Pauline drags them out of bed just as early as usual, even though the Game training sessions are over, with absolutely no respect for Veronica's aching muscles.
"Another type of training today!" She announces, much too merrily for seven-thirty in the morning, "you've shown them your moves, now you need to show Panem your personality."
Brad's asked to do interview training separately, which she suspects is less to do with any secret depths, and more to do with not having to bother talking to her. Which is fine, she doesn't want to be distracted by listening to his idiotic remarks either.
Pauline, much to her relief, has already decided to focus on Brad and has enlisted Garfunkel to help her with this challenge. This leaves Veronica with the much gentler and down to earth Cecelia, who pours her a cup of coffee and sits them both down in one of the several sitting areas in the apartment.
As it's still too early for Veronica to speak in any language that isn't grunting, ("Don't worry, I understand, I have teenagers," says Cecelia), they spend the first couple of hours on poise: how to walk on stage, how to hold herself, how to smile and just generally how to use the cameras to her advantage.
That part Veronica passes with flying colours, the skills don't necessarily come naturally to her, but she's always been quite good at imitating other people, working out what they like and how to make sure it works best for her. Often she used this just to not stick out at school, but now sticking out is the plan and, weirdly enough, the same philosophy applies.
Actually speaking proves harder. First, it's tone of voice, she needs to sound quietly confident, even when she isn't, and she definitely needs to stop babbling. Babbling, Cecelia tells her, not only gives the Capitol far too much information that she doesn't need them to know, but very much shows that she's nervous.
"I don't know why you're bothering," she moans as the Avoxes bring in sandwiches with exotic meats on pure white bread for lunch, "I'm clearly not going to win, no one's going to bother sponsoring me."
"Oh Veronica, you mustn't think like that, of course you'll get sponsors," Cecelia says, "Just do your best, show them why it's you they want to survive."
"There isn't a reason for them to want that."
"Of course there is. You're clever, fast, share many people's hate for overbearing escorts and are quick to pick things up – I was watching you in the Training Centre. I like you, make sure other people do too."
"How?"
"What are your hobbies?"
"Umm, I like to draw and design, I like to write…"
"Fantastic! Why don't you tell us a story then? Tell us what it's like back home, tell us what you want to design and how, if you win, you might be able to do what you never dreamed you could.."
Cecelia is a kind woman, she thinks. Her youngest must be the same age as her, but she shows no gratitude that it's Veronica going to her death and not her daughter. She's never had much to do with the victors before. It's different, with them living in the Victor's Village, getting to do hobbies and home-school their kids, while the rest of the district break their backs in the sweltering hot factories.
Cecelia won a decade and a half before she was born, but she can remember Garfunkel's win, six years ago. It was a good year, with parties funded by the Capitol and Package Days, where they were all given extra food to celebrate his victory. It broke the usual monotony and constant feeling of being slightly underfed that they all normally experienced, but even then it was all soon forgotten. Garfunkel retreated to his easy life as a winner and the rest of their district to their usual hard lives. It's easy, seeing them go to a constant stream of Capitol events, to think the victors are more Capitol than district, but as she talks to her, Veronica knows Cecelia does not feel that way at all.
It's not as brutal as she expected, talking about her life and dreams. Cecelia proves feedback as she spins a story for the Capitol to eat up, as if she really believes the ridiculous notion that she could win. It's a pretty fantasy. It would be an enviable position to be able to design fancy dresses, maybe even wear them. She'd like it, having Cecelia to guide her through being a victor, to have a friend to help her understand what that new life would be like. Maybe Cecelia too would like the company.
It's a shame it will never happen.
By mid-afternoon, Cecelia is happy with her progress.
"We'll do one more run through in the evening, but what you need now is some rest. Take a bit of a walk, clear your head, God knows you'll not get a break from the beauty team tomorrow," She says, with the weariness of someone who has experienced far too many overly talkative Capitol beauticians.
Veronica already spends half of her nights pacing her room, and half of the apartment is restricted for Brad's training, so instead she takes the elevator downstairs.
The Training Hall looks strange, almost eerie, now it is no longer full of weapons and people. She gets a slushy from the automatic minibar in the corner, which, according to the cup, is "guaranteed to freeze your brain!" – which feels appropriately numbing for the situation, then wanders round the area aimlessly. She spots one or two other tributes doing the same, also relishing the last time they'll not be watched by the whole of the country. But they do not acknowledge her, nor she them.
So she's surprised when she hears someone running up to her. She turns to see Betty grasp her hand, eyes burning with a fierce determination so different from the quiet, sad, look she wore yesterday.
