Training
The parade of tributes passes me by as if I had merely experienced it in a dream. No sooner have the chariots rolled into the Training Center after their journey through the city than I can hardly remember it. I wonder how many people were there? There was shouting, hooting, cheering from all directions. I grinned at more than one Capitol dweller and waved in victory. But the only thing that really stuck in my mind was the moment when I accidentally pushed Tic aside while raising my arm. Sure enough, it's what earns me the stern look from Porter as we step out of the car. While she grabs Tic by the shoulders and takes him aside, however, Spudnell comes up to me and pats my shoulder.
"They love you. They can't wait for your interview."
"Thanks."
"One of those higher-ranking officials has already signed on as a sponsor now! He thought strongly of the way you pushed Tic away. Knocked out the first opponent before the games even started, he says."
"I didn't push him," I say firmly, gathering up my dress to better follow Spud up the stairs leading to our accommodations for the coming week.
Spud laughs maliciously. "Well, if you think so."
I stop in my tracks. "It's the truth."
"Porter's coming to his defence, too. But you can be glad, with a boy like Tic you have one less opponent in the arena."
I feel the same anger boil up inside me again at those words as when I attacked Obethia before the Opening Ceremony. Not because it's cruel to hear that Tic's mentor doesn't believe in him - but because I've already had the same thought and felt incredibly guilty afterwards. Now, however, the thought has been spoken and thus made all the more true.
"I'll kill a maximum of twenty-two tributes in the arena," I say to Spud, trying to disguise my guilt.
"Someone else will finish him off and thereby help you move up a notch toward victory." There's something shining in Spud's eyes that I don't like at all. It's not pride in me as a tribute, and it's not faith in my abilities. It's greed. Greed for glory. District 5 is not doing particularly well compared to the others, but it's not doing particularly badly either. We're not poor, but we're not as rich as the people in 1 or 2. We've had some victors, but now we don't have an overwhelmingly high number either. We are in the upper midfield everywhere and that's why we are the worst of all: forgettable. The sponsors often don't care at all. Not even the victors we have are spectacular: Porter is mostly mute, Ayrta is never around, and Spud ... well, he just proved he'd cling to anything that could bring him any kind of prestige.
"Shouldn't you be coaching Tic instead of putting him down?" it escapes me.
He flinches in surprise and has to hold onto the railing to keep from tripping. "Shouldn't you be thanking me?"
"I'm playing the Games by their rules, so you do too. At least pretend to believe in him!"
"Do you?" he returns.
"What I believe doesn't matter," I say. "I know he has to die for my victory. But it's your job to give him the same mindset about me." I eye him disparagingly. "You have no spine, Spudnell. What the hell happened after your Games?" And with that, I push past him.
The floor where Tic and I are billeted as tributes is similarly luxurious to the train compartments, only much, much larger. Even after all these years of watching the Games on TV and hearing my grandparents tell me what they think it might be like in the Capitol, my mouth almost drops open. There is no trace of bare concrete walls here, like we have everywhere in District 5. Every spare inch of the space is adorned with rugs, pictures and wall hangings. In the entryway, a soft-looking sofa group sits around a television, and behind it I spot a huge wooden dining table with chairs that probably cost more than the average person in my home district earns in a year. I don't see any beds, so I expect that Tic and I will probably be assigned our own rooms again - an absolute luxury at home that my grandparents were only able to provide me with because of the Capitol's financial compensation for my messy birth. And sure enough, a mute Capitol servant shows me the way to a room three times the size of what I call my room in my family's home. The following night, I sleep better than ever before.
But then it's time for training. I would have loved to beg Porter to let me stay in the pillows and blankets for a few more hours. But my plan for winning the Games includes the training sessions. So I put on the uniform outfit that the Capitol provides for the tributes, stuff some fruit inside me, and follow the mentors and an increasingly restless Tic into the building's gymnasium. As we step off the elevator, Porter is about to pull us both aside once again. However, at that moment, the team from District 4 turns the corner, and recognizing the brute boy, I tear myself away and enter the gym. After our pre-parade eye contact, he doesn't need to see me surrounded by babysitters.
