a/n: Jailbreak! Muah-hah-hah-hah-hah!
Arlo Maddox, 17, District Two Male
At this point, the score that I get holds no suspense for me anymore. It doesn't matter anyways, just an arbitrary number tacked onto my tribute profile, meaningless once we reach the actual arena. Father cares. He cares too much. He sits across from me as we stare up at the screen, the hosts making mindless chatter and speculation, eyeing me with that detestable, stern eye, threatening, as if he is trying still now to get me to earn a high score. Or else.
The "or else" bit doesn't even matter anymore. It isn't like the punishment that he brings down will be anything worse than I've felt before. I don't even give a damn anymore what he does to hurt me. I want to die, just to spite him if anything else and throw all of his work down the drain. Sure, he still has Alessia, but she won't win either. He's broken her too much.
If I die, then I'll be remembered as just another tally on the charts, just another blip on the radar, but that isn't so bad. I'd very much like to forget it all, myself. It's better than being known as a terror, someone who killed a bunch of innocent children to leave the arena crowned Victor, a sadist. I'm a horrible person, but I'm not a sadist yet. If I go in some sort of noble way, that maybe I can chip a bit away at the deal I've made with the devil, the same deal that Scylla has made, and Marvel and Talisa and Imperia and all the rest of them that have come before us.
"Ooh, Arlo, not even batting an eyelash, I like it," Pomponius coos, tottering past my legs to sit down and nearly spill his tea all over the carpet. "Confidence is key."
I won't correct the old bastard. It would do nothing but piss him off. I can't stand those people, like Pomponius, Father, Alessia, and Imperia, the ones who enjoy watching and committing murder. I'm not as bad as them, I don't enjoy this, but the girl from Eight and the boy from Twelve's words still ring in my head. I still volunteered to kill and be killed here, and I've let all of them get away with it for years now. There's no use in putting up a fight; it's too late.
"If you could call it that," my father snaps snidely from the other side. "It looks to me like he just doesn't care."
What is he playing at? Discouraging me now, after years and years of building me up? And in front of Scylla, Decima, and Pomponius, too? Maybe it's just his awfulness manifesting in those cruel words that slice icily coldly through the air like a knife.
"Maybe I don't," I say, some foreign sensation taking hold of me. "What is it to you? You don't seem to, either." I've never tried standing up to Father in so long. I always knew what would await me: A heavy-handed slap, or brutal punch, or maybe a day's worth of starvation. He'd never dare do that to me here, with all of these cameras and judgmental Pomponius watching to chastise him in some hypocritical accusation of inhumane treatment. They don't want damaged goods going into the arena.
"You're wrong there." Father gives him the look, and in that look is him cracking his knuckles and brandishing his fists.
"All that you stand to gain and all that you want to gain is some more money and a better reputation. You don't care." About me. He doesn't care about me.
None of them do, so I might as well try to go out in some memorable way, try to have the kids at the Academy at least say my first name when they talk about me, be some sort of martyr once karma finally comes and they look back upon the children ruined by career training. The only way to justify everything that I let him do to me is through death. That's how I can be stronger than Father and throw myself in front of the grim reaper in an act of bravery and self-inflicted justice.
As Pomponius is about to say something condescending to me, Scylla and Decima enter, their words dissipating as they walk into the harsh environment. Scylla takes a seat on the couch beside me as Decima plops down in between her and the stylists who run into tittering and giggling simultaneously to each other, brushing her auburn plait over her broad shoulder. It's nice to have Scylla beside me, someone who would take my side in this argument. Her presence is reserved and easy not to notice, but it puts a calming mood over the room, or me, at least. However, I don't think I'm the one who needs calming. Scylla fidgets and shake, blinking repeatedly as she picks the humongous scab that is her right arm.
Decima passes a stern, disciplinary look over all of us. "Whatever you three were fighting about this time, shut up about it. I don't want to have to listen to your bullshit. We need to talk about scores. Gunnar, what are your speculations."
The two mentors begin to converse, and I detach myself from their dialogue. I don't want to hear any of it. The rest of the room sits in a still, quiet, sheet of awkward silence. Taking the initiative, I try to start up a conversation with Scylla.
"So, what do you think you made?" I ask her.
"I'd guess a nine. I don't want to be too self-assured, since I kind of stumbled at the beginning." She murmurs out the last part, not meeting my eyes. "You?"
"Maybe an eight. I really didn't even try too hard. I didn't see any need. None of this really matters anyway, and if I'm being honest, I'd rather you or most anyone else make it out of here alive."
Scylla meets my eyes this time, taken aback. "Why do you say that?" she asks. "What did you volunteer for? You have to fight," she whispers, distressed.
I regret starting up this conversation. On screen, Apollo is saying goodbye to his guests as he preps for his speech. "I'll tell you later, okay?" I say.
She simply nods as the Capital emblem blares, and the pre-recorded chitchat makes way for the live broadcast, the revealing of the scores. Father gives me a threatening look of distrust, suspicious that I didn't try my hardest.
The Capitalites are all giddy around us, talking excitedly amongst themselves about their predictions. To spite me and my efforts to prepare myself for my upcoming, imminent, sweet death, a palpable sense of suspense emits from them and the broadcast and rises over me like a cloud of worry. I shouldn't care. It will mean nothing in the long run, just a number assigned to a notecard in a stack of thousands of them. But I still do; I still feel nervous as Apollo Vanahara makes the standard, yearly speech about what went on in training, even though I'm going to die anyway.
I want to die. I need to die. Without death, I have no purpose left, my life is empty aside from pain and abuse. If I die, then I can finally be something. To try and fight that is just cowardly! Coward. That word that Father slaps me with every time that I can't bear the toll of his regiment, the burn of his insults, the word that we trade blows with, because we both know deep down that we are both cowards. Mother knows it, wherever she is. I need to go to her, and I need to give her a death that she would be proud of.
Scylla is shaking from beside me, twitching as she pinches her arm fervently. There's a fight that I see and feel in her that I don't have. I can't have it, that selfish, bestial instinct to protect oneself in instances of danger and disregard the greater good. But there is something about the way that she carries herself and looks and talks that is so distinctly heroic. I want to so badly to be that too, but I'm afraid of that dark thought in the back of my mind, that giving in is cowardly and to fight through it all is the noble thing to do. I just want it all to end!
Above the indistinct blur of Apollo's words, someone speaks closer to me.
Pomponius elbows me, rousing me out of my state of inner panic. "Look, look! The Reveal is about to start! Don't you want to pay attention, boy?"
