Goodbye
The Peacekeepers escort us both into the Justice Building alongside the mentors, whom I have only known from afar until now. I am completely calm, calmer than I expected myself to be. As Tic lets out a sob every few steps, I even furtively feel my pulse on my neck twice – just to see if I'm still alive. But my heart is tirelessly pumping blood through my veins, erasing any doubts that I've died of a heart attack on stage and that this walk to the scaffold is just my last dream.
"It's a game," I remind myself silently. "A game with rules. Play it."
My confident expression doesn't fade when the Peacekeepers stop our sad little procession and open a door to my right. I slip inside. The room, where I am allowed to sit alone on a large gray sofa, is plain, as most of the houses in District 5 are. The walls are exposed concrete, and just below the ceiling are long straight strips with small lamps. They emit cold light, illuminating the tasteless art on the wall and the few pieces of furniture. The floor is wooden, though, and I decide to stare at it until my grandparents enter the room.
My grandmother May wears a combative expression on her furrowed face as she looks at me. "How much time do we have?" She's not nearly as old as she looks, but hard work does that to people. As a child, I often wondered if the workload was this heavy in other districts. Each time I asked them, my grandparents would just shake their heads at such questions. Today, I assume that 12-hour shifts are be normal everywhere in Panem.
"One hour," I answer her. For the first time since my name was called, my voice falters a little. For almost 19 years I have imagined this conversation and now it has come. Still, everything feels different. Where I could seem confident earlier, I am now increasingly agitated. The winning grin has faded from my face; instead, I feel my head throbbing. I take my silent grandfather's hands and squeeze them.
"An hour," my grandmother repeats firmly. "That's what it was like when they took Mirabella."
My grandfather's face contorts at the mention of my mother, and I look back at the floor. Instantly, my grandmother's finger is under my chin, pushing my head up until I can look her straight in the eye.
"What did I tell you? Head up!" she says loudly. I nod and take one deep breath. She's right. "You can do this, kid," she continues more gently. "You've been training like those tributes from the career districts." My grandfather lets out a hissing sound when my grandmother mentions the forbidden training. Preparation for the Games is officially not allowed, but everyone knows that the kids from 1, 2, and 4 do it. Since my family always assumed that I would one day end up in the Hunger Games, I too have been practicing all sorts of disciplines – I can run fast, I can handle knives, I can climb seemingly impregnable surfaces. I can even swim a bit, I learned that in the big pond in the square in front of the Justice Building. But all that is nothing compared to the trappings of the Hunger Games: The sponsors. The ones who can save you even if you're not much of a fighter. The ones who bet on you even before you can prove your fighting skills in the arena. So I learned to walk on high heels, to wave properly, where my best angle is for the cameras. And I spent a few weekends practicing interviews.
After my mother's death, the Capitol returned not only me to my grandparents, but also a sum of money as compensation. Not for my mother's death, of course, but for the fact that my family didn't get me back until a few days after I was born. Not that they had expected it at all. Anyway, the money enabled us to live comfortably. I didn't have to work small shifts in one of the power plants as a child. Guaranteeing the power supply is so important to the Capitol that in District 5 you are put to work from the age of 14. At least, if you want to – and most families want to, just for the sake of money. I was spared the work and had all the more time to devote to my studies in addition to training. Sure, practical work in the power plants would certainly have helped me, but I found far more information in books and old writings than my peers had. Some of the texts I read had even been written by scientists from across the districts before the rebellion – I always assumed they had been overlooked when the districts were more strictly separated by the introduction of the Hunger Games. In any case, they didn't dampen my interest in anything to do with power and technology. Secretly, I even hoped to win with a clever idea like that scientist from District 3 a few years ago.
"Alys! Are you listening?"
I nod vigorously as my grandmother's voice cuts through the room.
"Be strong!" she impresses on me. "Show the others who's in charge this year from the start! You're stronger than them, you hear me? You're coming back!"
I nod again, straightening my back and sticking out my chest. "I can do this," I repeat her mantra, once for her and once in sign language for my grandfather Ed. They both nod, and even though I know they're worried despite all the strong words, they're grinning so wide I have to join in.
