"I don't know why I even bother," Seeder grumbled the next evening over dinner, after grilling Layton until he explained how I'd spent the day at training. I'd just slumped in my seat, pushing my roast lamb around the plate uninterestedly as he told her about the three hours I'd spent hogging the sword-fighting station again until I could take on six instructors at once.
"It's not as bad as he makes it seem," I lied.
"He makes it seem like you took on the entire room!" Seeder protested weakly.
Chaff snorted. "And won," he grinned at me, and I smirked before I could help it.
"Chaff!" Seeder scolded. "This isn't funny! Blake, you realise every single one of those tributes is now being told that their first target should be you? They're even talking about it on the streets outside! You're suddenly one of the favourites to win!"
I didn't disagree, despite my now resolute determination not to win for myself. "I thought that would be a good thing?" I yawned in disinterest, ignoring the worried looks I was getting from Layton.
She scoffed weakly. "Yes, if they were saying that when you were already in the Games! Now all the tributes are aware of it beforehand, meaning they have enough time to consult with their mentors and devise a plan to beat you! Do you have any idea-"
"Seeder, would you please stop panicking?" I groaned with a roll of my eyes. "I know what I'm doing, alright?"
She breathed deeply through the nose, pursing her lips. "Listen to me, Blake," she started.
"No," I argued, shaking my head and pushing myself to my feet to leave the room.
"Kid," Chaff scolded with a small frown, and because I was so unused to hearing him being so stern, I hesitated and glanced at him cautiously. "You should listen to her. She's right, you're taking unnecessary risks. If you're this good, you could've easily taken everyone by surprise in the Games."
"I've already taken them by surprise," I pointed out with a dismissive shrug.
"Too early for it to be an advantage," Seeder retorted, and I found myself scowling at the floor. "Blake, there aren't many kids from District 11 that come here in such a strong advantage. You could have made it out alive."
"Who said I was trying to?" I snapped before I could help it, and the entire table froze in shock. Even the servers gawped at me silently, their eyes wide.
"What did you just say?" Flynn breathed, white in fear.
I shuffled under the scrutiny, still scowling. "Nothing," I mumbled. "Forget it."
"Blake-" Circa started, pushing herself to her feet, but I spun around and marched back to my room, slamming the door shut and locking it tightly.
No one disturbed me for the rest of the night. I spent most of it flicking irritably through the TV channels with no interest. But after half an hour, I found the coverage of the Hunger Games. Lively music was being played over clips of the Opening Ceremony and the Reapings throughout all 12 Districts. I watched through narrowed eyes, lowering myself cautiously onto the end of the bed just as an interview room flickered onto the screen.
Caesar Flickerman was sat at a desk with a collection of papers in front of him. This man, even by the Capitol's standards, looked strange. From head to toe, his skin was bright blue, and he wore a purple suit and tie that made him look almost comical. Beside him, another man sat, with healthy looking peach skin and dark hair with an oddly trimmed, short beard. He sat with a serious expression, but his eyes were sharp and shining.
"Ladies and Gentleman, good evening!" Caesar Flickerman smiled cheerfully. "And welcome to the 72nd Annual Hunger Games! We have a very special guest with us this evening, Here to talk us through this year's pick of tributes, it's our new Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane!" He turned and beamed at the man beside him, who just nodded once with a small, polite smile as the studio audience cheered, the shot cutting to them briefly to show us all their smiling faces.
"So," Caesar started as the audience quietened. "This is your first year as Head Gamemaker. Are you planning a big entrance? To kick off your new career with a bang?"
Seneca allowed himself a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling as he nodded once in Caesar's direction. "It's definitely going to be something completely new to our audience," he assured him, to the sound of ecstatic cheers from the crowd. My lips twisted in disgust at the thought of them all, so excited to watch us all die. The idea I'd be out there on the stage in a couple of nights trying to make them like me made it all worse.
"Oh, very mysterious," Caesar chuckled. "Can you not even give us a little hint?"
Seneca shook his head with an apologetic grimace as the crowd groaned. "Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise now, would we?" he asked with another knowing smile.
"Okay, okay," Caesar sighed dejectedly, waving his hands for the crowd to be quiet. "So how about our new tributes? You'll have seen them in training for the last two days, yes?"
Seneca took a deep breath and he straightened in the chair. I found myself tensing on the spot, holding my breath as I watched the corners of his lips twitch in mild amusement. "The tributes this year are . . . interesting. I think we're definitely looking at a, err, unique batch this year."