"Veronica, I'm so glad I caught you. I need to talk to you."
Betty leads her to a small courtyard behind the kitchens, all the while looking around for cameras. The area is clearly meant for staff, it has overflowing bins, empty food boxes and a few broken weapons. She's not quite as confident that they are away from the cameras as JD seemed the other day, but it's certainly an area less monitored.
"I have a plan."
This is the first time she's seen the girl look so serious but, stripped of its usual levity, Betty's voice is urgent, "We don't fight. The moment we enter the arena all of us: you, me, Rodney, Peter, Dennis and anyone else we can get to agree, step out before the first minute ends, setting off the mines that go off if you leave the start point too early – it'll be almost painless and we'll remain innocent."
Veronica is a little underwhelmed, "So we still die."
"I didn't say it was perfect, but at least it's a statement, the whole of Panem will know what we did and maybe enough will know why – it might even spark something in them."
It wouldn't have ever sparked something in me, she thinks, bitterly.
It's not that she liked her life working for the almighty Capitol, it's just she was, well she was indifferent really. It sucked, obviously, and it's not like she hadn't spent the odd night fantasising the ways she could take them down, but she's always valued being alive more than dying a martyr for a better future. It was always easy to ignore the two children being dragged away annually for the slaughter. She'd never known any of the tributes, so the only way it impacted her was a couple of weeks of grisly TV (at least it was a break from the monotony of normal District 8 life.)
Obviously, all of these reasons not to fight are now rapidly falling away.
Maybe there is something in Betty's idea.
She ponders it, it would be an easy death, a painless death. A route that would surely be easier, more meaningful than choosing to stay alive. But, even as she thinks about it, her stomach twists in knots and she feels slightly nauseous. Somehow calmly taking a step and simply dying is a much more terrifying thought than being hunted and wounded, until her body has no choice but to surrender.
She doesn't want to show them she's not a pawn, she realises, she wants to live.
"Don't you feel it's a little extreme? I mean, there have been years when all the Careers have died in a freak accident and suddenly it's all to play for, for everyone else."
But Betty shakes her head, "I can't do it, even if I thought I might win, I can't. Think of what a monster you become if you survive even a few days, even if you don't kill anyone you'll be cheering as each cannon goes off simply because it isn't you."
She's not wrong, but it's a lot to give up, to make a sacrifice too noble to be expected of someone reaped.
Her life might suck now, but at least she exists.
"Do you believe there's a life after death?" She asks.
Betty hesitates, "I think so, I mean there must be. If this is all we get, even when we do what is right, then that's a pretty bleak existence."
Veronica isn't sure that a bleak existence isn't pretty much the point of life, but an afterlife is a nice thought, if she ever manages to con her way into the same place Betty clearly deserves to be in.
"I'm not sure there's a God though, I can't imagine an all-powerful being just letting this happen."
If there was any semblance of a fair God he'd have long ago sent a plague to kill everyone in the Capitol and let us be free, she thinks, though she can't quite dismiss the idea of one who enjoys looking down and watching his creations suffering.
Betty's right, this is the easiest, most painless, way out. This is the only choice offered to them that could vaguely make a difference.
Veronica smiles sadly, "I guess we'll find out soon enough." She takes a deep breath, "Ok, let's do it."
She doesn't know if she is lying.
Betty pulls her into a tight hug. "Thank you, Ronnie," she mutters in her ear, "you've made the last few days bearable. See you on the other side."
Veronica doesn't respond, just holds her even closer, burying her head in Betty's shoulder. Somehow saying goodbye to this girl, who she's known for less than a week, is harder than it was saying goodbye to her parents and friends at home. She wonders if this is the last show of genuine affection she will ever receive.
Once she has left her friend's warmth the world feels even colder.
xxx
She sits there for a while, stirring her now melted slushy, not really knowing what to do with herself. Thinking about life and death and greater meanings, and how Betty Finn is just a better person than her, before she ambles back to the Training Hall.
He's there, by the elevator, when she enters the room. He's leaning idly against a wall, cigarette between his lips, as if he's been waiting for her. Maybe he has. She seriously considers turning around right there so she doesn't have to face him.
Is it weird to feel almost shy around someone she's been intimate with? Does it even count as intimacy if she feels like she knows him no better than she did before? She bites the bullet and walks towards him. He grins at her, as if he has heard all of her internal debate.
"Turns out those minibars don't just give drinks." He says, gesturing to the cigarette, he pulls a second out of his pocket and offers it to her.
She raises her eyebrows, places it between her lips and leans forward to let him light it, "Smoking kills." she mutters.
