He knew it was a stupid question - of course she wouldn't be OK tonight of all nights and neither would most of the other tributes - but he couldn't think of anything else to say.
She shook her head. "I keep thinking about tomorrow."
"I know; it's been playing on my mind too." Dyson opened the door wider. "Want to come in?"
Astra and Dyson ended up sitting together on the latter's bed, not speaking, just giving each other the human company they desperately needed on what could be the last night they ever saw. Until Astra abruptly broke the silence. "Dyson?"
"Hmm?"
"I was wondering . . ." Astra paused to consider how best to phrase what she wanted to say. ". . . would you be my ally in the arena?"
Dyson looked at her speechlessly. Though they had spent the last few days in close proximity, they had always trained separately and the same had been true of their interview prep. He'd had no idea she might want to form an alliance with him; as far as he was concerned, both of them would be going it alone in the arena. Better that than teaming up with her only to have to face the prospect of having to kill her later. Especially when she wasn't much older than Tia. "And what does Piper say?" he asked her after several seconds had elapsed.
"She said I should keep away from everyone, including you. But I don't want to be alone in there." Of course, Astra would have preferred not to be going into the arena at all, but her name had been called at the reaping, no-one had been willing to volunteer for her and here she was, in the Capitol with the start of the Games only hours away. "So I thought, if we teamed up, at least we'd be able to look out for each other," she went on. "Even if it was only for a little while."
Dyson had to admit that her suggestion about looking out for each other had some merit. Having watched the Games all his life, he knew having an ally could be useful, especially when it came to staying alive. At least until there were only a few tributes left, at which point you had to face the possibility that the Games might come down to you and your ally. The last thing he wanted was to find himself in that position. Still, the odds were against him and Astra both making it that far, so maybe he could avoid the dilemma. Besides, it would be nice to have some company in the arena, though he would have to be careful not to get too attached to her. And he would also have to remember that, when it came to the Hunger Games, none of your fellow tributes could be completely trusted, not even your district partner. For all he knew, she was planning to stab him in the back - literally.
Even so, looking at her right now, it was hard to see her as anything other than a scared child, a thirteen-year-old girl about to be thrust into a deadly game which she had little hope of winning. This, plus the fact that an alliance with a fellow tribute could, up to a point, be mutually beneficial, was what prompted him to hold his hand out to her. "So we're allies then?"
"Allies." Astra took his hand and shook it, the traditional gesture of tributes forming an alliance. For better or for worse, the tributes from District 5 were a team now, pledged to watch out for each other in the arena - until death or a decision by one or both of them to go their separate ways ended their partnership. They had no way of predicting how long their alliance would last, but knowing they would not have to face the Games alone made both of them feel slightly better about what awaited them tomorrow.
Just after the sun had risen over the Capitol, Dyson was roused from a light slumber by Adonis breezing into his room. Opening his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that Astra was gone; someone must have taken her back to her own room, where Candida must have come to wake her up to get ready for the journey to the arena. The arena. The place which twenty-four would enter, but only one would leave alive. And, Dyson knew as he dressed in the plain white shorts and t-shirt he would wear until he was issued with his tribute outfit, the odds of him being that one survivor were slim. Especially compared to the Careers, all of whom had spent their lives training for the Games.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing except follow Adonis into the elevator.
Adonis pressed the button for the twelfth floor and the elevator was swiftly carried upwards, taking stylist and tribute with it. Seconds later, the doors opened on District 12's quarters which, Dyson noted as Adonis led him towards a door at the far end, had the same layout as District 5's. A living room with plush furniture and a television in the corner. A dining room dominated by a mahogany table and chairs. Bedrooms for the tributes, their escort and their mentors . . . no, mentor; District 12's only living victor was Haymitch Abernathy, not that he ever did their tributes any good. He rarely managed to pull any sponsors and was frequently too drunk to take notice of what was happening in the arena. And it didn't help that, unlike Rik who had Aurora and Piper to act as his partners, Haymitch was forced to mentor two tributes single-handed. Two tributes who invariably ended up dead.
Reaching the door, Adonis guided Dyson through it and up a flight of stairs which led to the roof. The latter contained a beautiful garden, but Dyson was given no time to admire it before a hovercraft appeared as if from nowhere and a ladder dropped down. Taking hold of the rungs, Dyson felt a jolt of electricity which completely immobilised him as he was lifted off the roof and into the hovercraft, where a man in a white coat injected something into his forearm. His tracking device. From now on, the Gamemakers would be able to tell where he was and even whether he was alive or dead.
He was on his way to the arena.