"You need to analyze the enemy," Father voices, surly, from his side of the couch.
He is the enemy. I'm the enemy.
"And now, beginning with the boys, we will reveal the scores!" Apollo announces in a giddy climax from his desk. Taking the first envelope, he clears his throat for dramatic effect as Marvel's headshot from after his remake is displayed on the left side of the screen. In it, he is smiling coyly, dark brown hair styled meticulously, an enticing glint in his eye that the camera somehow captured. I don't fully trust him, there seems to be something off with the way he acts, especially with Imperia. He is flaunting his suck-up game for all of us to see. I got tired of being a suck-up a long time ago.
"First," he continues, "is our District One Male, Marvel Silver, with a score of… nine! Impressive, and a good omen for the rest of our tributes. Next is his partner, the original Turquesa Miracelest."
The girl, who is really quite pretty and exotic-looking for One, is scowling into the camera, her eyes focused disdainfully to a point just above it. I wish that I had the strength to be like her, brave enough to openly insult Imperia and voice the thoughts in all of our heads, but I'm not. The least that I can do is try to force myself to do something morally commendable before I die.
"She has gotten… another nine!"
"What do you think of the pair from One?" Decima asks the room.
"Their own allegiances with take them out," Father replies coolly. "They'll get bored with the boy, and the girl will screw herself over. No real competition."
That seems a little cocky. The least he could do is use their names. I could say that, but I don't, as my face is next to fade in. I can feel myself subtly reverting.
In the picture they took of me, I'm scowling, the same way Turquesa is. That is the face I see every time I look in the mirror. It's easy to hate.
"Moving onto our second district, next up is Arlo Maddox from Two, son of Gunnar Maddox! And he has come in with a fantastic score of ten!"
It takes a second to set in as the stylists leap up and cheer unintelligibly and Pomponius grips my shoulder. A ten? How is that possible? I didn't do anything to earn a ten! I tried not to earn a ten. What are they playing at? Was I really that good?
"Congratulations, Arlo!" Victoria, my stylist, trills, hugging me intrusively and without permission. "We knew you could do it!"
"Aren't you proud?" Pomponius asks.
"Of course," I say, looking Father in the eye. He nods, but still looks dissatisfied.
"Good job," Scylla says beside me.
I rotate my gaze to her, and she shifts in her seat as she looks back at me meekly, a pained smile on her face. She must be very anxious.
"And now, let's move onto Scylla Frigard of Two," Apollo transfers, my face being taken face by Scylla's partially blue one, looking stressed as her wispy brown hair frames her small face. "And she has managed… an eight! A respectable score for a career."
Scylla's face drops, her eyes drooping down in disappointment.
"Oh—and you did good too, Scylla!" Pomponius says, voice dripping with acrid, false sweetness.
"Thanks," she mutters, as two seats to her right her stylist visibly expresses his disappointment.
"Don't take it to heart, kid," Decima says in what must be an attempt at a comforting manner. Scylla doesn't look solaced.
I want to tell her that that number is meaningless, worthless, maybe even rigged, but I can't. I don't want to in front of Father. I'm afraid of the consequences still, even when I try to convince myself that I'm not.
The boy from Three gets a six, which is more than I thought he would, but nothing out of the ordinary. Next is his partner, the enchanting one who is allied with the girl from Eleven and the weaklings. Nerissa Doppler. That is her name.
"And she has earned another eight!"
Scylla's face falls even further, upset by the realization that a mostly untrained outlier girl got the same score as her.
"Don't let what you scored bog you down," I whisper to her. "I think they rigged it. Come on, let's go, we can look at these scores anytime."
Scylla stands up, sending me a silent message of graciousness and I do the same.
"Where do you think you're going? The reveal isn't even halfway through!" Father gets on his feet as well as Scylla freezes.
"To my room," I say, turning around on my heel cavalierly, not meeting his stare so as not to weaken under it. Taking Scylla's arm, I steer her quickly to my door up the marble stares and a few paces to the right as he sputters and stumbles after us, still making his way through the barricade of legs as I lock the door triumphantly. I can't believe I did that.
"What did you do that for?" she asks, a surprising irritation in her tone, as she begins to storm around the room but make no effort to exit.
"What do you mean, 'what did I do that for'?" I counter, plopping down angrily on the bed. "I was trying to help you out, get you away from my dad and everyone else."
"Well, I appreciate the gesture," she says, cooling down, "but did you really have to make a fool out of yourself in front of everyone by pissing him off? That isn't going to do anything but worsen our circumstances." Her voice softens as she slides gently onto the bed beside me. "Besides, I can take care of myself. I volunteered for this too, didn't I?"
Yes. Scylla volunteered, and so did I, and all of it is just one massive contribution to how fucked up Panem and our lives are. I volunteered to slaughter innocent children, and so now the least that I can do is try and protect one of them.
"Arlo," Scylla presses, concerned, "why did you do that? It's not going to help anything. You might as well try and make amends now before it's too late."
Her ambiguous meaning hangs in the air, but whether she is trying to guilt me into rekindling some nonexistent relationship between the two of us or kissing up so as to better my chances, I won't do either.
"Scylla, I don't want to make amends. I want to end it this way."
"What are you talking about? End it? You can't give up now Arlo, after you've come this far." She puts a faint but firm hand on my shoulder, turning my head towards her on my left. In the warm, glowing light of my bedroom, sheer worry and care shines through her vibrant, dewy blue eyes as they pierce through the dim light and into me, coercing an honest answer out of me.
"This is how I want it to be, Scylla. I don't want to leave the arena. My life is shit now, and it will be no matter what I do. The least I can do is stick it to that monster before I go. I'd rather somebody like you win, anyway."
It registers to me how much my certainty has grown since volunteering that I want to die here and escape it all, that not only Father but the whole career system is so convoluted, detestable, and vile. That's one fortunate thing that has come out of this, this realization. That and how I have met Scylla now, someone better than me who hasn't been completely savaged and brainwashed by the career system, someone who can be saved. That and how the final nail with be hammered into the merciful coffin and I will finally reach the light at the end of my tunnel that I have been glimpsing for so long.
"You don't understand, Arlo! You can't do that to me! You can't do that to yourself!" Scylla's distraught, hurt voice pulls me out of my daze of sadness. "Life is always better than death. No matter what you think you will find after it's all over, life is always better. You have to persevere through it, through the bad times, because there is always fortune at the end of the rainbow. I know that sounds dumb and corny, but please don't give up on me now!"
