"What score do you think you'll get?" Finnick asks conversationally, digging into a sandwich laden with chicken, avocado, and lettuce. Between the sandwich and the smoothie, he's bound to be stuffed by the end of the meal.
"A twelve, of course," Ruby replies.
Finnick starts to laugh, then abruptly turns it into a cough when he notices the utterly serious expression on Ruby's face. "Twelve?"
Ruby eyes him, brow arched. "You think I can't do it?"
"Of course you can," Alabaster breaks in, shouldering Ruby good-naturedly. "You're the best at everything!"
A self-satisfied smile breaks across Ruby's face. "If you say so."
Interesting. Finnick spots his opportunity and takes it. "The best at everything, huh?" he ventures through a giant bite of sandwich.
"Alabaster is being generous," Ruby says flippantly, though Finnick notices her spine straighten reflexively at his comment. "I just know what I'm doing."
"And what's that?" Finnick asks innocently.
She sneers at him over her meal of a salad and some sort of vitamin-infused liquid. Oddly enough, she's barely touched it since they began eating; perhaps anticipation of her evaluation is stealing her appetite. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"If you knew what you were doing, you'd eat something with more protein," Bellona remarks. Her lunch consists of a bland-looking protein pack and electrolyte drink. Miles has followed suit, though his meal sits as untouched as Ruby's.
Ruby flashes Bellona an irritated glower. "Don't tell me what to do."
Bellona just shakes her head and occupies herself with her own meal.
"See here, Finnick." Ruby leans forward, and Finnick finds himself unconsciously mirroring her from across the table. "As a tribute, you must constantly ask yourself: What does the Capitol want?"
"Blood," Bellona replies.
"Entertainment?" Miles suggests.
"Fun," Alabaster chimes in.
"They want perfection." And Ruby certainly looks it: every lock of hair in place, every article of clothing draped flawlessly against her stout, generous figure. "They want a tribute who is impeccable in every way. And I intend to give it to them." She grabs her tray and stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" She turns and walks away.
A strained silence follows, as if Ruby left an explosive in their midst and they're not sure who's going to detonate it by speaking first. Finally, Miles pipes up, voice an octave higher than usual.
"Does she really think she can get a twelve?"
Alabaster shakes his head and chuckles to himself. "Of course she does. She's Ruby Riveta. Top of her class at the academy, either hated or loved by everybody in the district. Her parents are filthy rich, you know. They make jewelry for the Capitol."
"I think Little Miss Princess's head is a little too big for her neck," Bellona says over her cup.
Alabaster snorts, looking immensely pleased with himself for someone who is afflicted with same condition. He's at the center of attention—just where he wants to be. "She won't have such a big head when I remove it from her shoulders. I've heard her scream and cry like a baby when she doesn't get her way. She's really loud; everyone in the whole building hears it. Sounds like a little piglet."
Bellona and Miles chortle, though the latter looks a little green in the face. Finnick has to force out a laugh, hoping his revulsion doesn't show on the outside the way he feels on the inside. Not only is Alabaster willing to discuss killing his own district partner, but he seems to relish the notion, look forward to it even. The very idea of murdering Caspia makes the substantial meal sitting in his gut churn like a typhoon in his gut.
When Ruby returns to the table, everyone switches topics as easily as if they'd never been discussing her.
"What do you plan on showing the Gamemakers?" she asks Finnick, smoothing the front of her shirt as she slides back onto her seat.
He shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe I'll sing them a song."
"Come on," Alabaster insists. He kicks his feet up on the table, upsetting a cup of water. He ignores it, and so do the others. "Swords, spears? You gotta have something besides a pretty face."
Finnick raises an eyebrow. "Maybe that's all I'll need."
Alabaster huffs contemptuously. "I doubt it. Good bone structure doesn't mean anything if there aren't any brains to back it up."
"I can't wait to see those Callows run," Bellona says, absently picking at the barely edible brick sitting on her plate. "They get more and more pathetic every year."
"Just wait until I get ahold of one of those whelps," Alabaster says, hands clenched into fists. "I'm gonna—" He mimes a violent wrenching moment, nearly elbowing Ruby in the chest.
