Everett Reed, 17
District 9 Male
After roughly four hours laying awake in his bed after spending the evening curled up under a table does not make someone feel good.
Everett is pretty sure he looks like death itself, too—dark rings under his eyes, half shut eyelids, sagging shoulders. He's dragging his feet across the Training Floor, wondering what to do with his morning. The private sessions are this afternoon, and he has next to no idea what to do during them.
Everett is someone who likes to have a plan. He doesn't like going into things blind, whether the plan he haphazardly put together is good or not. As long as he has something to go off of, some semblance of a plan to follow, he'll be okay.
To Everett, the last thing that he has on his mind is the private sessions. He has to admit that he isn't particularly skilled with much. Well, he can use a scythe. That would be a good place to start.
So, a new purpose in his step, Everett makes his way toward the weapons station and picks up the only scythe they have on hand. The brand new, never used metal feels strange in his hands. After all, nothing in District 9 is ever new.
Despite this, Everett finds himself nostalgic for home. For everything—the very little—that he had, the endless pile of things to do. He could never run out back home.
Yet here, there is little to occupy his mind that doesn't involve the coming death match, the fact that Tricia and Tanner could be starving right now and he would never know, the inexplicable loneliness and—what is it? Guilt? Remorse? Sadness? Whatever it is, it's no emotion Everett has ever encountered before, and he can't say he's too fond of it.
And that thing, that thing he can't name, it's practically eating him alive. It has something to do with last night, he can tell that—but what it is, he has no clue.
But it may have something to do with the three people condemned to death, only one name that he knows, but there's three of them nonetheless. There's nothing he can do about it, but at the same time…he wishes there was. He wishes he didn't feel quite as powerless as he is. Yet he knows he needs to worry about himself, first—he can worry about the other tributes once he's a Victor and they're…uh, dead. They'd be dead then.
Everett shifts the weight of the scythe from one hand to the other. The shiny blade stares back at him, showing a reflection he'd rather not see. There's nothing about his reflection that scares him, necessarily, but it is not a welcome sight either.
He swipes the scythe at one of the dummies in front of him; a deep gash opens in its manila-colored chest, which instantly begins to spill stuffing.
All the while, his eyes constantly gravitate toward Geo, the name he knows, the face he knows, the fate he knows. The boy in question is trying and failing to make his way through the agility course, unknowing of everything.
Everett's eyes dance on Geo's back for another moment before he turns his attention back to his work. He never gets distracted. That's something he can pride himself on—laser focus, never breaking, always working. Always working.
Yet, some way, somehow, he is allowing someone who should be of no consequence to him distract him. He needs every second he has right now. He can't afford for any distractions.
Time begins to swirl past him, seconds crawling into minutes, and eventually walking into an entire hour. He just keeps attacking the already-messed up dummies mercilessly until his arms ache and his muscles burn.
That's when he first hears someone talking.
"Do you suppose it's worth it? He doesn't exactly seem like the poster-child of trustworthiness."
"I mean…yer the boss so…I guess it's up ta you."
"I just don't want to make such big decisions without the okay from everyone."
"Come on, Calista. Shad and Ottilie ain't going to agree to anythin'."
"I suppose you have a point."
Everett discreetly glances over his shoulder, and, what does he behold but Calista and Bayou standing off to the side talking in low voices? And, of course, their eyes are on him—very clearly discussing him.
Not only does that worry Everett immensely, but it confuses him. What business do the Careers have with him? He's not exactly Career material, now is he?
"Where's the harm in asking?"
"Did ya not see the boy from 3 get decked yesterday? Alliances are…dangerous."
"They absolutely are, but we can still ask."
"Well, okay, but if you get a concussion…yer the one ta blame."
"Alright, if I get punched in that by that, then you can say "I told you so." Deal?"
"…deal."
Everett swings the scythe half-heartedly, slicing the arm off of the least-destroyed dummy. It quietly drops to the ground with a soft thud. A moment later, snowflakes of dummy filling start to drift toward the ground, piling up beside the cloth arm.
"Hey, 9."
It takes a great deal of will to make Everett look up and meet Calista's eyes. It's not because he's scared of her; quite the opposite, in fact. No, it's more because Everett doesn't want to be associated with the Career Pack, especially not with how they're doing this year. He has no reason to get roped up in that whole mess and has no obligation to do so.