"I've already made my decision," I say, unable to meet her eyes, so I stare dejectedly at my legs. This feels so wrong. "This is what is right. This is how I can redeem myself. It isn't too late for you."
"It isn't too late for you either. If you want to do what is right, then fight with everything that you have to survive. To let yourself die isn't the noble thing, it's the weak one, especially when you have someone left who needs you. You say you want to do something noble to rescue yourself. If you do, then stay alive and cherish the living hell out of it. It's in life that you can make yourself a better person, not through death, Einar."
Scylla's words resonate deep within my core. Her word flub doesn't bother me, I know what she meant. I desperately desire what she tells me to be correct, but I have no idea what the powers of righteousness hold in high esteem anymore. All I do know is that I'm not ready to die yet, and that Scylla has persuaded me. I don't know if that is the cowardly or noble thing. I hope the latter.
"Okay," I tell her. "I'll try for you."
Cassius Heart, 16, District Eight Male
"So, the lowest score as of right now is the boy from Three's six. There has only been one ten from the boy from Two, so you two best watch out for him, but I think his allies could also be dangerous. And that Three girl, she seems like she could be hiding something, and she did get an eight." Chiffon reclines further in the plush, velvet couch we share, bringing her notepad up to her chest as she looks analytically up at the television screen.
"Don't be silly, Chiffon," I say, projecting my voice and heightening my confident face, Mommy's favorite. "We need to watch out for the careers the most. They're the trained killers. But I don't think they'll pose too much of a threat in the long run.
"You don't be a dumbass," Oxford grumbles from his languid, uncouth, repulsive slump in the mauve leather armchair. "And don't talk back either, you little shit."
"What do you know, you disgusting piece of shit!" I yell, screaming at him as I stand up. My arms twist about, not knowing what to do with themselves in my anger, as I can feel heat rising to my face. He can't talk to me like that! I'm his pupil; and I'm Cassius fucking Heart!
"Cassius," Chiffon scolds sternly, "don't throw another fit. And you," she says, looking repulsed at the way that Oxford glowers, bottle of whiskey in hand, "just leave. You're not helping anything, and we all know where you'd rather be."
Mystic, whose eyes were previously glued to the new host and the score reveal, now looks relaxed and almost bored, fidgeting with the remote in her hands. If I hadn't never seen her without something to carry, I would think she is trying to conceal her anxiety and anticipation. It infuriates me how she can be so relaxed and yet so strong and resourceful, but in the end, I know it will lead to her doom.
"Aquatico got an eight," she says in explanation.
I don't understand why she cares about her allies so much. Who needs those two, especially? All they'll do is weigh Mystic down even further in the well that she has already crafted for herself. I don't need allies. I was wrong to even consider going up to a tribute and asking if they wanted to ally with me. It's not like they would even say yes anyway, if I'm being honest. They wouldn't understand my true, inner strength. I know I'm strong. I tried so hard to get good at the weapons, put more effort into it than I have with anything else in my life. I'm actually trying to attain proficiency at weapons now, and I'm still not getting it, even if I'm actually putting in effort to achieve something instead of just asking someone else to do it. I don't understand!
The charismatic, attractive girl from District Four gets a ten. She'll definitely be someone to watch out for. I don't think that a ten is in my range, but not too far off. Maybe a seven or an eight. I need this score, even if I tell myself that it's just an arbitrary number, even if I pretend like I don't care, act cool and cocky, and put on my winning smile around anyone and everyone and even tell myself that it's a number, despite prepping visibly and internally for it to be something good, trying to convince myself that I won't fail miserable like I have with everything else in my stupid life.
"And now, the first of our tight-knit pair from Five, Elior Gobel has scored a seven!"
The skinny, unassuming kid's uncomfortable smile is shown on the side of the television, close cropped tawny hair sticking to his scalp, just as angular as the rest of him.
"Ha!" I say, laughing in a manner that I know is obnoxious, because I have to be proud and pontificate my brazen superiority. That's how they'll know that I'm the best. "If that kid earned seven, it makes sense how everyone else is scoring so high? They're going easy on us!"
"I wouldn't be so sure," Chiffon says, rolling her eyes in a look directed at Mystic's stylist. So what if they don't like me? It only proves that they're jealous. They're jealous, like everyone else who has ever disliked me, because why else would they?
"And next up, his partner Konani Sowka has scored… a six! Still impressive!" The host, Apollo or something like that, flashing an encouraging grin that he must think is charming. He must think that he's being so supportive and encouraging. Screw him.
"Mystic, so you said those two were already very close?" Chiffon asks.
"Pretty much. They're already a bit lovey dovey." At her response, Mystic's voice fades, and she glances down from the television screen.
"They'll only be a detriment to each other in the long run," I say, smirking. "Who needs allies?"
I don't need allies. Allies will only stab you in the back if you don't stab them in the back first, just another mouth to feed for the price of having a meat shield to throw in front of you for protection and in turn have someone to talk to, an actual friend. I don't need that.
"You do," Chiffon retorts, snarky, snotty even. Who does she think she is?!
"Last I checked, Cassius's mentor was that walking cheesy baked potato over there," Mystic counters, somehow conjuring a genuine laugh out of me—at least, a chuckle. "Then again, I doubt he needs one."
My laughter halts, as I register her vivid purple eyes trained on me, boring into my head, as if wordlessly, telekinetically asking me if my outward confidence is justifiable. She knows that it isn't. She can see right through me better than I can see through myself. There is a feeling of concern, of care, of… pity? How could someone look upon me like that at a time like now? I don't understand her, I can't relate.
The boy from Six earns a four, but I refrain from speaking, silence occupying the sitting room as his score is announced. I don't call him a joke like I would have one minute ago. I can sense an anticipated nervousness eclipsing me, something like I've never experienced before in a life of luxury and lack of care. I'm going to be in his place in a moment, a scared, weak, pathetic little boy with no prayer in the world of escaping this death trap alive.
The girl from Six barely does better, scraping out a five.
"Ha! Two more duds! They were being lenient on them, and they still couldn't do better than that. Pathetic! They need each other."
I'm definitely going to do better than them. I'm Cassius Heart, and Mommy says that I'm the best son, the best boy in the world. I'm going to make her proud. This isn't because of her intervention. I trained my butt of at the weapons stations, all for this moment, this reciprocation, this token of my work. This will be proof that giving a damn actually does make a difference.
"Now, moving onto our second half…" Apollo takes a moment to reorganize his notecards for show, grinning stupidly at the camera afterwards. "First, from District Seven, Rowan Hunter has earned a seven! Not bad at all!"