"Save it for the bloodbath," Ruby scolds, but there's no vitriol to her tone.
"I'll be right back." Almost before he finishes speaking, Miles shoots to his feet, leaving his uneaten lunch at the table, and makes a beeline for the dining room exit.
Bellona scoffs and pushes back her chair. "Idiot. I'll go get him." She follows after Miles, nearly bowling over a hapless Callow on the way.
What is wrong with this guy? This must be about more than just pre-Games nerves. Curiosity getting the best of him, Finnick pushes back his plate and announces, "I'm going to use the restroom."
"No one cares," comes Alabaster's sardonic reply. Ruby is picking at her nails and ignores him altogether.
When he is sure One isn't looking, he circles around, bypassing the hall leading to the restrooms, and slips out the dining room entrance into the atrium. He veers left on a whim and nearly runs into an Avox headed into the cafeteria.
"Sorry," Finnick starts, but the Avox only bobs her head and scurries away, shoulders hunched.
When they first encountered the Avoxes upon arriving at the Training Center, Finnick asked Mags if they ever tried to communicate with her beyond mandated voiceless submission. She's been a mentor for over fifty years; surely they have grown accustomed to seeing her time and time again, perhaps even formed some sort of friendship with her. Mags just smiled at him and replied, It's best not to dwell on such things, Finnick. You'll only add to an already heavy burden.
Finnick didn't mention the Avoxes again.
"Would you get a grip?" Bellona's voice, lowered into a sharp hiss, reaches Finnick's ears over the constant stream of noise floating from the cafeteria. Finnick instinctively slips behind a tall statue of President Snow flanking the left side of the dining room entryway.
"I can't do it." Miles, his voice high and tremulous. "I'm not cut out for this, Bellona."
"It doesn't matter," Bellona replies fiercely. "You're here now, and you're going to make the best of it."
"But if I'm not good enough?" Miles fires back. "What then?" His voice rises in pitch, escalating to a near-shout.
"Shut your mouth," Bellona snaps. "Shut your mouth and calm down."
There's a moment of silence. Finnick holds his breath, afraid they've heard him.
"You need to stick to the plan," Bellona continues. "Review your skills. Impress the Gamemakers, get a good training score, and let the district reputation do the rest. The Callows won't know the difference."
"The rest of the pack will," Miles whispers. "They'll take me out first."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Bellona says. The menace in her tone lingers long after she stops speaking. "Just give them a good show, Miles. It's all they want. Now get yourself together and get back in there."
Shadows shift on the floor, alerting Finnick of their movement. He darts back into the cafeteria, slinks past the entry connecting the gymnasium to the dining room, and ducks into the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Bellona and Miles reclaim their places at the table with Alabaster and—
"Hear anything interesting?"
Finnick jumps. Illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym, Ruby lounges casually against the wall, hip cocked, arms crossed over her chest.
It takes all of Finnick's training not to let his surprise show on his face. He masks it with an exaggerated eyeroll, sidling closer to Ruby with a careless, ambling gait. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play coy with me." Ruby peels herself off the wall and moves to meet Finnick in the middle of the hall, close enough Finnick can smell whatever shampoo she used this morning. "You might have everyone else fooled with the pretty face and vapid idiot act, but I know your mentor. Magdalena Flanagan wouldn't have let you within a hundred miles of the Capitol if she thought you weren't victor material."
Every nerve in Finnick's body lights up like a firecracker at Ruby's proximity. She emanates danger like heat radiates from the sun. "Who says it's an act?" he says, stuffing his hands on his pockets. "Maybe I'm both pretty and smart."
"What fortuitous circumstances," Ruby says, bloodred mouth widening into a crocodile grin. "So am I."
Ruby is shorter than him by a head, but she might as well be ten feet taller for how small she makes Finnick feel. She peers up at him, dark eyes wide and plaintive, lips pulled down in a fatuous pout. What would Mags want him to do? Clearly there's more to the tributes from District 2 than what meets the eye. Is it worth divulging what he's learned about one enemy to a different one?
