The boy tribute is Asa Doherty, and Lane didn't bother asking him how old he was, just as she didn't bother asking me. Perhaps even years are like sabbatical years for her, a day-off so to speak, and when the next year comes she would finally see some action, some excitement, and get back to the real work… Until then, please, just let those poor kids die already!
Well, Doherty isn't poor. I don't know him, but I know his father, and so does everyone else because he's some sort of pearls expert; thus, his family is considerably wealthy — not enough to guarantee a seat at the stage built on the promenade, but enough to live with comfort. I doubt he had more than his mandatory share of slips.
It doesn't really matter, then, how many times your name is in the ball. It doesn't stand a chance to the mystery of the odds. It's all about if they are in your favor or not. Talk about an edition that reminds us of that.
As soon as he was reaped, the hopelessness of the District 4's citizens became palpable. Doherty's lack of survival skill was obvious; he didn't need any of those. Last but not least, no one had a clue of who I was (except maybe for the anglers and merchants, and I'm quite sure this is the first they hear of my name) as much as I don't have a clue of whom most of them are. They could only speculate that, a girl that no one wept for when her name was called, a girl so bland and faceless that hardly anyone remembered her from the Market, a girl who wasn't a student of the Academy, a girl skinny and gawky like me wouldn't last a day in the arena. If there was any hope our district would be victorious this year, despite our volunteering ban, it had vanished as soon as Doherty and I have had our hands raised by Lane, introducing us as District 4's tributes.
Four Peacekeepers rush us into the Justice Building, where we're supposed to say our goodbyes to family and friends. Of course, on my side, no one will come. With no strings attached, I'm the last Cresta standing, and soon the earth will be deprived of our genes.
I don't pay much attention to where I'm being lead, nor my surroundings; this whole situation seems a bit too unreal, a nightmare, and I'm only struck out of my torpor when I reach my destiny: a peculiar room it's a way to put it, with its walls coated in a perfect shade of white, furniture with lines so precise, and incredibly large windows that appear to be merging with the ceiling, offering a beautiful view of the clouded sky. I have never seen such symmetry, elegance, and yet simplicity, before. A rectangular couch is placed right in the middle of the room, its design so linear its cushion looks stiff. When I sit down, though, it's as comfortable as a heap of sand, and the similarity makes me relax.
Sand. Will I ever see the beach again? My beloved beach… There's still hope, I think to myself. The arena might be a beach. Not the most reassuring thought, but it makes me feel better anyhow, the subliminal presumption of dying somewhere it brings me peace, somewhere I belong. I didn't have many expectations for my life, never knew what to do with it, but I never considered dying. It has never crossed my mind, as I'd prefer fantasizing about running away, mostly. When I was younger, I had this silly dream one day I would swim all the way out of District 4 and escape Panem forever, no looking back, settling in a distant island, far from the Capitol's claws.
I wish I had tried.
How long have I been in here? Five minutes? Fifty minutes? I never imagined loneliness would affect me as it does now, with no guests to wish me luck and tell me they love me, how much they hope I come back against all odds. Being lonely never bothered me before, when I had the sea as company, but as I face death it dawns on me how much I was craving for human company all along. Not the company I had during my years in the Community Home or the company of school projects' partners. I was craving for more than polite greetings, more than strictly-business exchanges… And I wouldn't get the chance to find me a meaningful company anymore, would I? All that's in store for me now is the company of my fellow tribute, if he's willing, and the company of our mentors, if they decide I'm worthy of their time. I'll pass Lola Lanes' company, though.
Time is infinite and I'm beginning to grow impatient — and resentful, for somewhere buried deep in my heart there was still a throbbing hope that someone would come and visit me. Suddenly, I'm annoyed with Gia's apparent disregard for me. I conveniently forget about my other six level neighbors and, a little insulted, I mull over it. She's my neighbor! She borrowed oil from me once! All I get from her is that paltry look from earlier? Then I try to put myself in her shoes and the shocking truth that comes from it is I wouldn't visit her either. I made sure to keep everyone at arm's length, no strings attached, so who am I kidding? I brought this upon myself.