If a puny fourteen-year-old like him could manage that, my score will be through the roof! And to think, he's allying to protect his pitiful little girl of a partner. I don't need protection.
More nerves seize me, shivering up my spine and wringing my hands together. I shouldn't be nervous!
"Our tiniest and youngest tribute of the year, sweet Tessa Oakhart, has been given a… five! Nothing to scoff at, especially for someone her age."
It's my turn now, and yet I can't bring myself to blurt out any cocky words. My breath is held in anticipation, trapped in a mouth that I cannot pry open. I put actually work into my private session, even if I got a little bit angry at the end of it. The Gamemakers will understand! I'm bound to get a high score, higher than Mystic, maybe even higher than anyone else so far. Because if I don't, then how will I have any chance to do anything? Won't it just be proof that all that I'm destined to do is lounge around and be waited on hand and foot, that that is my only talent, and that I'm really to pathetic whelp who was doomed the second his mother started spoiling him, from the day that he was born.
"As for our District Eight Male, one duo of the hit costume from the Chariot Parade, Cassius Heart, he has achieved… a three. Not the best of scores, but we shouldn't count him out yet."
All sound is muffled, absorbed by an invisible wall of cotton, as that word zoom into my eyes on loop, dizzying me. I earned a three. The room is silent as in sit in complete dumbstruck heartbreak. I'm not good enough to get anything better, even after all of the work that I put in?! I'm the worst tribute of the year so far!
"Mystic Archeron has gotten… an eight!"
I stand up, halfway conscious of what I'm doing, my ears still ringing as Mystic sits in her seat, not even celebratory. This is proof that they cheated!
"The Gamemakers! They tampered with the scores!" I can feel all of the eyes in the room on me as hot tears of rage and disappointment drip down my fat cheeks. "It's not my fault! I did good! Better than her!" I jab a finger at Mystic, whose eyes widen reproachfully as a cannon of snot flies out of my nose and onto my upper lip.
"God damnit, Cassius, grow the fuck up!" Chiffon yells, standing up be at my level. She'll never be at my level. "So, you got a score you didn't like? We all have bad days, so why should you be expected to get special treatment and act half your age when you do? Grow up! If you don't, then you stand no chance at winning. If you accept your score and try to work with it, then maybe you do." Her voice levels down, condescendingly calm and cautionary.
How does she have any right to say that to me?!
"You can't tell me what to do! I hate you!" I bellow as I pick up her glass of champagne and throw it at the nearest wall before storming off and pushing over a chair for good measure. I want to be alone right now. None of them understand, so who am I to blame if I'm reverting back to the very thing that I said that I would grow from, they didn't give me what I wanted even when I put in everything I had, so they obviously didn't give me what I deserved.
I slam the door behind me as I run to collapse on my bed, bawling hot tears into the deluxe sheets, and in a disturbingly comforting way it reminds me of home.
What am I doing? I'm going to die this way, stuck-up, whiny and petulant. I still am holding out that foolish, absurd sliver of hope that somehow Mommy will pull me out of this. Mommy is never going to save me from this. I have to fight for myself. I can't blame others, and I can't give up, I have to fight for this if I want to survive.
I am going to charm the teeth off of those sponsors, dazzle them in the interview so much that they'll fall in love with me, practically snatch the money out of their hands at the Banquet. And, most importantly, I'm going to find an ally. This time I won't chicken out or be claimed by anxiety and self-doubt; this time I won't drive them away from throwing a tantrum like a baby.
I know that I can't win off of sheer pure power alone. All I have to do is look in the mirror and see staring back at me, with bloodshot eyes and snot residue on his upper lip, a pudgy, puny boy with rosy cheeks, curly blonde hair, and watery blue eyes. I have to use my wits and my cleverness and my appeal by whatever means necessary. I must accept that I need an ally for comfort, for fear of the unknown and residual weakness and inexperience, but that is the truth. But I know that I'll stab whoever it is in the back whenever I get the perfect opportunity, right at the end. I'm cleverer than they think that I am. Mommy always said I had a business.
I accept now that I'm weak. I accept now that I am miserable in everything remotely related to weaponry competency, and that I am still completely ignorant to anything survival-related and also one of the slowest and most easily exhaustible of all of the tributes. I know that what I have is shit, but I'm taking all of my shit and I'm throwing it against the wall, because I have nothing left to do.
I know what I must do. Pressing my ear to the linoleum rectangle of wood, I hear no movement outside, no indistinct television chatter. I peek my heat outside in a crack, peering out to see Mystic pacing around the sitting room, the only one present. Perfect, or rather as perfect as possible. She scored an eight. And I scored a three. Now is time to put aside all of my dignity and go up to her.
I push the door aside, approaching her. I'm about to do three things I can't ever remember myself doing: talk to someone I would have considered scum back in District Eight, beg for her help, and implore her to forgive me.
"Are you cooled down now?" she asks, smiling invitingly.
"Yes," I say awkwardly, freezing up as my eyes droop low and I shuffle past her to sit down as she still stands up.
Regretful, I look back up at her, and see her fixating on me in a disapproving gaze. Suddenly conscious of my blunder, I stand up to be at her level, and this time I truly am, if not below it.
I have to force out the words in an instant, unable to look at her as they tumble in a stuttering blur out of my mouth: "I'm sorry."
"You're forgiven," she says, grinning once again. "You were disappointed, and it isn't like it was spilled milk or anything. I like to hold a grudge, but I think I can make an exception just this one."
"Good," I say, prepping myself for this moment now, where I have to lose all of my dignity and self-worth by throwing it all to the feet of Mystic Archeron, a crazed, lowly, rebellious volunteer who is somehow wiser, stronger, and better than me in every way. "I need your help, Mystic. I'm hopeless. I know that you already have an alliance that you wouldn't want me in, but—"
"Yes," Mystic answers, cutting my misery short. "I'll help you."
Aleyn Garsow, 14, District Eleven Male
I can almost feel Sierra's anger radiating off of her skin as it shakes the green velvet couch that we're both seated on, vibrating with the grinding, growling noise she is emitting. The girl from Nine—Imperia—has just scored a ten. She looks up at the screen in an adverse position of loathing, shaking her head.
"This whole concept is just an absolute farce," she says, huffing as she slumps downwards from being on edge. "They love her because she kisses all of their asses, no other reason."