The thing about secrets is, they're only valuable if they're kept. Mags' voice says in his ear. You must be careful about giving them away; a weapon belonging to you, handed to someone else, will hurt you just the same as it will hurt your enemies.
"Miles Strand," Finnick starts, shoulder pressed insouciantly against the wall. "For a tribute from District Two, he sure seems to be pretty nervous about the Games."
"If he's putting on an act, it sure is fooling me," Ruby agrees. Her eyes are alight with a hungry new fire. She's hooked; now Finnick just has to reel her in.
Another piece of advice Mags had offered: The mentors from One and Two often share information about their districts that others will not be privy to. Any knowledge you can get about the Primary tributes and their relationships with one another will help you.
"It's probably nothing important," Finnick says dismissively. "After all, you Primaries are as close as whales and barnacles; what could I possibly know about Miles that you don't?"
A pause. Ruby leans in, and Finnick finds himself automatically mirroring her, drawn in like a fish to bait. "I'll tell you a little something my mentor told me: Knowledge is only power if you apply it. If you keep it to yourself and never use it, you might as well not have it at all."
Finnick raises a brow. "How intriguing. Because my mentor told me knowledge is power when it's kept to oneself." He dips his head and draws back. "How do I know you won't go running to Alabaster and tell him exactly what I've told you?"
To Finnick's astonishment, Ruby scoffs and waves a contemptuous hand. "That idiot? Please. His head is so big, if I tried to fit any more into it, it would probably explode. He's better left as is. This will be our little secret."
"Our little secret, huh?" The air between them is searing, buzzing with fulgurant energy. "But if I share a secret, is it really a secret anymore?"
"Come on," Ruby wheedles. "How about a little deal huh? A secret for a secret. I'll go first. I know Enobaria wasn't supposed to mentor this year. It was supposed to be Lyme Axtell, but she got pulled at the last minute. Enobaria was drafted in her place."
"Lyme?" Finnick struggles to manifest a face alongside the name. "Why'd they pull her?"
Ruby shrugs. "You guess is as good as mine. She was almost as popular as Enobaria if you ask me, and a great mentor as well. It's odd, I haven't seen her around the Capitol lately. Either way, we're probably better off now that Enobaria is here instead because she's less experienced."
Oh, yes. Lyme Axtell. She gouged out a tribute's eyes with her fingers. She had been quite popular, especially for a tribute who wasn't traditionally beautiful, but Finnick can't remember a recent Games featuring her mentorship. "It sounds like the odds aren't in District Two's favor this year."
"If Miles is any indication, I'm inclined to agree," Ruby responds. "I've never met such an odd Career."
Finnick opens his mouth, about to reply, when a voice blares from speakers overhead: Attention tributes: Please return to your seats. Evaluations will begin shortly, starting with the male tribute from District 1 and ending with the female tribute from District 12. Please listen for your name to be called and be ready to relocate to the evaluation room.
Ruby inhales, tucking locks of already-tucked hair behind her ears. "Well, this has been an incredibly informative little conference, has it not?"
Time to get out of here before he says something he regrets, but not so fast Ruby thinks he's been intimidated. Finnick pitches his voice low, looking down at Ruby through hooded eyes. "I think so. How shall I ever thank you for this most valuable piece of information?"
Ruby presses a finger against her bottom lip, gaze tilted up in an expression of deep consideration. "I've told you District Two's secret," she says. "Now tell me yours. Share with me, Finnick Odair. Something you've never told anyone else."
She might as well have asked him to hold his breath for an hour underwater. What can he possibly tell her that won't incriminate him at a later date? His whole life revolves around the Games. They loom over him and the whole of Panem, as constant and inescapable as air. Were the Hunger Games birthed for him because of the iniquities of his ancestors, or was he birthed for the Hunger Games, an offering held up to merciless gods so they might withhold their wrath from his people? This train of thought gives him an idea.