"So, we were wondering if you'd like to join our alliance?" Calista asks, obviously faking whatever tone of voice she's doing. It's another emotion Everett isn't sure he can name. "We'd kind of like to get all of the strongest tributes together, you know? We can really dominate the arena and—"
"If that's what you're going for, why are you keeping the girl from 4?"
Calista, with an unimpressed look on her face, says, "Yes. Well. Do you want in or not?"
"I'm gonna have to go with not," Everett says in reply, hefting the scythe and placing it back on its ledge. "Besides, I've got someone else in mind."
Calista, still looking unimpressed, shrugs and says, "Well, you'd better act fast then. Have fun."
"Oh, I will." Everett watches her go, his gaze effortlessly shifting to Geo, sitting alone on a bench.
For peace of mind.
Geo Stryker, 15
District 12 Male
Geo just can't shake the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong. Aside from his possibly-impending death, that is. But he gets the odd feeling that something else is peeking over the horizon, perhaps jeering at him and tempting him to peer over and take a look.
Or, perhaps it has manifested itself in the form of the tribute currently marching toward him.
"Hey, Geo, yes?"
"O-oh…uhm, yeah. What's…up?" He should have said "how it's going". Everett…Everett probably hates him now because he stammered too much and looks too sweaty and has an annoying voice and he doesn't know what kind of person Everett likes and what if he's being too nice? What if he's not being nice enough and Everett already hates him and there's no going back? What if he did something wrong before Everett even decided to speak to him? What if Everett's only here to yell at him about how terrible he is and how quickly he's going to die in the Games? Having someone hating you in the Games is extremely dangerous especially someone like Everett because Geo saw Everett with that scythe and he doesn't want him to kill him and he doesn't want any enemies but it might be too late to fix it and he might have just signed his own death warrant—
"Nothing," Everett say, clasping his hands behind his back. "So. I came to ask you if you would like to ally."
It's amazing how it only takes a few simple words for Geo's entire world to come crashing in.
"Y-you want to…to ally with—me?" Geo stammers, the words quietly stumbling out of his mouth as if in a drunken stupor, seeming to make little sense and only reinforcing the idea in Geo's mind that Everett is only talking to him out of pity. "W-why?"
"I mean, why not?" Everett says, too quickly. "I'd like an ally. You look lonely."
"I m-mean I-I-I'm not—not really too lonely. I don't—don't r-really like people." Geo stares at the ground, trying to decide if eye contact is better or not. Does Everett like eye contact? Does he think it's disrespectful to not meet his eyes? Or does he prefer for his inferiors to not look at him when they're talking? What does Everett want because Geo is definitely doing it wrong and Everett clearly already hates him and he fucked up he fucked up he fucked up—
"Well…if you don't want to ally, you can just say so." Everett starts to walk away, his hands in his pockets.
Geo startles and jumps to his feet. "Oh! Oh, n-no, you don't have to—to go! We can—we can t-totally ally!"
"Um. Okay." Everett turns back around, returning to Geo with an unsure look on his face. "Look, if you're going through some things right now and would rather not have any allies, that's just fine. You don't have to."
For all Geo wants to please people, he really doesn't like them very much. Right now, isolation is probably the way to go but…Everett asked which means that Everett is the one Geo needs to please. And the only way to please him is to agree to his alliance.
"No, no, seriously, we can—we can be allies. I don't—I don't mind," Geo says, trying to force his voice to stay steady. The stress of being here has just fucked over everything, hasn't it?
"Okay," Everett says, sitting down the bench uncertainly. After a moment, Geo sits back down, making sure to stay far enough away from Everett so they aren't touching. "What are you planning to do in your Private Session?"
Geo shrugs. "I h-haven't really thought about it."
"I'm going for scythe-work, mostly," Everett says, wiping sweat off of his forehead. "I'm not sure what else, since obviously I can't spend the entire fifteen-minutes slashing at dummies with a blade."
"Y-yeah." Geo kicks his legs back and forth nervously; he's never liked talking to people he's just met. It's so much easier to figure out how to act when he knows what their personality is like…
He glances up at the dummies Everett destroyed earlier. A pair of Avoxes are carting them away, likely to replace them with new ones, but Geo can't get the image of them out of his head. Everett seems extremely powerful with his scythe—Geo just doesn't want to imagine the stuffing as blood and the cloth as skin. It's far too horrifying of a thought, and Geo is already stressed enough without worrying about what his ally could do to him if he stabbed him in the back.
