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Xyris's P.O.V
I am woken up by Priya, who sports a long, red dress that tumbles down over her body like a thick liquid is running down it. I realise it resembles blood. Brilliant, I think. Good to know how optimistic she feels, with a death-themed dress and all.
"Xyris?" She asks, cautiously as she thinks I'm asleep still. "It's time to wake up, dear." She moves across the room and sits at the bottom of my bed, grinning at me with her overly made-up face. I feel sorry for Priya; she's lost all of her District influences. She practically lives in the Capitol nowadays, and the way she dresses reflects this. I run my hands across the silken bedding I lay in, feeling the smooth, perfect fabric slip across my fingers.
My old bed wasn't this pristine, but it offered warmth and had a cosy feel to it, unlike this one. Unlike this place in general.
I sigh, and sit up, looking my mentor straight in the eye.
"What time is it?" I whisper, butterflies fluttering around my insides.
"It's 8.30," Priya replies, "I want you to have time to prepare."
I get dressed into something comfortable. They almost look like pyjamas. Maybe they are, the voice-operated wardrobe annoys me so I don't bother being specific about what I want from it. I make my way to the dining room, pausing slightly when I reach Zeph's door on the way there. I want to knock on it, and ask him about our alliance, and what it will mean. What will happen if we make it to the final couple of tributes? It's highly unlikely, but it could mean that I'd have to kill Zeph. Well, there are two things wrong with that; One, I can't swing a sword to save my life, literally. Two, I'd have a hell of a lot of guilt on my mind. Also, it'd probably be Zeph killing me; if he finds a hammer then I'm in trouble.
I stand outside his door like this for a few minutes, trying to build up the courage to talk to the boy who I will feel guilty about killing. I hear a sniffing noise coming from within the room; he's crying. I can't say I don't blame him; I've had my fair share of tears on this trip to the Capitol. Last night was the worse, when I came to the abrupt realisation that there is no escape. Even hurling myself out of the window won't work, there's no point trying, as a modified force-field simply bounces us back up again instead of frazzling us to death. Those Gamemakers sure are sadistic, not letting us control our own deaths. So I decide to leave my fellow tribute be to spend his last few hours of freedom as he wishes.
I try to eat one of the lavish meals brought to me by those odd Avox waiters. My stomach is still fluttering from nerves though, so I politely turn down seconds. Priya sits opposite me, and I look up from my food to find her watching me with a calculating look in her eyes.
"...What?" I ask, slightly unnerved.
"Are you teaming up with Zeph?" She asks.
"Yes," I reply, fiddling with the many knives and forks adorning the table. "Why?"
"You should have told me," She says curtly, "as your mentor I have to assess your strategy and whether it is suitable for-"
"-Are you saying I shouldn't team up with him?" I ask, confused as to what she means.
"What I'm saying is... that... you should have told me." She flutters her eyelashes; the stress of what the day will bring affecting her somewhat, and breaks eye contact to look down at her meal.
We sit like this in silence for a while, neither of us eating from nerves. Zeph shuffles in eventually, his feet dragging and his brow furrowed in his usual manner. The blotchy redness that could only have come from sobbing has stained his cheeks, and he refuses to look at neither me nor Priya as he takes his seat at the dining table.
I wonder what exactly made my male counterpart cry, but I don't ask. Instead, Priya asks us about our allied strategy.
"Under no circumstances do you leave each other in the arena," Priya advises us, her long manicured nails pointing at us. "Not only will you leave yourself open to attacks from tributes, you'll look unfavourable to the audience."
"Wouldn't want to seem unloved, would we?" Zeph suddenly adds; his voice a little too detached, too bitter. He's looking right into Priya's eyes when I look up, and for the first time since being in the Capitol, I see raw emotion in his eyes. Maybe Priya told him how bad his interview was, and he's not happy about it.
"Not at all." She replies slowly, not pulling away from Zeph's gaze. They're having a stare off, and I can feel the tension in the air, sparking like a defunct lightbulb.
I give a slight cough to try and diffuse the awkwardness, but I just make it worse. As usual, I think. I'm so bad at stuff like this. I roll my eyes and stand up out of my seat.
"Well, I'm going to the balcony to think about how I'm going to survive this thing." I announce, my voice shaky from nerves. I sound so scared. "If you'd like to join me Zeph, feel free." No one's listening to me. So I turn on my heels and scuttle out of the room, onto the huge balcony that lies through a pair of ornate sliding doors.
The training centre's apartments start from a high floor, and lay in order of District; One is at the top of the flats, and Twelve is at the bottom. But still, we all get a good view of the city that will enjoy watching our deaths; they might even laugh or make a joke of it. I get the image of people mocking my thumbs-up I gave at the interview as they watch the screen, my lifeless body hoisted up by the mechanical claw that collects the dead.