In her fuming silence, I realize that she is talking to me, since only Nerio, the escort, is accompanying us at the moment, and he is busy cheering over our adversary, as I turn my head in discomfort to see her pursed lips and eyes rolling to the ceiling. It isn't that I disagree, Sierra's rage in justified; only, so is Imperia's score. I have more pressing things to worry about. To appease her, I settle for a simple nod.
The past twenty-four hours have been a blur for me. It feels as if during some point in the tense waiting room, nerves overtook me, and everything became hazy. That same feeling eclipses most of the day afterwards, much of it scored away, left an empty black space in memory. I know why, and it scares me to my core. I'm afraid of what I did in that room, what Second did, and whatever shitty consequences I will have to face now. My time left is getting shorter and shorter, and even that is sliding away in gaps and clumps of lost control. I'm losing it all, and I'm going to have nothing left to fight against Second once I enter the arena. At this point I don't even know if that is a good or a bad thing, if Second dictating the actions of our sole body will be a hindrance or an advantage, if life or death is the less torturous road that I want to tie myself down to and wait for the inevitable train of fate to run me over on.
I would rather earn something forgettable, passable, like the boy from Nine who got a five, than something memorable and impressive like what Sierra is bound achieve. It would mean the fifteen minutes didn't pass over with too much tumult. Apprehensive, she sits reclined, wringing her hands in worry as Raihan's score is about to be revealed. It's refreshing and comforting to see such profound concern that she displays for her ally, one that isn't even one of her closest. Part of me longs for that.
"Moving onto to the final quarter of the reveal and District Ten, little Raihan Everstow has been given a score of three. Far from the best, but let's not count him out yet, folks."
Sierra puts her head into her hands in anguish. As if she can feel my eyes on her, she looks up at me, rueful.
"Just so you know, the offer back into the alliance still stands unanimously," she states. "I know this has to be the millionth time that I've tried to pull you back in but hear me out. I know Raihan isn't the strongest, but he's a number, and he's an optimist, too. If strength is what is holding you back, remember that Nerissa scored an eight, and Bolt scored a six, and I don't mean to sound overconfident, but I'm expecting at least a seven for myself."
"It's not you, and it's not the strength, either," I say. I pity Raihan for his score and his weakness, but he has four friends to support him. I have to go it alone. If it were a test of morality and valor, he would score twice as high as me.
"Well, just remember that we are strong, and we would be stronger with you. You're always stronger with someone supportive by your side that with no one at all."
Who says I'm not supportive? Second inquires rhetorically, laughing in a pointed, wicked manner as his dormancy comes to a merciless close. Much more supportive than the baby that got a three.
"Aleyn," Sierra pushes on, "I want to protect you. We want to protect you. It's an excellent bargain."
She probably wants to kill us in our sleep, and all of her allies, too. Second lets out a snort, amused at how clearly false his claim is.
"I know you think you need to defend me," I counter, ignoring Second, "but you don't. Trust me, I'd only be a burden. Besides, I can defend myself alright."
I can defend us much better than she ever could, Second corrects. I won't acknowledge him.
"Aleyn, I can't bear to see you all alone, when I know you need a friend, just someone to lean on."
She an ugly, bald-faced liar whose no better than any of the slum trash who live with her.
"If you died, by yourself, and I knew that it was my fault, and that I could have helped protect you if you were with my alliance, then I would be destroyed."
Her alliance is not worth a damn, and they're all going to die within the first minutes.
"Aleyn, I would do anything to make sure you joined back with us. Even though we haven't known each other for long, you're one of my best friends already, and we could distract ourselves from everything in the arena. It could be like we were back in Eleven."
She is full of shit, and the only way that she's going back to Eleven is in a coffin. Maybe I'll be the one to do it for you, to save you some—
"Shut up," I blurt out in a quick, hushed mutter to myself. I can't take it any longer, I want him gone!
I can feel Second's smug air intoxicating me now, his pride at plunging my life one inch further into hell. I feel like an idiot now, a worthless piece of shit, but the only thing I can do is sit and watch now. I can't fight him. I made it longer than normal, but I might as well just give up. It will never work.
Sierra's eyes widen in embarrassed comprehension. She leans back, and I can see her trying to shield how affronted she feels, but she isn't doing a good job. She looks away.
"Sorry," she says bashfully. "You're right, we need to be paying attention. Your score is about to be revealed. I shouldn't be talking over it."
The girl from Ten's blank, bored, yet mystified face, somewhat obscured by the large silver "four" in front of it, fades away, her blonde hair and tan complexion replaced by my pale, dark-haired one.
I refrain from asking out loud what Second did during my private sessions and voicing my anger at him for taking over. All of that is useless now. Maybe I'm stronger when he is in power physically, but not mentally. Whatever score I get reflects nothing but a target on my back. I'd be stronger if I got a weaker score, because at least that would mean that I was able to scrounge up enough moral fiber to resist the urge to crumble under Second's intransitive iron grasp.
"Moving onto to our penultimate district, first, Aleyn Garsow has gotten… a seven!"
A seven.
Don't act mad. You should be glad that I got us this score. You couldn't have even earned a five.
Before I have a chance to respond, Sierra congratulates me. "A seven is good," she says, applauding.
"Thanks," I mutter, scooting closer into the couch cushions as the feed transitions to Sierra. I almost wish that they could suck me in, suck me into a warm, serene, undisturbed hideaway where I can pretend like nothing is wrong.
Under Apollo's rabble about my score and Sierra's, I retort to Second:
"I would have rather gotten a four than a seven, just to shove it in your face. It doesn't matter anyway, it's not like it will have any impact on my chances. I'm dying, and I'm dying just to fuck with you and rid you of the earth."
Sierra is too taken with the suspense of finding out her score to be paying any attention to my indistinct muttering, which is a good thing, seeing as it would only further solidify her obvious worries and concerns that I'm at least partially insane. Her eyes are saucers, brows furrowed in anticipation. Her body leans to the television, supplicating it to bless her with a good score, as she hinges on every meaningless, indistinct word that echoes out of the speakers. In the sheer ridiculousness of my situation, it is oddly empowering to whisper my thoughts and be able to issue a comeback to Second and leverage my life over his head on the line. I won't listen to what he says anymore, I'm going to let myself die just to prove him wrong and show him that I am brave enough to go heroically from this fucked up world that we both live in. It makes me feel courageous in a way to hold something so precious and dangle it with such casualty, gives me a taste of that savory, rewarding happy ending of finally following through with my claims.
You've said you would kill yourself dozens of times before, and you never have. You just aren't strong, enough, you're too afraid, just like you're too afraid to actually stand up to Simon or your father or that bitch from Nine or anyone else. I don't believe you.