When they come to get me, I can't quite figure out their contorted countenance, until I realize they pity me, too. I furrow my brows, confused, for I never took any of the Peacekeepers as real people with real emotions, people capable of feeling sorry for reaped kids. As a matter of fact, the view of the Games in our district is so distorted everyone thinks it's this big honor to be part of it. The most common first word among children here is probably "Career". With that being said, why? Why do they pity me? I don't think it makes the slightest difference to them if I'm a Career or not. Can it be due to the fact not a single person exerted their right to see me? Is that something new, something that has never happened? Whatever, I suppose. It's fruitless to dwell on it.
After I rendezvous with Doherty, we are directed towards the lower levels of the Justice Building. We reach an open, cemented space, empty if not for a single car parked a few meters from our location, next to a metal wall. It's a strange sight to see; it seems like an endless ocean of grayness, a black and greasy creature submerging from its depths. I've seen a car only once in my life and that was when a Capitol citizen (a woman with a funny name I can't recall) came to our District on sanctioned matters and refused to walk around on foot. Her car was very similar in shape, but it had a horrendous orange painting that stuck out in the streets as much as a giant tangerine would have.
Up close, it bears an awkward resemblance to a cockroach. In itself is way too expensive to be of any real worth to district citizens, well-to-do and mayors included. Besides, the only access to other districts and the Capitol is through the railway line, and its use is extremely restricted anyways. This mechanical roach-like car reeks of vanity, luxury. Reeks of Capitol. This is the first moment I take to pay attention to Asa Doherty; to be honest, I want to know what he makes of this "ride" to the train station. He doesn't seem the least bit impressed by the automobile, and in fact, he looks rather bored.
The shore and the avenue pass us by in a blur, and I can tell this will be a short ride. Asa cracks open the window and his bundle of thick, chestnut brown hair dances against the wind. "How soon do you think we'll get there?"
His voice startles me. It's coarse and low, if not threatening. It doesn't match his juvenile features; it sounds like he's an ancient, wild man. "Where?"
In comparison, my voice is of a toddler.
"The Capitol," he answers. "Unless you're planning on going somewhere else."
The remark yanks a laugh out of me, unexpected and blurted out as undesired cough. "Why would I? I've heard it's great there, in this time of the year."
He looks at me. Intensely. And I can't look away, not with those black-holed eyes staring at me, as if scanning for weaknesses. Then a smirk appears on his lips. "Are we allies?"
Are we? I was anticipating some sort of tolerance on his part, but I didn't have the time yet to contemplate an achievable alliance. I'm not even sure I'm not as good as dead. "Of course," I say. "Unless you're planning on forging alliances with some real Careers."
"Why would I," he turned his gaze to the landscape, "I've heard they all murder each other in the end."
We spend the rest of our car ride in silence.
When we arrive at the train station, the shuttering of the cameras destabilize Asa's nonchalant attitude. He's as disoriented as me, working our way to the platform while reporters surround us with theirs flashes. As if it isn't enough, we're forced to stand by the doorway of the train, smiling and waving (in theory, because neither of us follow the instructions given by Lane), for five agonizing minutes before we're allowed inside.
Then the doors are closed and my fate is sealed.
I don't even sense the train parting, moving away, an imposing metal beast with unfathomable speed. Not a tremble, not a sound. I don't know and wouldn't dare to remember the place where the Capitol was built, but I'd say to Asa we'll get there pretty fast, faster than we'd like to.
To my despair, Lane's our designated tour guide. Asa never meets her eyes, and I suspect he's not listening to her ramble. I can't make sense of most of it in any case; something about dining and entertainment cars and lounge areas, every word imbued with such a heavy Capitol accent that the speech becomes indecipherable. Finally she shows us off to our private chambers. "There's a bedroom, a bathroom and a closet. Explore the wonders our Tribute Express has to offer and be ready for supper in sixty minutes. Crystal clear?" She asks in a condescending tone on top of a fake smile.
Asa replies for both of us. "Crystal clear," he says with undeniable sarcasm. Lane acts oblivious to it, though, and merrily leaves us on our own.