My hands rest on the cool railing, and I close my eyes and feel the cool wind caress my face. I imagine that I'm back in Three, sat in the school yard at lunch, trying to assemble some kind of contraption to help my father. The kids stare at me but I'm not bothered, I'm just happy to be helping my family.
I wish I could help them now. They're probably sat at home, trying to calm my mother down who will be beside herself with hysteric worry. I can see my father watching the screen of our old, decrepit television with his palms pressed together, thinking of what the future might hold for his only daughter.
"I wish I could go back, too." I hear the voice closer to me than I would have expected, making me jump out of my skin. I turn, and meet Zeph staring back at me, pity in his eyes. A part of me wonders how he knows what I'm thinking, but I dismiss it; he's a smart boy, he's probably been studying me as a potential ally, getting to know that I yearn for my home.
"We'll have to win, then!" I reply, cringing at how chipper my voice sounds. "Sorry. I sound like Caesar Flickerman." Zeph smiles, and for a moment his eyes look clear, not clouded by his thoughts. Like for just a moment, we are back at home, making fun of the Games. Then, he is looking back down at the city, thoughts clouding his face again. I wish I'd have talked to him more when we were at school together, we would have been friends. But then I guess that would make this whole situation worse.
He doesn't reply to my joke, so I talk serious again. "How are we going to get around the Careers?"
"Leave it to me." He replies, his eyes clouded in thought again. "You just focus on finding a hiding place. Make sure it's safe, okay?" He's talking to me like I'm a little lost child.
"Got it." I reply, turning to face the balcony edge.
The next few hours are a blur, until I'm on the hovercraft and I am given a few minutes to get my bearings.
It's nerve racking, as I survey the tributes sat around me, studying their faces and expressions. The Careers look cocky, trying to make stand-offish eye contact with tributes across the seat from them. The lower districts, those in even more poverty than I, look frail and somewhat terrified. One young boy from Ten, he looks about twelve, the youngest age applicable for the Games, is grasping his seatbelt intensely, his eyes darting about nervously. He looks unstable, like he's going to cry at any minute. It's terrible; I want to comfort him, give him a look of sympathy, but I know he won't accept it. He'll think I'll be trying to murder him in mere hours from now.
I find Zeph a few seats to my left, leaning forward in his seat as far as he can go. His head is resting on his fists, and he is frowning more than ever. I hope he looks up at me so I can smile or something, make him feel less worried, but I know it won't help.
I feel like I can't help anyone. And I can't, just as no one can help me.
The windows begin to darken, and I close my eyes and take a few slow, steady breaths. These last minutes are torturous, according to Priya, as it's when the Career's get pumped and the other tributes get the most scared. Apparently, in Priya's Games, one of the tributes started crying at this point, and the Careers actually targeted him to be the first kill of the show. So no emotions. I keep to myself and hold the seatbelt, wishing I could rip it off and escape. But I can't. So I must try and stay calm, and not bring any attention to myself.
The ride ends, and the tributes are rushed to their individual Launch rooms. Unlike most of the things I've experienced during the Games, this place is the one that's mine, only mine, and will only ever serve this one purpose. Unless of course, tourists come down here to witness the place that Xyris Quentin spent her last moments of freedom, so to speak. I sit on a bench and wait for my stylist, hoping that they get here before I have to leave. I look at the furnishing; it's so different to the Capitol and District Three alike. The place is almost sterile in its looks; like a hospital. The bench I am seated on is cool and metallic, and isn't built with image or practicality in mind. There is a locker that serves no purpose in the corner, yet looks hideous. And the whole room is painted a dark blue, every single item of furniture matching the walls, ceiling and floor. And nothing looks cosy.
My stylist bursts into the room, holding a package containing the uniform of the arena. He sits next to me and opens it, studying the material in his hands.
"The material suggests that it will be cool." He murmurs, holding up a grey-green hooded jacket that looks insulated. "The shoes suggest water, or rain conditions, they're water insulated, so expect storms. Also, the undershirt is thin material, suggesting warm weather. Hmm." He passes me the clothes, thinking hard about what the arena will be. Trying to help me. I notice the undershirt is the exact same shade as the room, so maybe each District has a different colour.
I get dressed into the outfit, feeling the material against my skin. The shoes are comfortable, the clothes a perfect fit. "The weather conditions could change over the days. They've prepared for everything. You should too." He helps me with my jacket, and ties my hair up into a ponytail. Practical, and yet he leaves small curls hang down the side of my face. Like in the interviews. I thank him for his help.
"Thank you so much." Is all I can say.