Sierra shocks me out of my inner argument with her exclamation, leaving Second's words to impress themselves into my head with no counter attack to wipe them away. "An eight! An eight, Aleyn, did you hear him!"
Her hand hovers an inch from my shoulder when I turn to her bashfully, and I see a small pang of discomfiture in her face for a second, but it is quickly replaced with a celebratory expression. She retracts her hand surreptitiously, choosing not to place it on my collar, but even the awkwardness of the situation can't calm her glee.
"I can't believe it! We're the strongest of any outlier district, Aleyn! We showed all of them who doubted us. I wonder what Imperia thinks of that?"
I'm embarrassed not to have listened to her reveal, especially considering she was on tenterhooks to hear mine, but Sierra's energy is contagious. When it comes down to it, I don't want to make it out of that arena alive; that's what I would like to think. Maybe Sierra is just the little kick that I needed to actually pull the figurative trigger, if I could do anything to make sure that she gets out alive instead of me. Sierra is a good person, a pure person, and she makes no secret of her desire for me to be closer to her to protect. I don't care what Second suspects. I simply know that she is genuine.
"Now she knows who she's dealing with," I answer, smiling, and for once it almost feels real.
"I'm so proud of us!"
The escort on the far end looks to be jittery with a sudden interest at her tributes, certainly since we only now proved ourselves interesting and marketable to her with thrilling scores, but she hovers indecisively in place, squealing as her arms gesticulate random hand gestures, aware she is an intruder on the moment and that she is a bit late to the party, like everyone else on this floor. In Sierra's ecstasy, she hops up and does an energized, ungraceful twirl around the room. Out of the blue, she pulls me up to my feet. I don't squirm away this time, and she doesn't hesitate.
"Do you know what this means?"
Second issues a snarky remark, but it is indistinct under this revelry. It isn't my score that makes me so happy. This feeling of… merriness, it is something that I haven't felt in so long that it takes a moment to place. It feels foreign, but exquisite. He can't taint this moment. I'm untouchable in this minute of happiness, even though I know that it can never last.
"What?" I ask. "What does it mean?"
"All this time, everyone has been saying that none of us stand a chance, including me or you. But we showed them that we do, that we can fight back. We showed them that we're stronger than they thought. They can't count us out yet. They should do the opposite."
I realize that Sierra is referring to more than just me and her. She is referring to us and her alliance. For one blissful moment the impending offer feels so tantalizing, but I have to turn it down. I have to. Because even if Sierra's has wiped all of my troubles away for a period of time, Second is sure to return soon. I can't endanger like that, I can't betray her that way. But the alternative is just as much of a betrayal to her.
As if to spitefully discredit Sierra's imminent argument of strength, our attention is directed to the screen, where Tabitha's meek, shy veneer is obscured by a shining silver "three".
"Well, it's almost never the best scores that round out the day," Apollo laments with obvious disappointment, "and that seems to be the case this year. Two threes to round out the day, but let's not count out any of our twenty-four just yet."
Sierra's face falls in sympathy. She sits back down again, temporarily depressed, and I position myself beside her.
"Don't let that fool you," she says sorrowfully, desperately looking into my eyes. "Tabitha's got the heart of a lion buried deep inside of her, and I'm coaxing it out." She can read my expression of reluctance and apology. "Aleyn, you have to come with us. We can dominate together. You saw the other scores—Bolt's six, Nerissa's eight. We'll be stronger together."
Her words ring in my ears amidst the silence as Apollo signs off to the upcoming talk show. It could be true. The girl from Two—Scylla—she understands. So does Carroll. He can help me if I let him. But I can't trust myself around him. I'll just have to do my best on my own. Sierra may be stronger with others, and I may be too. But I would be a hindrance. My only option is to try to be strong alone.
How I'm going to do that is daunting. I'm imagining trying to make it through the banquet without being taken over, making excruciatingly forced small talk with potential sponsors; sleeping alone under the stars, completely prone and vulnerable; fighting against Second's warring side as I try to combat the careers all by my lonesome.
I know that I'm stronger with Sierra in the back of my mind, because the dwindling joyous atmosphere is something I haven't experienced in years, not since Mom died and Second crept inside of me. Stronger with Bolt, and Nerissa, and Raihan, and even Tabitha, who I've never spoken a word to in my life. Stronger with Scylla, because we can fight the fight together. Stronger with Carroll, because he can help me get better. But I can't be with them. Entertaining pointless fantasies like that only wastes time.
I couldn't have said it better. Second's vexing, smug, crisp voice has returned.
"I'm sorry, Sierra. I can't tell you why. Believe me, I want to, but I can't join the alliance. There's no use trying to convince me."
Rowan Hunter, 14, District Seven Male
"So, what do you want to do for free day?" The question is the only natural response to the lull in my and Tessa's conversation, Lindsay having scooted back to lock Sycamore in his bedroom. Maurinella has already flitted out, bound for the betting center to scoop up potential sponsors. She isn't the most observant and quite hypocritical, but at least she seems to be putting in the work to try and score us sponsors, and she's more of a mentor to me than Sycamore ever could be.
Tessa leans backwards on the hind legs of her chair, fingering a cherry bunch and smiling contemplatively.
"I don't know, I haven't thought about it much."
"Tessa, what did I tell you about leaning back in your chair like that? You're going to slip and fall backwards eventually." Lindsay saunters through the archway leading to the bedrooms, exasperated.
"Oh, come on, I didn't even realize that I was doing it!" Tessa smiles knavishly, the front legs of the chair slamming against the marble flooring with a clack.
"Aren't you going to congratulate us on our scores?" I ask innocently, which baits a smile onto Lindsay's careworn face.
"I already did," she says, resting her cane on her seat as she drops down in tiredness beside Tessa. "Do you not remember?" she asks sarcastically.
"No, not entirely," I respond.
Tessa's face lights up, and she begins to wriggle in her seat, practically crawling up the backrest. "I thought of something we could do! I've always wanted to try ice cream, my friend Minnie had it once and she said it was the best thing that she had ever tasted."
"What's ice cream?" I ask, picturing a cold, frothy drink.
"You'll enjoy it," Lindsay affirms, the smile wrinkles in her eyes creasing. "Just be careful not to eat it too fast."
"I don't even really know what it is," Tessa rambles, shaking like she is on a sugar high, "but I know it's icy and sugary and delicious."
Tessa's head swivels to her mentor, and I start at her too in a jovially interrogative way.
"I'll let you find out for yourself."