"It's a game," my grandmother says forcefully. "Games have rules and you can win them!"
"I hope the arena plays along this year," I say, even though I'm as prepared as I can be with our limited resources in the specialized districts.
"You'll get what you need at the Cornucopia," my grandmother says, rising. "That's for sure every year, no matter how the arena is designed."
My grandfather now gets up from the dreary sofa again as well. From his pocket he pulls out a small box and holds it out to me. As I take down the lid, I discover a handful of nuts that must have come from the bush behind our house. I smile at him and he nods.
"See you in a few weeks. Remember, you're the message!" my grandmother says firmly, then they both turn and leave, even though the hour given to tributes to say goodbye is not yet up. I stare after them wordlessly. My throat is swollen shut, but I know that I must push away all doubts. There has been time for doubt in recent years. Time to do everything humanly possible to dispel those doubts. I stare at the wall until the Peacekeepers enter the room again.
The train that is supposed to take Tic, our chaperones, and me to the Capitol is built from a dark metal, with lights attached all over its front. Presumably, it is to show that it comes from District 5. For me, it's the first sign of the approaching Games, where the tributes will also be dressed to match their homes. I can't wait to see what silliness the Capitol stylists come up with this year.
On the train, I also get to really meet Tic Anderson for the first time. His hair is sticking wildly off his head, his eyes are puffy and his face is as red as his hair. He seems shrunken compared to the Reaping ceremony just an hour ago, and I have to actively push away the feelings of pity that find their way into my chest while I look at him. But emotions are weakening. I want to win, not feel for my opponents, and that is what he is in the end.
As we get on the train, Porter puts a hand on Tic's shoulder encouragingly.
"I'm sorry," I say to him, and I mean it.
"They're going to send mutations after you," he says quietly. "My parents were sure of that."
I shrug, even though his comment catches me off guard. Somehow, I had expected tears, maybe a sorry from him as well, no retort to my words. "Anything for the message."
He waddles away to his assigned sleeping compartment and I'm left alone with Porter. She's in her early 50s and she looks just as serious as ever. Porter won the 38th Hunger Games and she still wears the wounds of her Games openly in the form of a metal stabilizer on her spine. I have never heard her speak to anyone. Even when she's out shopping in town, she's usually silent. She's a strange woman and we just look at each other for a while, her gray eyes scrutinizing my dark ones, and as a door slams shut behind Tic down the hall, she says, "He won't make it long."
I nod mutely.
"The young ones never go long, unless they look like Finnick Odair," says a male voice behind us. It's the other victor, Spudnell Wilson, who won a few years after Porter but looks twice as old. There's the same bitterness in his voice that my grandmother always displays, and though the occasion doesn't call for it, I have to smile. Next to him, visibly uneasy, stands the Capitol escort, whose name I already become indifferent to the moment he tells it to me. He is of no importance to me. Spud and Porter eye me like cattle, while a tear runs down the escort's cheek. If he were not mourning my imminent death, which I will try to avoid, I would pat his shoulder. Now he only gets a grim look from me.
"For you, on the other hand, I expect some sponsors," Spud says.
"I certainly am TV-worthy," I retort. "And who wouldn't want to bet on the future victor?"
Spud laughs, while Porter grimaces. "Well, haven't you already planned it all wonderfully."
"My fate was set by my mother. The moment she got pregnant," I vaguely quote my grandparents, making a silly little bow as if we were still being filmed. "I guess I have no choice but to comply, right?"
"And what do we do with the little guy when you've already determined your victory?" asks Porter.
"You drag him along until he dies." I frown. "My plan for the arena doesn't include alliances."
Porter raises her eyebrows, and the escort makes a face like I just set off a bomb under his chair.
"We can't both win," I say firmly, then turn and head for my own compartment. I leave the three adults speechless. Porter may think I'm harsh, but when I hear Spud chuckle behind me, I know they realize, as I do, that I'm right. Only one can win. And a fat 13-year-old doesn't stand a chance in the Hunger Games. The most merciful thing that can happen is that he is killed quickly – by me, if need be.