"You're welcome." He doesn't say much after that, I just survey him. I thought my stylist was a fickle guy who cares only about appearance, with his long, bright green hair and eccentric taste in clothes. But he's in fact an expert on clothing, which is extremely helpful, as it were. I realise I don't know his name, which makes my stomach drop even more.
"W-what's your n-"
That's when I hear it. The woman on the speakers calls for my name to prepare for Launch. My stylist stands up and offers me his hand. I take it, and he hoists me up.
"Don't forget your token." He says, handing me the one little bit of Three I decided to bring along with me.
It's not much, but was a gift from my father. A necklace, on a simple metal chain, with a large-sized microchip as the pendant. He's made it himself, from scraps from his shop that he could have used for inventions. The chip has an engraving on one side, which says 'Expect the Unexpected'. I clasp it around my neck and kiss the microchip, thinking of home and how nervous they must all be there.
He walks me to the pod that will send me up into the Arena. I think of all the tributes that have been in this predicament; I can finally understand why so many die in the Bloodbath. They're nervous, beyond being able to move. I wonder if I'll survive the next few minutes.
"Good luck, Xyris Quentin." My stylist speaks, shaking hands with me. He sounds... Proud of me.
My mouth gapes open, and he closes it for me by pushing my chin up gently.
"The name's Fenton." He adds, before stepping back. I go to say 'thank you', but a glass cylinder encapsulates me, blocking out the world. I can only see Fenton holding two thumbs up, in the gesture I had made famous. I reply it, only I can't bring myself to smile.
The Launch Pod lifts me up, quicker than I imagined, and for a moment I'm blinded. Then, I see the bright, gleaming shell that can only be the Cornucopia. I see thick, marshy land surrounding the horn, along with its bounty; tonnes and tonnes of weapons. It would be slow and difficult to try and plod through the marshes to get to it. Surrounding the outside of the launch pads that form a circle are survival supplies; So on the inside of the circle of tributes are weapons and on the outside is survival gear. I spot a kit bag not too far from my podium, and know what I must do after the countdown. There's a forest behind us, I must follow Zeph's advice.
I dare not position myself to face away from the Cornucopia, for fear of being blasted to smithereens. Instead, as Claudius Templesmith booms,
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Sixteenth Hunger Games begin!"
, and begins the countdown of sixty seconds, I survey the arena and the tributes. Luckily, I am not near any Careers, so an escape wouldn't be completely impossible. A District Five girl is to my left, and a District Eight boy to my right, so I could try and evade their attacks if they choose to have a go at me.
Fifty two, fifty one...
I spot Zeph directly opposite me; I can just make out his crazy hair and thick glasses. I notice we're wearing the same colour undershirt, and I look next to me to see the District Five shirt of bright yellow, and notice that Zeph is next to the male tribute too. So each District is separated from their other tribute, and I'm planning to run behind me, furthering the distance between us. Great. I was hoping he'd be nearer to me so we could escape together.
Forty nine, forty eight...
I can just about make out Zeph's head, nodding at me discreetly. He must have seen me turn around and see the bag and the forest, and I notice his legs are braced, ready to come hurtling over to me. That's dangerous I mouth to him, but I don't think he can see my face as well as I can. He must have seen the swamp, and what it will do to him as he enters it.
Thirty seven, thirty six...
I spot the District Two male, the arrogant one, flexing his arm muscles and grinning at his female counterpart on the opposite side, who looks just as bulked up as him. I grimace slightly as I realise that I'm quite short in comparison to most of the tributes. This is ridiculous.
Twenty eight, twenty seven...
The arena looks to be well – weathered, considering the marshes. Maybe Fenton is right, and the weather will change. I see the forestry, and how thin it looks when you get past the thick evergreens marking the entrance to it. I'll have to be careful of how I hide there. I notice that the opposite side houses a mountainous area, and I hope that this isn't a repeat of last year, with no safe water.
Thirteen, twelve...
I feel like screaming. I'm so scared. I'm most certainly going to die here. I position my feet carefully, ever so slightly rotating them, so I'll be able to set off easier.
Ten.
My body tenses. This is it.
Nine.
I think of my family, and how they must be watching my face on a giant screen in Three.
Eight.
I see Zeph's body curl with tension, anticipating the Bloodbath as much as I am.
Seven.
One tribute laughs manically, probably a Career.
Six.
I feel my necklace with my fingers and nod, hoping my father sees me expecting the unexpected.
Five.
I look up to the sky, wanting to snarl at the cameras that hide up there.
Four.
My eyes lock onto the small bag I am aiming to reach.
Three.
I'm going to die.
Two.
I refuse to die.
One.
Just try and stop me.
ZERO.
I lunge off my podium, the wind whipping my fringe back off my head.