His ally.
It's still a strange thought, and Geo knows it's going to take some getting used to. He doesn't trust Everett, not one bit, but the best he can do is pretend he does. Maybe Everett will be less likely to cut him to pieces if he thinks they are a team…
Because that's how the Games go, isn't it? Tribute A meets Tribute B. Tributes A and B decide to ally. Tributes launch into arena. Days pass. Tribute A betrays Tribute B and blood is shed.
(In this example, Geo would be Tribute B.)
Throughout all of Geo's life, he never thought he'd end up in the Hunger Games, let alone with an actual ally to call his own. He had always tried to not think about the Games too much—especially not the prospect of him competing in them—let alone what his strategy would be should it arise.
No, what he would do in the Hunger Games was the least of his worry. After all, he'd always been raised on the principle that it wouldn't be him. It wouldn't be him; it would be another nameless boy from the crowds of District 12 who would die in the Bloodbath like a good little outlier. It wouldn't be him; it would be the baker's son. It would be the shoemaker's boy. It would be the emaciated skeleton from the Seam. It would the shopkeeper's brother. It would be his best friend's cousin.
It wouldn't him. Geo had always thought it—no, he'd always believed it. He'd always believed that there would be another boy to die in his place, so he'd never really bothered to put thought to it.
Only now is Geo really realizing the consequences of that decision, when it's far too late to fix it.
And, for all Geo knows, he'll die for it.
Eris Rowan, 13
District 7 Female
All Eris wants is to keep her feet on the ground. Figuratively and literally.
She wants to keep her head on straight. She wants to keep her eyes facing forward. No, she needs to. She has to. She promised Vera and Erato and Erebus that she would do win. That everything would be better once she won. Now all she has to do is get from here to there—she just has to win.
She just has to win.
She can do that, right? That can't be too hard. She's just…thirteen-years-old…fighting against highly trained…eighteen-year-old…Careers…
Literally, she hardly feels confident enough to lift a foot off of the ground. It didn't help that Lyndie fell and broke her arm, just like Eris had. Except Lyndie had no one to break her fall—and Eris is afraid that she'll be next.
Everything that has been going on in the past few days has not made her confident. First, Lyndie breaks her arm. Then, Darwin gets punched in the face and given a concussion by another tribute. If these training days are anything to go off of, Eris will be lucky to make it out of the first five minutes, let alone for two weeks against highly trained eighteen-years-old and, possibly, her own allies.
Of course there are seeds of mistrust, even in an alliance of a bunch of little girls. Eris doesn't know if she can trust any of them. She knows how easy it is to lie and manipulate. What would make her allies any different than a tribute that she isn't planning to sleep next to? It's not as if any of her allies have given her a reason not to trust them, but it's still the Hunger Games! Only one of them survives!
And, for the record, it's going to be Eris.
She is not going to allow herself to lose. She may be fighting tribute that are…five times her size…but Eris isn't going to allow that stop her. She's never lost before, and she's not ready to give up her winning streak. She has a family to return to, a life she has to live.
But, there is a small voice in her head that calls her selfish.
But, Eris, don't your allies have families to return to as well? Have you not heard Lyndie talk about her many brothers, or Ashe talk about her parents? Don't they deserve to live just as much as you?
But Eris can't afford to listen. She has to block out that voice at all costs; she can't let it take root. She can't let herself prize the lives of her allies over her own. Her life should matter most to her. It's her life, damnit! Of course it should mean the most to her! Without it, what is she?
She's dead. And, sure, if she wins, Ashe and Ainsley and Lana and Lyndie will all be dead. But that's a price that, unfortunately, Eris is willing to pay. Is it selfish of her? Maybe. Isn't everyone entitled to be just a little bit selfish in the Hunger Games? Absolutely.
"Hey, Eris, you wanna go over to the climbing course with me? Maybe you can show me a few things about agility?" Ashe ends the proposition with a small laugh, as if they aren't currently in the situation that they find themselves stuck in.