My teeth ground together. He made us sound like animals. I could feel my skin shivering furiously. But Caesar wasn't impressed with being left hanging, pulling a face at the crowd who laughed along with him. "Come now, Seneca, you can give us more than that!" he insisted, and they cheered loudly. "For example . . . there is a lot of talk in the Capitol about a certain District 11 tribute. Am I right?" He turned to the crowd, appealing for help, and they clapped and whistled and screamed their support.
Seneca smiled again, and my stomach jerked nervously. "Ah, you know I can't go into specifics, Caesar," he chuckled, softly and dangerously. I shivered at the sound. "But there are select tributes that have made quite an impression in training and - though I can't name them - I'm sure the public will be well aware of just who the big contenders are after the Individual Assessments tomorrow."
Caesar pouted again, and the crowd gave a warm laugh. "No mention of Blake Hart tonight, then? The girl was particularly glowing when she arrived here, am I right?" Again, the audience shouted their approval.
"It's hard to say which tributes will make a large impact in the Games," Seneca said slowly, dodging the mention of my name expertly. "Especially this year. We have more than a few surprises to separate the best from the rest." Excited whispers broke out among the crowd, and he smiled a little arrogantly. "That being said . . . there's no denying that Blake Hart is a very unusual tribute for District 11."
The crowd cheered as Caesar grinned and snapped his fingers. "I knew it!" he declared triumphantly to the audience, and I couldn't help thinking it was ever so slightly unfair that they were singling me out. Then I remembered Seeder's advice on staying in the background, and realised I didn't have much room to complain.
"But," Seneca added defiantly. "That doesn't mean she can compete with the others. We have some very strong contenders from the other Districts, mainly Districts 1 and 2. We'll have to see what happens in the Games."
Caesar nodded understandingly. "Well I for one am looking forward to seeing the Individual Assessment scores this year. Not to mention my own interviews!" Again, the crowd cheered in excitement. Letting out a growl of frustration, I leapt to my feet and shut the TV off angrily. So they were looking forward to the Assessment scores, huh? Well then, I'd better not disappoint.
The next morning, I got out of bed with the same furious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I still had a plan, of sorts, and I had to stick to it. Whatever happened, I had to get Layton or Iris out of this alive. If I was going down, I was going to make the most of the time I had. That meant beating everyone else's scores. It meant getting sponsors, and nailing my interview.
I showered and dressed in tight fitting black pants and a dark green vest, yanking on a pair of leather boots that laced up to my knees and tying my hair back into a long, tight ponytail. On the way out of my room however, I paused by the mirror long enough to force my expression to relax. If I was going to do this, I was going to have to be calm, and sarcastic, and detached. I couldn't let them see how angry I was.
The others were all at breakfast by the time I'd fixed my expression into my usual, calm state. Chaff and Seeder were in a hushed, urgent conversation, while Klaus tried to reassure Layton about his Individual Assessment this afternoon.
"You'll do fine, Layton," he said softly, smiling kindly. "I'm sure of it."
"I don't know how to do anything!" he complained miserably, prodding the pancakes on his plate dejectedly. "How do you impress Gamemakers when you can't do anything?"
"Crack a joke?" I suggested with a wink as I dropped into the seat opposite him.
He shifted awkwardly. "Easy for you to say. Everyone knows you're the favourite to win." My smile wavered, and I felt Chaff and Seeder's eyes turn to me.
Instead of caving, however, I grinned and leant across the table, lowering my voice. "Then I tell you what you do," I started. "You stick with me throughout the whole Games, wait until I've picked off all the others, then take a hammer to the back of my head. Okay?"
He choked on his pancakes, eyes widening in shock, and even the stylists seemed stunned into speechlessness. Chaff and Seeder, however, exchanged a worried look and said nothing. Figuring making everyone uncomfortable was better than nothing, I ate the rest of my breakfast in silence, and left for the Training Room with Layton a little before ten.
The morning passed exactly the same as yesterday had. The other tributes left me alone, but every now and then, I could feel the glares of the Career tributes as I worked. I spent most of my time on the weights station, just as I had yesterday, determined to try and get some more power behind my attacks. After my muscles had been burning for at least an hour, I shifted to the spear throwing station, one of the few I'd been avoiding since I'd arrived. I'd never been brilliant at it, despite it being the weapon of choice for our District, but I wasn't awful either. The extra power behind my throws meant I could aim further, and I got it right most often than not. But it wasn't anything that was going to separate me from rest.