He snorts, "My dear Veronica, I would never seek to kill you this inefficiently," he takes another drag, "Our days are already numbered, what's left but to indulge our vices?"
He's not wrong, and he's just as hot as before she fucked him, so she leans back on the wall next to him and takes a drag.
"So," he says, "A 6. Not too bad for a girl from 8."
She scoffs, "It's hardly noticed when your idiot of a district partner gets an 8."
"'Idiot' being the keyword there. Tributes like that never win, they choose the wrong side, then their pride gets the best of them."
"Because you're as modest as they come."
"I know where I am superior to my fellow tributes, that's not arrogance, just tactics. Just like you, practicing saying pretty words, so you can pretend you don't detest the people you're saying them to."
There are cameras, she is sure of it, and microphones picking up every blasphemous word that comes out of his mouth. She feels a streak of annoyance that he is involving her in this at all, "Like you aren't doing the same."
"Haymitch refused to mentor me. I'd flatter myself that it was because I'm more competent than Martha, but everyone knows that she could give the best interview in the history of the Games and it would be a lost cause. He just doesn't like me."
With anyone else, she'd assure them this wasn't the case, but he's probably right, so she remains silent and takes another drag of her cigarette.
They stay that way for a while, leaning against the Training Centre wall, smoking in what is almost contented silence.
Then, without warning, he is in front of her, plucking the cigarette out of her mouth and planting his hands on the wall on either side of her. He takes a step towards her, so their faces are inches apart.
Despite the fact she could easily slip away, she feels trapped by him. Her traitorous blood moves south, remembering the last time they were in this position.
"The thing is, Veronica," he says, lips turned away from the cameras, "the secret they don't want you to know is, even if you're the victor, they still win. You don't start a revolution by pretty words or making sure other people like you. You win by hitting them when they don't think they can lose."
She hesitates, because she trusts him none, but the one thing she knows is he will not tell the Capitol, and then mutters into his ear, "There's been talk," she says, carefully, "of a group suicide at the beginning of the Games, to show the Capitol they can't decide our fates."
He snorts, "Betty Finn and her little geek club won't make a tiny bit of difference. It's not like anyone thought they would win anyway."
"But everyone will know what they did, that they didn't play to the Capitol's plans of watching their deaths for fun, it'll make a statement." She doesn't like how much her words sound like a question.
"It'll make less of a statement when they publicly hang the rest of their families for their children's insubordination."
"You're making that up."
For a second, she sees something dangerous flicker across his face. "I'm just saying, if you really want to make a statement, there are much better ways to do it than blowing yourself up before they realise your power." he says and then walks away infuriatingly, before she has a chance to even attempt to grasp what he means.
"Until we meet again, Veronica Sawyer," he says over his shoulder, "stay alive."
She lets her head flop back until it hits the wall. She definitely needs to stop going for guys who think they're edgy.
xxx
She's distracted all through her final practice, but Cecelia puts it down to tiredness and nerves (and doesn't once wonder if it's because she's thinking about not trying to win at all) and sends her for an early night.
Veronica lies in the dark for a long time, thoughts swirling around her head.
If she looks at it rationally, it's obvious which of the two viewpoints she's been presented with today is the correct one to follow. One is a solid plan, makes use of the little power she has, and makes a statement. The other is little more than an insult towards Betty and a fantasy, based on who the fuck knows what, that she'll be able to do anything more in the Games than be horrifically murdered by the particularly scary Careers who volunteered this year.
If she follows Betty, in less than two days she will be dead. Dead, but still as innocent as before she was reaped. She will not win but she will not suffer the way the other losers likely will. The idea is both repulsive, but also highly logical. After all, what is another couple of terrible days on this shitty planet really going to do? Betty's right, neither of them are going to be victors.
…And yet, there's that little voice in the back of her head that keeps bugging her, what if JD is right? What if she has more of a chance than she thinks? It's a silly thought, stupid really. Why is she believing something told to her by a boy she trusts perhaps even less than the rest of her competitors?
But she could try, couldn't she? What does she have to lose?
Only her humanity, only her everything.
Still, in a moment of weakness, just before she drifts off to sleep, she allows herself, just for a second, to think about JD's statement. To imagine that her winning isn't just a lie she's planning to tell the Capitol tomorrow, to have the Capitol cheer her name as she exits the arena, to live in luxury for the rest of her life in an ivy-covered house in the Victor's Village, to be able to draw and design rather than work on a production line in a factory, to have her name written down in history books. It's appealing, so much more appealing than a quick and violent death.
She does her best to push what she has to do to get this out of her mind.