"Oh…oh, I don't think you want me to help you. See, I'm not very good at climbing and I'd like to…"
"Aren't you from District 7?" Ainsley asks, swinging a piece of rope through the air. The knot-tying trainer begins to glare at her, but Ainsley only swings harder.
"Well…yeah, I am but…"
"Shouldn't you know how to climb, then?"
Eris squares her shoulders and glares at Ainsley. Good news, Platte—you're at the top of my distrust list. Right next to Shad Marcum, Afandina Hariri, and Navarro Lune. "Theoretically, yeah. But circumstantially…"
"So, you don't know how to climb?" Ashe asks.
"I guess not."
"Do you want to learn? I'm sure there's a trainer that can help—"
"I'd like to keep my feet on the ground, thank you very much," Eris snaps, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her glare on Ashe.
"Oh." Ashe glances down at the tangle of rope in her hands. "Do you want to come anyways? Maybe you can spot me—you know, so we don't have a repeat of Lyndie?" Ashe laughs a little bit, but it quickly trails off, making Eris hyper-aware of their situation once more. Ashe can look on the brightside all she wants, but it won't stop them from knowing what's coming—and what they're going to lose.
"I'll come," Eris concedes after a moment, slowly getting to her feet and leaving her rope where it was. What is even the point of tying knots? Sure, it feels good to have something to do with her hands, but what is the point? When in the arena is she going to do something worth while with her expansive knowledge of knots? What, is she going to kill someone by stuffing complicated knots down their throats?
"You're sure you don't want to come up with me?" Ashe asks as they arrive at the entry platform for the climbing course.
"I'm sure," Eris says. "I don't like heights."
"Ah," Ashe says. She grabs onto the first ladder rung, and then pauses. "You know, Eris, having a fear like that could be detrimental in the Games."
I don't trust you any further than I can throw you, Illyrian. "I'm aware."
"Me, personally, being up high feels empowering. I feel like there's nothing that could ever tear me down," Ashe says, stepping down from the ladder. "I feel like I'm on top of the world and nothing can ever hurt me again. I'm assuming you don't feel the same way."
"Absolutely not."
Ashe purses her lips. "I see being up high as being closer to the sky. To the stars. To the clouds. To the sun and the moon. I guess it kind of feels like I'm closer to the future…like there is nothing that can ever top me."
"How did you ever get there?" Eris asks. "I mean, how do you view as that? All I see is the possibility of falling again."
"I see—wait, did you say again?"
"No—no!" Eris stammers, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her vest. "That's not what I said. I just said the possibility of falling."
"Uh-huh," Ashe says skeptically. "Anyways…so, the prospect of falling is what scares you about heights?"
"Yeah."
"Well…what would happen if you were, say, in a completely sealed box, suspended in the air?"
"I could still fall."
"For the sake of this, you can't fall," Ashe says, leaning against the wall by the platform. "You are completely safe, but you're hanging in the air."
"I would…still fall."
"You're just paranoid," Ashe says. "I think it stems from whatever fall you experienced before—"
"I didn't fall before!" Eris exclaims defensively. She doesn't need Ashe knowing about that. She doesn't need Ashe knowing that she needs someone to break her fall.
"Right, right, whatever. It stems from you being afraid of a repeat of whatever happened before. I'm not a trained doctor—and I'm only fourteen—but…are you sure you don't have any kind of PTSD?"
Eris glares harshly at Ashe. "No, I don't!"
"Are you sure?" Ashe asks again.
"You know what? Thanks for your help and everything but I'm gonna go back to tying my very important knots now." Eris pivots on her feet and stalks back to the knot trying station, leaving Ashe standing alone at the entry for the climbing course. Serves her right, she thinks moodily. Does she have some kind of PTSD? Maybe. Is she far too prideful to admit to it? Yeah.
Eris can say it's just a silly childhood fear all the live long day, but eventually, she knows it's going to come back to bite her. The only question is when.
Wonder Hammerfort, 12
District 2 Male
(TW for implied past sexual/physical abuse)
Wonder has to admit it; he's kind of lonely.
Watching all of these alliances form, watching them being around each other, watching them talk and plan, day after day, has made him surprisingly nostalgic for home.
Well, not "home", per say. District 2 has never really felt like "home". More like "his place of birth and residence". The only place he ever knew Wake—the only place he ever found it in himself to be happy.