Then we were sent to lunch and the assessments started.
Each of the tributes were called out of the lunch room one by one, starting from the female tribute for District 1, and ending with the male tribute for District 12. This time, instead of stirring up the tension between the Careers and the other tributes, I sat silently beside Layton, trying to think of something to say to make him feel better, or advice I could give him about what to show the Gamemakers. But from what I'd seen in training, nothing was going to help him now.
The Career tributes were called first, and they shot a warning, dangerous look around the room as they left, as if daring us to do better. I just smirked back at them, and gave a thumbs-up when they looked in my direction.
"How do you do that?" Layton whispered, leaning closer as the girl from District 3, Erin, left for her assessment.
"What?" I shrugged.
"Be so . . . calm and . . . happy?" he blinked obliviously. I stared, lifting an eyebrow. I knew for a fact some of the tributes in this room knew the game I was playing was fake. My whole personality was just an act for the cameras. Hell, some of the Capitol citizens probably knew it. They couldn't all be thick and gullible. So how was it that Layton couldn't? Instead of answering him, I just flashed another grin and shrugged again, sipping the water from the bottle in front of me.
Iris was another matter altogether. She tried her best not to look at me as she left the room, but as she reached the door, she turned and glanced in my direction, her eyes panicked. My breath caught in worry, and I nodded with a stern frown. 'You'll do fine,' I mimed across the room at her, and her lips twitched. How often had I done the exact same thing when I was teaching her to swim?
I didn't grin or wink or even smile when Myles' name was called. He glanced back toward me with a frown, as though he was sure I was going to do something sarcastic. But I just met his gaze determinedly, nodding once. His frown wavered, and after a moment's hesitation, he mimicked the gesture and turned out of the door. In that moment, I knew I wouldn't be able to kill him if he crossed my path, and my chest tightened awkwardly.
It took a while to get through the next twelve tributes, but eventually, my name was called. Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself to my feet and winked at Layton. "See you on the other side, huh?" I smirked, side-stepping the table and leaving the room with confident strides.
Back in the Training Room, the Gamemakers were still up in the balcony, eating and laughing amongst themselves. There were a few assistants hovering at some of the stations, just in case I wanted to show off my hand to hand skills. But I was well aware I'd already shown off plenty of those skills. Instead, I strode straight into the centre of the room and snatched the crossbow off the display. The moment the metal handle was in my hands, my shoulders sagged in relief and I felt ten times more confident.
"Blake Hart," I called to the Gamemakers, unable to stop my eyes drifting to Seneca Crane. He regarded me with a small smile, then bowed his head at me to continue.
I glanced sideways at shooting range they'd set up. It wasn't overly impressive. In fact, it was probably the most simplistic set-up they could have chosen. Still, I stepped forward and load the first crossbow bolt. If nothing else, I could show off a little speed shooting here. Taking my first stance, I breathed deeply and focussed with my eyes shut.
Opening my eyes, I lifted the crossbow and shot the first bolt, straight into the centre of the target. Without even hesitating, I ducked and rolled to the left, coming up on one knee and loading the second bolt in a split second. This one again hit the second target, and I automatically flung myself forward into a run, loading a third bolt and firing it into the centre of a target on the left. I loaded the next bolt and skidded to my knees, spinning to face the opposite direction and fire into the fourth target.
I continued throughout the whole range until every target had been hit in the centre, in a little under five minutes. My breathing was hard and heavy, and cold air seared through my throat. My eyes lifted to the Gamemakers, who were nodding appreciatively. In the middle, Seneca Crane watched with an unreadable expression, and suddenly, I remembered what Caesar Flickerman said in the interview. 'Are you planning a big entrance? To kick off your new career with a bang?'
And then I was grinning. With an arrogant stride, I moved out of the target range, loading my last bolt and spinning the crossbow expertly in my hands. Reaching the weights station, I switched it into my weaker, left hand and grabbed a large, heavy metallic disc with my right hand. Then I took a deep breath and swung my arm back, tossing the disc into the air as hard as I could. In a fraction of a second, I straightened out my left arm into the air and shot the disc with only the slightest glance in its direction.
A thunderous metallic bang blasted around the room, and the Gamemakers yelped in surprise, lifting their hands to their ears. Still grinning, I strode forward and set the crossbow back down, somewhat reluctantly. Bowing in the direction of the Gamemakers, I tried to control my smirk long enough to smile politely, but I found I couldn't.
"You're dismissed, Miss Hart," Seneca Crane announced, and I grinned as I noticed all the Gamemakers watching me. At least I had their attention.