"Sometimes, when I'm all alone, I like to imagine a life where I'm not a Career. Where I'm just a regular old citizen of District Four, no responsibilities, no weight of my district's expectations sitting on my shoulders. And it's nice. It's…light." Finnick rolls his shoulders in their sockets, as if he can throw off the yoke of obligation with a mere shrug. If he were like Caspia, unfettered by the chains of duty, would he be standing here right now, engaged in discourse with Ruby? Would he have even offered himself to Mags as tribute all those months ago?
"They say you're not a volunteer," Ruby says, her voice lowered to a near whisper. "That Mags took you as is. Is it true?"
"True as the man himself," Finnick replies with an easy grin. It slips onto his face, smooth and flawless as polished glass.
Whether Ruby's answering exhale is one of exasperation or approval, Finnick can't tell. But then she's looking at him like she's a shark and he's a fish, and Finnick suddenly doesn't care. "I do know one thing, Finnick Odair: If you win the Games, you won't just be a victor. You'll be a legend."
Quicker than Finnick can react, Ruby is close again, pressing her lips to his cheek, breath hot against his skin. "Thanks for the secret." The words are less speech than they are exhalation of air, scorching, treacherous, branding. Then she slips past him and exits the corridor, fingers brushing casually against his arm as she leaves.
Sweat dampens the back of Finnick's shirt, chilling him as he leans against the wall, recollecting his frenzied thoughts. The ghost of Ruby's kiss burns on his cheek long after he rejoins the pack in the dining hall.
Finnick strolls into the evaluation room at a leisurely pace, arms spread as though awaiting a loving embrace. When he is met with nothing but silence, he frowns.
"Where's the applause?" he asks. "I'm sure I was promised cheering and adoration."
The Gamemakers aren't amused. "Finnick Odair of District Four, please present your chosen skill."
"Now where's your sense of humor?" Finnick wheedles, leaning against a rack of bladed weaponry. "Come on, I know you've got it in you."
This gets the attention of a man with a long, elaborately styled beard and excessively tattooed skin. His gaze is riveted on Finnick, a hint of amusement playing across his expression.
Grinning triumphantly, Finnick points at the man and says, "There you are! I see you up there, ya dirty rascal!"
The Gamemaker's smirk deepens.
Mags' instructions regarding his assessment had been short and sweet: Don't get a bad score, don't get a great score. Get a good one. Let your interview do the rest.
Good? Finnick has never been "good" a single day in his life. If he has the chance and capacity to excel at something, why shouldn't he? Despite his aversion to mediocrity, Mags' advice prevails. It makes sense, after all: amassing unanimous Gamemaker support as well as sponsorship is a surefire way to make a lot of enemies very quickly. And without his district partner around to watch his back, cumulating opponents in the early portion of the Games, while the pack is still together, would most likely end poorly for Finnick.
So he won't try his hardest to be the best. But he won't deliberately fail either.
He's been performing for evaluative personnel since he first started attending the academy; performing for the Gamemakers is no different. As he did back in District 4, Finnick starts with an easy skill, something he's confident he can succeed at regardless his level of anxiety. Ropes, dangling from the ceiling perhaps ten meters high, provide a perfect instrument for his first exhibition. He grabs the length of rope and begins to haul himself up, legs dangling, one hand grasping the rope above the other. His head nearly touches the ceiling before he finally lowers himself down, not to touch the floor, but to pull himself up again. He does this once, twice more before he plants his feet on the ground, releases the rope, and sinks into a deep bow. Still no response.
"Come on, guys! Give me something to work with, here." Finnick picks up a spear and twirls it in a flourishing gesture more suited to theatrics than combat. He accompanies the display with a little dance, a few steps to a jig he learned back home. This gets a couple of the Gamemakers' attention. "Interested? You haven't seen anything yet. Not only can I dance, but I can sing, too." Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts belting out the first song that pops into his head.
"A sailor swam out to sea to find the biggest pearl there is, but all he saw was a big ol' shark and an ocean full of piss."
This earns a giggle from one of the female Gamemakers. Finnick winks and whirls the spear some more. "He says to the shark, 'How do you do?' but the shark does not reply—know why?—'cause the shark has gobbled the sailor up, hand and foot and eye."