Wonder isn't really sure what being happy feels like anymore. After all, he'd been waiting for execution for several weeks when he was back in District 2, wasting away in the basement of the Justice Building. Sometimes, the executions that they held out front would go just right, and a trickle of blood would find its way into his cell. It would dance along the rivets in the tiles out front the Justice Building, on the same stage that the Reapings took place on, and eventually arrive at the tiny window near the ceiling of his cell. It would slowly make its merry way to the floor, where it would dry and remain a constant reminder of what was to come. Of course, the blood outside was always hosed off—District 2 may be the Military District, but even they aren't barbarians.
The object of Wonder's eye today has turned out to be the alliance of girls. He never bothered to learn all of their names, but he knows they wouldn't want him.
He gets to his feet and starts to wander; he already visited the few stations that interested him in the past two days, and now he has nothing left to do.
As he passes the knife-throwing station he notices the boy from 8. The boy has deadly accuracy—throwing nothing but knife after knife after knife at the moving targets, hitting time and time again.
The girls won't want him. But maybe 8 will?
Wonder takes a deep breath and taps the boy on his shoulder.
"What the fuck?" the boy yells, whirling around. Amazingly, one of the knives finds its way to Wonder's throat. The blade presses against his skin, making Wonder lean away from it and put his hands up in surrender. "Who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you want?"
"I'm. Um. Wonder, from 2. I was wondering if you'd like to ally with me?" Wonder says, lifting a hand to push the knife away from his throat.
"Fuck off."
"Oh," Wonder says, dejected yet unsurprised. "Okay."
He turns to leave, but suddenly feels the blade of a knife pressing against the top of his shoulder. He pivots quickly, looking at 8 with wild eyes. "What—what are you doing?"
8 lifts up the knife. "Please. It didn't even break the skin."
"Yeah, but—"
"I think I'd actually like to take you up on that offer," 8 says. And then his eyes turn dark, and he grabs Wonder's shirt and pulls him up to his face. "But here's the deal, Woodrow—I call the shots here, since I'm clearly the one with the capability to make decisions. You obey my orders without complaint and if you don't, I'll punish you how I sit fit. Got it, pretty boy?"
Fuck. He sounds like Yoldan.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He fucked up. He fucked up. He fucked up. He has to get out, has to get out, has to gET OUT—
Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Wonder turns tail and runs. He can't go back. He can't go back. He can't go back. He can't go back, not to District 2, not to Yoldan, not to Wake's lifeless gravestone and the blood that trickled down the wall in his cell and the threat of execution and the hell that he lived he can't go back he can't go back he can't go back—
Suddenly Wonder snaps back to reality with a slam, finding himself tucked in the shadows between the wall and the platforms for the climbing course. His breathing is fast and ragged, his entire back heaving with the effort to continue taking in air. His hands are tangled in his hair, and his eyes won't stop darting around, from place to place to place, never lingering for longer than a second.
Right outside of his hidey-hole, a pair of feet appear, making him jump violently.
An entire body quickly joins the pair of shoes. He watches their feet start to get smaller until he can read the number pinned to their back—11. After a moment, 11 notices Wonder over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows at him. They stare at each other for a moment before 11 keeps walking, shaking his head as he disappears around the corner.
Yoldan is dead, Wonder reminds himself. He's dead and he's the reason that you're here. Be grateful. The only reason you got to live the last few months of your life in relative peace is because of Rupert, who quickly became one particular trickle of blood—the only one that Wonder could ever identify.
Wonder is once again rudely snapped out of his thoughts by the sight of 8 racing around the Training Floor, clearly searching for him.
It makes his breathing quicken again, to the point where he's nearly hyperventilating. 11 noticed him, so what's to stop 8 from doing the same? Wonder tries to quickly scoot further back into the shadows, but 8 notices him all the same.
8 appears quickly, blocking Wonder's only exit and once again grabbing onto Wonder's shirt. He forces them to be face-to-face once again, their noses almost touching. "What the fuck, you little bitch? You really thought you could run away from me? I got knives, bitch, and I ain't afraid to use them." As if to accentuate his point, he twirls the knife in his free hand in a circle.
Wonder does nothing but stare at him and hyperventilate. He had always learned as a child to just take it—whatever they did to you would be no worse than what they did if you resisted.