Climbing into the elevator, I pushed the button for Floor 11, unable to shake the smile from my face. I was fairly confident I'd nailed that assessment, which meant all I had to do now was let Circa doll me up tomorrow and sit back and smile sarcastically for the Capitol citizens. Easy.
The elevator abruptly shuddered to a halt, and I straightened out, expecting to be welcomed back onto the eleventh floor with the familiar sight of the living area. Instead, I was greeted with a dark corridor. I hesitated in the elevator doorway, frowning curiously. I glanced at the number glowing above the elevator buttons. How was I only on the ground floor?
My frown deepened and I stepped back into the elevator, pressing the button for Floor 11 again. The doors slid shut, but almost immediately opened again. My chest clenched and I started to get an ominous sense in the pit of my stomach. I tried to tell myself that it was obviously just broken, though for some reason, I couldn't. Without any other idea as to what to do, I stepped out of the elevator to find someone to fix it.
Instead, the moment I stepped into the corridor, I went rigid. A man stood at the far left end, flanked by two Peacekeepers, both armed. The man himself was tall and lean, with dark hair carefully gelled back neatly and grass green eyes. He wore a sharp, black suit with no tie and an open collar, white button down shirt, and right now, his eyes were fixed on me.
"Ah, Miss Hart," he smiled politely, and immediately I knew I hated him. "I've been waiting to speak you for some time now. If you please." He indicated to a room off the corridor, but I didn't move. For some reason, I thought I knew this man, but I couldn't place his face. He smiled tightly. "It's urgent we talk, Miss Hart, and I'd rather no one interrupted us."
Flicking my gaze between the two Peacekeepers, I knew I didn't have a choice. Trying to keep my expression relaxed, I started forward and moved toward the room he'd pointed out. He smiled and nodded, opening the door for me and letting me through first. Following, he left the Peacekeepers guarding the door and shut it behind him.
"I recognise you," I blurted before he could say anything, scowling across the room at him. He lifted an eyebrow. "Only, I can't remember where from."
His face relaxed, and he smiled again, stepping forward and offering me his hand. "I'm Ezra," he told me. "Ezra Snow."
I felt my expression fall. Ezra Snow. So that's where I'd seen him before. Political updates that were mandatory viewing for the whole of Panem. He was the President's son. Suddenly, my fingers were twitching at my sides, and I longed for my crossbow back. My stomach was squirming anxiously and a fear I'd never felt before began creeping through my body.
As though sensing this, Ezra chuckled softly and held his hands out. "I'm not here to hurt you, Blake," he insisted. "That wouldn't do, not this close to the Games."
Something clicked in the back of my mind. "You were the one who put me in the Games," I said.
He lifted an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "Your name was drawn at the Reaping," he reminded me, as though daring me to challenge it. The look on my face must have done exactly that, because he laughed again. "I'd say being a tribute in the Games is a very light punishment for the crimes you and your mother have committed, Blake."
I choked before I could help it, scowling furiously. "My mother?" I snapped angrily, and his face fell. "What's my mother got to do with it?"
"Don't take that tone with me," he snarled back, his voice dangerously quiet, and I forced myself to pursed my lips shut tightly. He glared at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before slowly taking a deep breath and straightening out. "Your mother," he answered in a measured tone. "Has everything to do with it. She's the very reason you were with the Lockarts in the first place."
I froze on the spot, and my breath caught sharply in my throat. The Lockarts . . . my parents. But . . .
"Sherrie Lockart is my mother," I said, my voice sounding feeble even to me. Ezra's anger faded, and he regarded me impassively for a moment. I found my head was shaking from side to side and my hands shook at my sides.
The Lockarts raised me. Jared and Sherrie had brought me up for as long as I could remember. They were the only people I'd called Mum and Dad, and the only family I'd ever had. They'd taught me to talk, to walk, to fight . . . everything. And now . . .
Ezra sighed heavily. "Did you never once wonder why the Lockarts trained you so hard for this? Insisted that you were better than every other kid in the District? Or why they had you moved to District 11 of all places?"
I shook my head again, gulping hard before I could help it. "I don't . . . I don't want to know," I murmured, my stomach twisting. No one had ever made me feel this uncomfortable or terrified before, and I hated the feeling. But that didn't matter to Ezra, who'd fixed me with a stern, unwavering gaze.
"You're a Victor's kid, Blake," he frowned. "And unfortunately for you, your mother has upset the Capitol."