He prances around the gymnasium like an utter fool, belting out more shanties and performing various activities as he comes to them. He cartwheels on a whim, which takes him to a bow stand. A less than stellar session of archery later, he's moving on to the next station: A cart of paints and brushes. He dips his fingers irreverently into the paint and smears it on his skin, still singing.
"Seaglass lass, cast me your eye. Seaglass lass, give me a kiss. When the tide sweeps in, it's you I'll miss, and I'll think of you on high."
If only Mags could see me now.
At this point, the Gamemakers have lost all hope that Finnick is going to do anything worthwhile. They've taken up conversation with each other, sipping on glasses of wine and picking at a table of appetizers.
Eager to regain their attention, Finnick moves on to more difficult skills: Knife throwing, which might've garnered interest earlier in the session, does little to impress them now that he's spent most of the time annoying them to deflect overwhelming approval. What will the Capitol think when they see his puny seven or eight next to the other Career tens? What will the other Careers think? The image of Ruby's smug, jubilant expression when she sees her perfect score, higher than his, higher than anyone's in the history of the Games, shimmers into existence at the forefront of his mind. He almost gags at the thought. Envy simmers under his skin, burning away the last of his resolve to follow Mags' instruction. He can't just hand Ruby the highest score. Not without trying.
Finnick picks up a spear, tests its weight, and slips into the initial stance of a form he christened the ocean drill. Then he begins the routine, a quick, fluid pattern of spinning and swiping, lightning-fast jabs and strikes coming from every possible angle. The drill is mostly large, sweeping movements intended to mimic the oceans vastness, the magnificence of crashing waves and great, powerful currents, interspersed with the occasional series of rapid-fire stabbing gestures or sharp transitions between stances. It's also not the most practical of exercises; any nitwit with a brain could work out the composition of his maneuvers, step inside his defense, and disarm him in a single move. But the form is elaborate, imposing, and most of all, wondrous to the untrained eye.
It's time for the closing act. Barely winded, Finnick begins the finale of his little exhibition. "Little fish, little fish, swimming in the sea. Little fish, little fish, feeding you and me. Little fish, little fish, there's nothing you can do. Little fish, little fish, prepare to meet your doom." In a single, effortless motion, he turns, aims, and throws the spear as hard as he can. It pierces the chest of a dummy so forcefully the thing crashes to the ground, spearhead buried in its torso.
Finnick straightens, facing the panel of Gamemakers now watching intently from their viewing box.
"I'll be here all week," he says, and bends in a final, affected bow. When he looks up, he finds the eyes of the first Gamemaker, the one with the tattoos, and smiles.
The Gamemaker smiles back. The man's gaze never wavers, even as the Head Gamemaker dismisses Finnick and he saunters out the door, whistling a cheerful tune.
For all of Finnick's antics, he earns a training score of nine.
"Not bad," Mags says from her spot on the couch. "Good enough to attract sponsors, low enough to avoid Career scrutiny."
Finnick is pacing around the room, swinging his arms wildly back and forth to compensate for the lack of a weapon in his hand. "Too low?" he wonders aloud. "Will sponsors even want to donate to a Career tribute with a nine?"
"Miles Strand got a seven," Mags points out. "And I doubt even he will want for sponsors in the end."
Yes, but Ruby got a ten. Not the twelve she had been hoping for, but certainly an admirable score. And certainly higher than Finnick's. Alabaster's nine and Bellona's ten make him feel utterly incompetent. Finnick doesn't know whether to be pleased or threatened by Caspia's seven, which, while low for a Career, is promising for someone who had seemed beyond hope just a day before.
"I should've started out with knife-throwing, instead of prancing around like a fool," Finnick mutters, flinging his arms wide. "Will sponsors even want to donate now?"
"Nonsense." Mags flaps her hand at him. "If they're on the fence now that the scores have been released, they'll be on your side after the interviews. Now stop pacing; you're wearing a hole in the carpet."
Finnick flops down on the couch adjacent to Mags' with a sigh. "Fat chance. I don't know what I could possibly do or say to make them like me more."
"We're not looking for theatrics," Mags says. "You're already a naturally charming and amiable person. Just don't overthink things and let Caesar Flickerman do his job."