"What, you're not even going to say anything? God, you're more pathetic than Travis."
Wonder gets the feeling that that should be some kind of terrible insult, but seeing as his doesn't know who Travis is, all he does is stare some more.
"God, say something, you little bitch!" 8 cries, throwing Wonder against the side of the climbing course platform. He presses the blade of the knife against Wonder's forehead, making a small cut above his eyebrows.
A tiny trickle of blood drips into Wonder's eye, a tiny dot of red against the gray backdrop of the Training Floor. His fight-or-flight instincts start going wild, but he can't move; there's a knife to his forehead, which if pressed hard enough could literally kill him.
8 digs the blade in further, and suddenly several Peacekeepers are there, pulling 8 off and restraining him against the wall. He trashes and screeches while Wonder starts there, dumbfounded, until one of the Peacekeepers inserts a needle into 8's neck and his body goes limp.
One of the Peacekeepers approaches Wonder, probably to take him the Medic's Station. Wonder's eyes widen again and he takes off running, stumbling across the Training Floor in search of a new place to hide. He doesn't know where to go; all he knows is that he can't stay here.
He can't go back. He can't go back to the ghosts of Yoldan and Wake and Rupert. He can't return to the hell that was supposed to be his home, yet somehow, he has to.
Ainsley Platte, 14
District 9 Female
"Hey, Ainsley? Can we talk for a minute?"
"Sure," Ainsley says without looking up from her knot of ropes.
Lana drops onto the floor in front of Ainsley, her hands nervously twisting a piece of twine. "So, do you know anything about Capitolite movie directors?"
"What kind of question is that?" Ainsley says, still uninterested as she unties her newest knot, noting that her rope is starting to fray.
"Well, see, back home, we were writing these essays in school…"
"That's what you're focusing on right now?" Ainsley says, lifting an eyebrow, her gaze still trained on her hands. "We're all going to be fighting for our lives in a few days, and you're choosing to obsess over an essay about movie directors? Even if you get back, why in Panem would they still make you write some stupid essay?"
Honestly, that's one of the biggest draws for Ainsley. If she wins, she'll never have to spend another minute in that Panem-forsaken school. She'll never have to take another quiz on how to identify types of grain, or go on field trips to a random wheat field. She'll never have to work another day in her life. She'll never have to so much as look at another scythe.
It sounds so wonderful. She'll be there soon, she promises herself. But before she can get there, she has to do the hard part—she has to kill someone, she has to spend possibly weeks trapped in an arena.
But she'll be there soon. After all, she can't take the alternative.
"Planning that essay is taking my mind off of things. Speaking of which, do you know what the formula to calculate how long it would take for a ball thrown in the air to reach the ground again? We were just talking about it in my math class and I'm totally spacing on the formula." Lana idly swirls a finger around on her arm, making some unknown, invisible design.
"No," Ainsley snaps. "They stopped teaching math and english in school years ago."
Lana sighs, still drawing designs in her skin with her fingernails. "I miss home."
"Great," Ainsley says. She's well aware of the fact that in order for Lana to make it home, she would be dead. But, she decides to humor her. "I do too."
"What's District 9 like?" Lana asks. "I've heard it's beautiful right before harvest."
Ainsley shrugs. "It's grain. Just endless fields of wheat and barley and soy."
"You know, I've always thought I'd be better off in an agricultural District," Lana comments. "Endless fields of grain sound pretty good to me."
"Each to their own," Ainsley says with another shrug. "So, what are you going to do in your Private Session?"
Ainsley herself already has her plan down to a T; she spent a little bit more than hour yesterday memorizing the answers to the plant identification test, so as long as she doesn't completely fuck it up, she'll score a one-hundred on that. She already practiced on the agility course yesterday as well, making sure that her movements are fluid and graceful. She would throw a weapon in as well, but her goal is to have a formidable score without making herself a target.
It may sound terrible, but Ainsley would much rather watch Shad or Scoria slaughter Lana and Lyndie than herself. As long as she doesn't have to do it herself, it's just one less person Ainsley has to cut down in order to get home.
"I'm going to do some injury treating and shelter-building," Lana answers. "You?"
Ainsley pauses for a moment. "I'm not sure. But I'm sure I'll think of something."