"Typical," I slide back in my chair, careful to keep all four of the legs on the floor.
Lindsay looks at me affectionately, before throwing out another suggestion: "They also have an amusement park here—it's a thing that has fun games and mechanical rides that will just exhilarate you."
Tessa's eyes widen in excitement. "Oh, thank you Miss Lindsay, you're the best! Ugh, why can't free day just start already?"
"Lindsay, dear, and noon is only in fifteen minutes."
"Yes ma'am. Thank you. What kinds of rides do they have there?"
Lindsay voice-commands the wall to display an overhead satellite map of the city, and she and Tessa waste the time away staring at a view of the amusement park, as Lindsay called it. It does look incredibly fun.
Tessa beams upwards at the older woman before her eyes turn to me again. There's something about that childlike innocence even withheld through such a shitty life that is so endearing and compelling. It's something that I could never keep for myself, not after Daddy died and they shipped me off to the Lumber Mill 017, where there was a gruesome injury or death every week and they whipped you for stepping one toe out of line. I want to protect that.
There is only fifteen minutes—I check the clock on the wall to make sure Lindsay is not just estimating—until they open the doors of the building to me and Tessa and all of the rest of the tributes and send us on our merry way with our mentors—probably just Lindsay in our case—follow us around. One glorious half day of carefree splendor, where we can throw all of our worries out of the door save the people pointing at us like we're a free-range zoo exhibit and pretend like this is nothing but a magnificent vacation. I'm going to cherish that moment, and I'm going to make it the best that I ever can, for Tessa. She's already so mature for her age, and yet there is still so much for her to learn, and I don't want her to learn it yet. She feels like a younger sister to me, like nothing that I've ever felt before, a certain intangible closeness that I never had with Ash and Aaron in a way not derogatory of my relationship with them. Lindsay, too, already feels like an aunt of sorts, a member of our close-knit trio, a far cry from the first day on the train, of Tessa's wailing, my awkward, unwarranted puns, and her constant, vehement scolding of Sycamore.
As I stare benignly at the two of them, watching Tessa's animated pointing and excitement, a startling realization hits me. Yes, I'm excited about going to this park, about having free range to do whatever I want, but… it's not about me anymore. It's about Tessa: Entertaining her and doing anything that I can to nurture her and please her and amuse her, and eventually, throwing everything that I have on the line to save her. I would have thought that me from a month ago would be trembling with the same zealous anticipation as Tessa is, but I'm not. Something has changed in me since I met Tessa, something has been pushed into the limelight. Something in me has grown, I realize, as I sit in unbothered silence, not feeling the need to make my own voice heard with a forced bit of comedy or throw out a needless icebreaker to escape the quiet, and as I solidify to myself that I am going to die if it means that Tessa can win these terrible Games.
"Oh! It's eleven fifty-four, only six minutes to go until the doors open!" Tessa exclaims. "I should probably go use the restroom, so I don't have to while we're out."
My eyes and Lindsay's follow Tessa's back as she suddenly scampers down the hall and into the bathroom, taking all of her energy along with her and leaving a dim mood. There are a few seconds of silence as we both stare at the spot in the doorway where she disappeared.
"You're going to die for her, aren't you?"
Lindsay, still standing up, stares down at me, eyes abruptly tearful.
"What made you get that idea," I ask teasingly, trying to make light of the morbid question she just posed. Her stormy, knowing grey eyes as close to white as her hair squeeze the obvious answer out of me. "Yes."
She looks away, brushing her right cheek against the woolen collar of her cardigan, and for a second the realizations dawns on me that it seems that she is crying. Instead, she crosses to her chair and sit back down slowly, staring me down with her imposing, elderly yet strong face. I get the feeling that she is about to lecture me.
I try and cut her off as her mouth opens. "Now, listen here, don't come at me with that schtick about me being stronger than Tessa and only having her being a weakness to me. Don't tell me to throw her under the bus if it's me or her because I could survive longer. I don't care if I have to fall on a sword in the bloodbath or kill myself in the finale. She's making it out alive. I'm strong, and so is she, you saw her score. I can do the fighting and she can do the… um, surviving."
In that split second, though it sounded at the time like I would give her free reign over our survival methods, but it comes out like I'm putting in all of the work only for her to make it out alive. That must not sound too convincing to Lindsay, who raises on furrowed eyebrow. I open my mouth again, agape and searching for words to say, but I have none under the paralyzingly focused gaze of the old woman sitting at the table, and for a second this quiet seems discomforting, agonizing.
"She better win."
I can sense my eyebrows involuntarily raising in shock. "You mean—You mean you aren't going to tell me that I should try to win myself, that getting Tessa out will be a waste of time?"
"No, I'm not. I will tell you this, though. I've lost all but three of the hundred-and-something children I've mentored over the years, and I'm going to lose some more this year. But you two are the best in a while, and… and I don't know how I'm going to stand it. It gets hard, knowing that if you don't put in the work to try and save them that nobody will."
Pools of water appear in the bottoms of Lindsay's eyes, and this time they finally spill out, just for a moment, and though she has been such a solid, strict protector to me for the past week, I've never seen this vulnerable inner layer of hers. Old Rowan would try to cheer her up and steer the conversation to something casual and humorous, but I've come a long way, a long way that I can visualize only now as I glance back at the road that I took to get myself here.
"Just know," Lindsay continues, her voice breaking, "that I love both of you, and I would be overjoyed to have either of you return back home with me."
"Thank you," I respond, since there is nothing else adequate for such a heartfelt, bittersweet moment as this. "I'll try my best."
"I have one more thing to say."
I listen astutely.
"Do you know what you're saying? Have you fully come to terms with wanting to let yourself lose so that Tessa can win, or have a better chance at winning? I won't fault you if you step away from your claim right now, if it's merely bombastic, since it is a lot to live up to. But if you tell me that you're going to lay down your life for Tessa's, and then you do the opposite… I'll have a problem."
"I know what I'm saying. I've been thinking about this since the first night. I have nothing to live for back home, no family, only two friends, and they'll have each other. I'm not good at anything besides swinging an axe and making people laugh. I'm going to follow through, if it is the last thing that I do. It will be."
I try to match Lindsay's intense stare to show her that I actually mean what I say. Now isn't the time for jokes, no matter how dark and dismal this subject matter is. Surprisingly, her gaze softens to a grateful, endeared one, and she reaches across the glass surface of the table to take my hand in her grasp and bring it to the middle.
"Thank you, Rowan."