My private chamber is thrice the size of the minuscule compartment I (used to) call home, back in District 4. I (lived) live in a building with fifty-nine other compartments, all inhabited by poor, but not quite miserable, residents. There are plenty of those buildings far deep in the district, solid structures that are rumored to be older than the rebellion, and if you can prove sufficient financial stability to support yourself, you're entitled to a compartment. In the event of losing your income, you're tossed out. It used to happen all the time; eager teens dreamed of an independence they couldn't really afford. Anyways, my private chamber is enormous, and every bit as fancy and extravagant as I'd expect.
I decide to take a bath, for starters, but before I fill the tub, I notice a small square above it, metallic and pricked with tiny holes. I flick through my memories trying to find a definition for the gadget when it clicks. It's a shower. I quickly change my mind about the bath — I have never taken a shower before and I won't miss this opportunity. Next to the faucet, I spot various buttons centimeters above their precise and small descriptions; one of them reads "hot water" and I get elated at the prospect of trying it. Summer sometimes warms the sea water a little, but a hot shower is a concept straight out of a dream, so that's the option I go for. I pamper myself with a variety of gushing-water massages, coming rapidly from different directions all at once, and it's hard, very hard to make my inebriated mind and body to comprehend I have to step out of the shower.
The closet surprises me, though, easing my way out of the bathroom with a heated floor under my feet, a cozy welcome. I go through the drawers of the dresser and choose some clothes absentmindedly, just a modest pair of navy blue pants combined with a white tank top. As I disentangle my hair, I catch a glimpse of myself on a mirror across the room. I look flushed, no doubt from the hot shower, but my thoughts focus only on what my appearance might convey to the audience, to the sponsors. I got muscles alright, however, in despite of an apparent fitness, all I can do is pretty much run and swim. Those are my skills. Killing, on the other hand… I cried when I killed my first cockroach. It lingered on my mind for weeks, the awful regret that came right after I stepped on it, even if I acted out of mercy — it was squirming as if in terrible pain.
When I enter the dining car (that's what Lane was referring to, after all, a car where we're supposed to gather to dine and not a car that eats us for dinner), everyone's already there and I become conscious of my tardiness. "Sorry. I lost track of time."
"It's fine dear," says Margot with a faint smile. "Hurry up and eat before it gets cold."
I sit next to Asa and across from Margot as I'm served a bowl of soup, rich, savory and full of vegetables I've only ever seen before in school books about District 11, the one responsible for Panem's agriculture. I'm told it's only an "entrée", not to gorge myself in it, but their warnings are far beyond my caring.
Lane's not pleased with my table manners.
"So… What can you do, miss Cresta?" She asks, visibly distressed. "Mister Doherty here was just telling us about his… What is it called, again? Oh yes, photographic memory. I don't know how it could possibly be of any help in the arena, though."
I've heard about the term before, in school. If it's true, and if it's as I remember, it truly is an amazing ability. "Really? I can think of thousands of ways it'll help him in the arena." They fall silent, but as I steal a glance at Asa's direction, I see he's smiling. "I can swim."
Lane regains her composure and stifles a chuckle. "A girl from District 4 who can swim, that's unheard of!" I'm so angry at her derisive response I can't think of a proper comeback. I stare at her in utter disbelief.
At least no one laughs, and to my further astonishment, Finnick examines me for a moment, unaffected by Lane's bitter words, as if realizing I'm present for the first time. "But you really can swim, can't you? You've got a strong upper body. It's a kind of muscle that doesn't come nice and easy, without serious effort."
"That's right Finn," Margot agrees, and after a brief pause, she continues. "Listen, we all would prefer Careers to be here instead of you two, there's no point in denying that. But please know I'll do my best. I don't give up on children's lives nice and easy, without serious effort." She nudges Finnick's arm, and in return, he grabs her hand, caressing it with his thumb. They look adorable, like grandmother and grandson, and I can't help but beam with instant happiness for them. I only wish I had a grandmother, a loving and endearing family relationship, or as in their case, someone who feels like family; I may not know much about them, but I do know they're not related by blood. If my memory serves me right, she was his mentor during the Games. It was an odd year. She must have handpicked him to volunteer. Finnick was younger than I am now... The youngest victor in history.
"That's right Mags," he says cheerfully, "You don't do that."