"I'm sure you will," Lana agrees. "So you really don't know anything about Capitolite movie directors?"
"I already said no," says Ainsley, starting to get slightly annoyed. "And I don't know any formulas either."
"Thanks anyways," Lana says.
God, how you can be so nice? Ainsley asks herself. It just doesn't make sense. They're all going to be facing off in a death match in less than forty-eight hours, and Lana's still here thanking Ainsley and telling her everything. Angels don't last long in the arena, honey.
"I don't mean to get all existential on you or anything, but…how do you think we're going to fair in the Games?" Lana asks, her voice nervous and quiet. "I've been doing my best to keep it out of my mind but…"
"I don't know," Ainsley says. She would love to say "Well, I'm going to win and you're going to die", but even Ainsley isn't that horrible. Besides, she can tell herself that all the live long day, but she only has so many chances. Ainsley herself can only do so much, and she hates it.
"I think we're gonna be okay," says Lana. "I think we're gonna be okay."
"Whatever you say," Ainsley says, getting to her feet. "Look, can we just continue this conversation some other time? I've got better things to do than stand here listening to you and your optimism."
"Oh," Lana murmurs. "Um, sorry for…bothering you, I guess."
Ainsley stalks off, still twisting her rope around in her hands. She stops several feet away from the station, staring off into space as her hands work the fraying twine into a new type of knot.
Sometimes she wonders if putting her trust into her allies is a good idea. Well, not exactly "trust". She doesn't "trust" her allies. At least, she trusts them enough to not slit her throat while she sleeps at night, but she certainly wouldn't put her life in their hands.
Okay, so maybe that's a bad example. By falling asleep by them, she is putting her life in their hands. But say she was tied to a bomb and you had to cut one of two wires to disarm it. Ainsley certainly wouldn't expect one of her allies to cut the wire that would save her life.
Lana would, Ainsley thinks, crossing her arms and letting the rope dangle from her grip. Lyndie would. Eris probably would too. But what about Ashe?
Out of all of her allies, Ainsley probably trusts Ashe the most. Lyndie and Lana are too nice—maybe they would stupidly give up their lives for Ainsley's, but it doesn't mean anything to her. They don't trust her; they rely on her. She's their ally, which they would sacrifice themselves for out of obligation and naivety alone. Eris is untrustworthy, no doubt about it. Ainsley wouldn't trust Eris to look after a pet rock. But Ashe is strange. It's not that Ainsley thinks that Ashe won't kill her if the need arises; she thinks she absolute will, as would anyone else in their situation.
But Ainsley would trust Ashe to watch her back if they were walking in the dark. She would trust that Ashe won't run off if she sees the Careers before Ainsley does.
Lyndie and Lana are naïve. Eris is a loose cannon. But Ashe is different. And Ainsley is afraid that she'll die for it.
Quinn Bayers, 17
District 11 Male
"Tributes, please make your way to the waiting room to your left. Please sit in District order. Thank you."
Quinn finds it almost funny that they say "please" and "thank you" in their messages. It isn't exactly surprising, as they do seem to view competing in the Hunger Games as honor. To Quinn, it's nothing but necessary. To the tributes around him, he suspects it's more like punishment.
He's one of the first to enter the waiting room; the walls are bleak, a dull shade of gray, and the only furnishings are several benches, a color to match the rest of the room.
God, they even chose where we're supposed to sit, Quinn thinks as he makes his way through the rows. The last set of benches, emblazoned with 11M, 11F, 12M and 12F, sit neatly tucked away in the back corner, out of sight and out of mind. At least, that's how they are to the Gamemakers. Quinn knows how it works; the longer the Gamemakers sit there, the less they pay attention the tributes. But it's not his fault he comes from 11, and it's not his fault that the Gamemakers have the attention span of a dead squirrel on drugs.
Quinn settles down for the long haul in his square. The girl from 9 takes a seat across the aisle, twisting a rope in her hands and murmuring something under her breath. The pair from 4 come in arguing. The girl from 12 seems to be making a conscious effort to not look at the girl from 6.
It only takes a few minutes for all twenty-four of them to come trickling in and find their seats. Once everyone is seated, they call Shad in, and Quinn crosses his legs, preparing for a rather long stay on this particular bench. Before they left for training this morning, Ashe had declared that they're going to sit there for five and a half hours before they get called in.