In most scenarios I would try to correct her, to request that she call me by my last name, Hunter. It's what everyone back home referred to me as, but the way that she and Tessa say it with such… such meaning and affection, makes it so much more special than my last name could ever be.
Still with my hands in her snug grasp, Lindsay speaks again. "You really are such a strong man. No boy I've ever met who was your age, and almost no man older, has been as courageous and selfless as you are right now. You are truly… admirable. And if things pan out the way you say they will, I want to tell you that Panem will have a great loss on their hands, and so will District Seven, and so will we, because you will go down a hero."
Contrary to my constant liveliness and cheeriness, I can feel tears blooming in the corners of my eyes. I'm not supposed to ever cry, and for a split second the urge return to hastily attempt to wipe it all away with some unnecessary wisecrack. It's not the time for that. It would ruin this precious moment. It hits me like a wave that I won't be seeing Lindsay ever again after I board the hovercraft headed for the arena, that this is final, but I don't show it. Its only surface manifestation is the low, throbbing feeling in my Adam's apple.
"Thank you," is the only respectable answer. "That means more to me than I could ever say. Lindsay?"
"Yes?"
"You are the strongest person that I have ever met. I don't know how you get through this every year. I don't want to go without telling you that."
Lindsay's mouth hands open preparing to respond with an obvious "thank you", but she is cut off by the bathroom door swinging ajar noisily. Tessa emerges from the archway and scurries towards us, red in the face from pint up frustration and embarrassment.
"Sorry," she says, blushing. "I didn't mean to take that long of a time, I would have been in and out before a minute was up, but I could find the soup, and then I remembered that there was an audible dispenser. Flustered, she pulls out her former chair and thumps down into it, but hops out of it just as fast, as if someone put a thumbtack in it.
"It's twelve o'clock!" she yells, pointing at the time in the dormant, dimming screen of the overhead map of the amusement park. "We can go downstairs now!"
She hurries around to my side of the table, grabbing me by the shoulders but not forcing me out of my chair. There is such glee and ecstasy in her face, pure, yet pained by our current circumstances. Tessa is no dummy, anything but. She knows that this will surely be at least one of our last hoorahs, and that this is probably her last chance ever to have an enjoyable and jollifying time in her life. I can see that desperation and fear masked behind her overpowering excitement.
My resolve hardens further. This is going to be a blast of an afternoon for the both of us. This will be a day that Tessa will remember fondly even if she gets to be as elderly as Lindsay. Tessa is so kind and innocent, and I can't let that innocence fade, or at least prevent as much of it dissipating as I can. I know deep in my heart that she may flounder if she is on her own, and for a second I feel a pang of remorse for diverging from Sierra's big alliance of five, before remembering how falsely friendly and manipulative Nerissa was. I'll just make sure that never has to happen.
I put on my happiest, most bizarrely energized veneer to let Lindsay's words sink in for a moment. I look over to her and find her discreetly padding her face with a handkerchief.
"Come on," I say, standing up dramatically to hog Tessa's attention and give Lindsay a moment. "We're going to have a great afternoon, but it's a shame the main attraction has already happened. Aren't you supposed to save the best for last?" I gesture to myself haughtily. Now is the time for humor, because there may not be much left for the both of us.
Lindsay, fully recovered, leans on her cane as she stands up, now grinning. "Now you two, I know you may be inclined to take this opportunity to forget about the Hunger Games and just have some fun, and I encourage you to for the most part." She leads us to the exit. "However, I also would advise you to take the time to make an impression with some Capitolites that recognize you. I can guarantee you a good portion of your competition will be doing the same."
"We will, we will!" Tessa jumps up and down eagerly behind Lindsay.
I've never seen her this excited. I know deep down that Lindsay was steering the comment towards me. Act funny and brotherly, let Tessa be cute, play the underdog angle. Over oblivious Tessa's head, she looks down at me purposefully, reassuring my intuition. Do the hard work pre-Games for Tessa, and have a day that neither of us will ever forget.
As I pass Lindsay, her cane holding open the door to the silvery, glass-bottom elevator, I give her a nod.
Scores:
10- Arlo, Talisa, Imperia
9- Marvel, Turquesa
8- Scylla, Nerissa, Aquatico, Mystic, Sierra
7- Elior, Rowan, Aleyn
6- Bolt, Konani, Keeley
5- Tessa, Coleus
4- Carroll, Rhiannon
3- Cassius, Raihan, Rooker, Tabitha
Hi! It's been a while. Guys, first off, I am so sorry for making you all wait this long. I kind of fell off of the writing train for a bit and got preoccupied with schoolwork and a play that I was in, so rehearsals took up a lot of time. I also lost my computer for about a week with half of Rowan's POV done when I was flying out to visit my family for an extended Thanksgiving break because all of my luggage got displaced, so there was a solid week when I was unable to write or be in touch with any of you. I've got another week off, however, and I'm feeling really up to writing. In fact, I'm probably about to start writing Talisa's POV for next chapter right after I post this, so I'm hoping the next chapter will be out before I'm back in school. To anybody reading this who I owe reviews, yes, I know, I suck at keeping up, but I swear I'll devote a solid week to it after I get the next chapter out. Thank y'all for being so understanding, and, if you're reading this, shout-out to Plat, Goldie, and Nautics for being supportive in the discord channel.
I know that I switched up some of the events from canon, but I mean come on, it's been eighty-two years, people, some things are bound to have changed, and I reworked things a bit to fit what I liked better. To clarify, after the Private Sessions, the scores are reveals at 11:00 the following day, and then for the afternoon, tributes get a free day to do anything they want within reason while being monitored by Peacekeepers and their mentor. The tributes will be given a day of preparation before having the Interviews at 6:00 that night, and from 8:00-10:00 there will be a Sponsor Banquet for the tributes to socialize with the richest of the sponsors and try to leave a lasting impression. The next day the Games start.
With all of that said, what did you think of the chapter? Were there any scores that you were surprised by? Any that you like or dislike for any reason? Please gives all of your thoughts, I love every single review that I get and your feedback helps me decide which direction to go for each character, so make your voice heard in the reviews. I'll also toot my own horn a bit and celebrate this story clearing the 6k words per chapter line with this update, which means that every chapter now averages roughly 6,000 words, which is a big milestone. I love you all so much and thank you for your constant support.
I'll end with the questions this time:
Of all of the district pairs in this chapter (Two, Seven, Eight, and Eleven), which is your favorite and why? Who is your favorite district pair overall?
What is the name of the District Two escort?
See you all next time!
-Mills