Therefore, when the Capitol training coaches introduce us to the equipment and weapons, I don't sit down on the floor, but lean against a pillar, seemingly disinterested. Nevertheless, I listen as closely as I can - not only to the rules, but also to the whispering among the tributes. So I pick up the tall boy's name, Saylor, also that of his district partner, Riva. They converse quietly, but so energetically that I'm sure the two are planning their alliance for the arena. No sooner do the various stations open than the girl from District 2 joins them, and the beginnings of the career tribute team stands.
I tighten my shoulders so as not to look intimidated and go first to throw knives. Every throw hits and I hammer a grinning face into the wall with a handful of blades. With a bow in the direction of the three career tributes, I continue my way down the hall. One by one, I rattle off all the practice stations where I'm sure I've mastered the disciplines. The reason is simple: On the first day, all the tributes are sniffing at each other and some eyes are directed at me in particular. Therefore, to intimidate them, I show everything I can do right today. Everything I can't do yet - and that's still quite a lot - I will teach myself in the coming days when my competitors won't pay close attention anymore. As far as I can tell, my plan is going quite well. More than one tribute hastily leaves his station as I approach, and some begin to whisper with glances in my direction. By the end of the day, when a tall white-blond girl approaches me, I know I'm on the right track.
"I'm Angel," she says confidently, holding out her hand to me insistently.
I demonstratively don't grab it, but brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "What's up?"
"Saylor's been watching you. He wants you to join forces with us." She pulls her hand back, now mirroring my gesture.
"Then why doesn't Saylor come himself?", I ask, looking past her to the merged tributes from Districts 4, 2, and 1. Angel must be from 1 by process of elimination. But it's also possible that the others recruited her from another district because of some useful skill. Basically, I don't care. "Is he afraid of me?"
She smiles. "You wish."
I tilt my head calculatingly. "No. He just should be if he wants to live longer than I do."
Angel's smile freezes on her face. She turns her hands back and forth in front of her chest for a while, then opens her mouth as if to make a snarky comment. At that moment, however, the boy from District 4 himself approaches and interrupts her.
"Well, Saylor?" I ask casually. It doesn't escape my notice, however, what a giant he is. My birthday is in a few days, I'm almost 19 years old, so I'm probably the oldest of the tributes, but Saylor exudes a power that makes me look like an elementary school student.
"Well, 5?" he says, and I'm sure he's just pretending not to know my name. He smiles coldly, then puts his hand on Angel's shoulder. "Will you join us?"
"Gladly," I say. "If you want to choke on your own blood the very first night in the arena." Also smiling, I run a finger over my neck.
"Then I guess your fate is sealed. If you can get even half as much done in there as you did in training, then I'll give you a few more days to be fair."
"Likewise."
"There's more of us than there are of you."
"I can count. But all six of you can't win, or didn't you get the rules right?" I look firmly into his narrowed eyes, then my gaze moves to Angel and over to the remaining four career tributes. "Who do you think will be the first to stand up to the group?" I cheerfully wave over to Riva, the boy from 1, and both from 2, who have not heard any of my words. Saylor, however, has understood me perfectly and now emits a contemptuous snort. He bends down a little and brings his face very close to mine.
"We'll see about that. But you'll have been picked up in your component parts by a hovercraft by this time."
"Sounds messy," I say without a trace of fear in my voice. In truth, though, the first patches of sweat are now forming under my arms and in the backs of my knees. Saying I'd win the Hunger Games in front of Porter, Spud, and my grandparents was easy. But now, with a grudging other tribute just inches away from me, even my image of myself falters a bit. For a brief moment, I regret my mocking words - perhaps the safety of a group would be the right way to contest the arena after all. But at the same moment as I grasp this thought, I turn it around: They need the team because they might not be able to stand alone. And a group is only as strong as its weakest link. Who might it be in these Games? Saylor, with his intimidating words, probably isn't. He already seems to have emerged as the leader of the group. Maybe Angel, whose physique is just as delicate as her name sounds? Or the boy from 2, who is all too willing to hide behind his district partner right now?
"You're dead, Alys, you got that?" Saylor hisses as I turn to leave without another word. It doesn't escape me that he's using my name this time. "I'll personally make sure your picture is lit up over the arena."
"As long as you're shown right before me," are my last words before I step into the elevator up to District 5's quarters. I can almost feel Saylor's sore look in the back of my head. And over the next few days, the resentment of the career tributes worsens noticeably, until it finally culminates in my training evaluation by the Gamemakers: A 10.