"The math is simple, really," Ashe had said. "Twenty-four times fifteen comes out to three-hundred-and-sixty, which is divisible by sixty so it comes out to six hours in total. Take away the amount of times the Twelves have, and there we are. We're gonna be there a while."
Now, Ashe is sitting beside him, wringing her hands nervously. Quinn looks at her for a moment before he says, "Hey, don't worry about it. The training scores are arbitrary anyway."
He knows it's not entirely true; training scores can draw in sponsors. But, at the same time, Ashe has to know that she's probably not going to get many sponsors, what with her height, stature, age and allies. Ashe is a smart girl—after all, he saw no calculator this morning. She has to be rational enough to realize that she has little chance, right?
It's not even that Quinn is so over-confident that he knows he's going to win already. He knows that confidence can kill in the Games. But surely Ashe is intelligent enough to be rational, right?
"Without a good training score, I won't have any chance of getting sponsors, Quinn," Ashe replies, shaking her head, still wringing her hands. "I mean, my allies and I can only do so much."
"But," Quinn starts, still trying to be comforting. "sponsors don't matter anyway. Right? In end, isn't everyone going to die?" Missed the mark there, Bayers.
"I…suppose so," Ashe says, looking up confusedly. "if you want to get existential."
"I mean, it's true, isn't it? In end, everyone bleeds the same," Quinn says with a shrug.
"You're not wrong," Ashe says with a small, strangled laugh. "Although, sometimes I wonder if the Careers even have blood to shed."
"Calista Abbey," says the pleasant voice in the ceiling.
"I'm sure they do," answers Quinn. "What, do you expect them to bleed ichor?"
"Well…no," Ashe says. "They just seem so unstoppable."
"If they were unstoppable, no outlier would ever win. Besides, the Careers have been going through a bad streak in the past few years," Quinn says. "But they're better than they have been this year."
"Isn't that the scary part?" Ashe asks. "I mean, what can I, a tiny fourteen-year-old brainiac do to stop them? I'm not strong, I'm don't know how to fight; I would never be able to hold my own again a Career."
"I guess it comes down to who is smarter," Quinn says, still trying to be comforting, and somehow still failing. "You can fight and fight and fight, but when it really comes down to the wire, it's all about whoever can outsmart their opponent first, especially in your case."
"Easy for you to say," Ashe says, her voice getting lower and more annoyed. "You're tall, you're muscular, you're handsome, you're older. I mean, come on! You have the look of a Victor. I'm just Ashe, probably to be Bloodbath Ashe."
"Don't say that," Quinn says quickly. "I—"
"Wonder Hammerfort," says the voice in the ceiling, effectively interrupting their conversation once more.
"You what?" Ashe demands, crossing her arms. She shakes her head. "I don't want to die at fourteen-years-old, Quinn. What kind of life is that? What kind of life ends at fourteen and still somehow manages to be worthwhile?"
Quinn pauses for a moment, unsure. "I guess I wouldn't know."
"No, you wouldn't," Ashe says. "I want to live Quinn. I don't want to die in the Hunger Games."
"No one does," Quinn snaps. "Nobody wants to die."
"I say that's not necessarily true," Ashe counters, leaning forward. "Haven't you ever seen the people who volunteer in order to throw themselves to the mines? If that's not wanting to die, then I don't know what is."
Quinn lets his shoulders sag. He heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "Whatever."
Ashe turns away from him, her hands in the pockets of her vest. Quinn stares at her for a moment before he, too, turns away and trains his eyes on the floor.
A/N: Quinn's POV is just a little bit shorter than everyone else's, but I felt like that was a good place to end it, so I did.
1. What are your thoughts on Everett and Geo's alliance?
2. Who do you think will fair best in the Private Sessions?
3. Predicted training scores?
4. Has your predicted Victor changed throughout the pre-games so far?
Random Question of the Chapter: who is your favorite Hunger Games character?
My answer: I've always liked Haymitch. I guess I'll go with him.
ALLIANCES:
We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)
Flower Power: Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)
Sad Lesbians: Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)
Disaster Lesbians: Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)
5'6 Gang: Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)
For Peace of Mind: Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)
Two things: one, there is a new poll, so make sure to vote on that. Two, this is a double update with the private sessions report.
-Amanda
