Hey, guys! I know-I said I wouldn't post again until I got a good response from the poll...but I just couldn't wait! Plus, I literally got a review (thank you, by the way, to the mysterious "guest" reviewer!) that said, simply, "UPLOAD". Just like that, in all caps. So I indulged myself, and my guest. But don't worry-I'll postpone chapter 12 until I get a reading on what you guys want! Unless, of course, you take forever, in which case I will just do whatever I want. (So send in your thoughts, people! Haha.)
Anyway, on to the chapter! It's a bit of a long one, so hopefully you will have something to munch on until enough responses to the poll come in.
Backstage it's dark, yet packed with the kaleidoscopic color of tributes in costume. White walls provide thin barriers between the tributes and the stage, where a voiceover is announcing Caesar Flickerman. We can hear the crowd's cheers from here—they echo through the space, oddly distorted by each ricochet off the walls. It adds to the already tense, eerie atmosphere.
We're scattered throughout the space, standing with our district partners and our prep teams; a few of us glare across the space at one another. I notice with mixed emotions that quite a few looks are directed toward me and Oscar, followed quickly by scowling double-takes. It's not surprising—we make quite a pair. Flux and Oscar's designer, Sabille, have done fabulous collaborative work.
I, of course, look like some creature of the deep, cold-blooded and fierce. Fierce. Oscar is dressed in a smart, navy suit, with a silver tie: a normal, dapper guy from the neck down. Then his skin turns blue, a shade lighter than mine. Two sets of gills adorn the skin just under his jaw; his coppery curls are intermixed with the clearest silver bubbles, gelled back off his face and up in tufts; as though an invisible stream runs through it. His eyes have been lined with black, much thinner than my own, just enough to give him a surreal appearance. We stand out from the tuxes and frilly, mundane dresses worn by our competition. After all, everyone else seems to be mimicking the capitol's strange sense of fashion; Flux and Sabille have found their ocean theme, and stuck to it.
My gaze anchors on the tributes from 12 as Percei comes around for a final make-up check. The girl—Katniss—is wearing a relatively simple, yet gorgeous, dress; red, covered in yellow and orange sequins. I can't help but narrow my gaze at her. She's the girl on fire, right? She must have something up her sleeve…I offer a light, empty smile as she catches my gaze. Her eyes are the same color as mine, and as I stare, I find that they're almost as wild. Except where mine flow, unpredictable, hers are hard as stone. She's got something, I think, slightly envious. In those eyes, there's something strong; an anchor. I wonder how she found it…like everyone else, I've heard the thing about her sister, but that's not enough. After all, I've got my brother. Grandma. Mag, Hiram, Captain. So many reasons to go home…none of them are enough to give me that solidity, an anchor. I am adrift.
Whatever it is, she tells people its name is Prim. And yet. As I stare into those orbs—so alike, yet ever different from mine—I know there's something else.
She blinks, and the connection is lost. I watch her partner, Peeta, lay a hand on her arm, glance in my direction. She shrugs him off, turns around to talk with her designer. I'm almost excited to see her interview. Almost at the same moment, the tributes are ushered into a line. I watch as prep teams trickle out of the space, tributes move like zombies toward `the stage.
"We have to leave you now," Finnick has come up behind me, places a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find he's not actually looking at me. His tanned face is lined with tension, blue eyes focused over Oscar's shoulder, toward the stage door. I look in the same direction, meet another strong gaze. I take an involuntary half-step back, accidentally leaning into Finnick, who puts his hands protectively on my shoulders. Cato's face is masked, smirk ever in place, dark eyes cruel. Something's different about him, today, and I know as our gazes lock that he must be remembering our last encounter. He's in full performance mode. The Cato I met on the rooftop, who laughed so bitterly, is nowhere in sight; in his place, he's created a cold-blooded killer. Well, I'm no different, am I? Shark, indeed. "Don't make eye contact," Finnick murmurs, steers me around.
"Just remember what we talked about, Oscar," I hear Sabille's lilting accent; she's placed both hands on the boy's shoulders, bent to his level. He nods seriously, wearing what I assume is his game face.
"I don't know if I can do this…" I find myself whispering, gaze still stuck on Oscar's genuine face. My head is full of faces: Oscar, Cato, Katniss…Brook and Grandma.
"You can, my dear," Flux responds with an easy smile. He pats me gently on the back. I nod slowly. He thinks I'm worried about the interview. Well, let them think that's it—that I have performance anxiety. Well, and I do, don't I? I'm afraid of performing too well…
I watch Blye, Flux, Percei, Nitya, Sabille and her team walk off, toward the backdoor that leads to the hallway of studios, sigh heavily before turning…to walk smack into a suit-covered chest. I rub my nose, slowly tilt my head up. It's Finnick. I thought he left. He looks down at me, something unreadable in his gaze, and for a moment I am lost in the blue. Then he turns abruptly to Oscar, claps him heartily on the shoulder.
"Now listen up, you two," he begins jauntily. Why do I get the feeling he's only talking to Oscar? "This is an important opportunity—let the audience get to know you. Whichever aspect you've chosen to expose, let them see all of it. That's what they want—to think they understand you. Throw in something they can latch onto, and that's all you need to do. Make them want to root for you." He pats Oscar's shoulder again, pushes him gently toward the line forming behind the stage.
"Thanks, Finnick," the boy murmurs, genuinely grateful. Finnick's expression falls for only the barest fraction of a moment as Oscar walks away. My heart twists; no matter how much the audience wants to root for us, Oscar's chances of getting home are slim, at best. I know it, Finnick knows it…Oscar probably knows it best of all. So why is he still grateful?
With the question unanswered, I begin to follow my partner toward the line. Glimmer, the District 1 female, is preparing to walk up the stage steps; we're two of the four not yet in line. The other two are the boy and girl from 12, who seem to have momentarily disappeared.
"Just a minute, Tobi," Finnick's hand wraps warmly around my forearm, pulls me back. I turn to find his face has lost all of its jaunty flare, once again reflects the tension beneath. My heart jumps, and I narrowly resist the impulse to stare dumbly toward my ribcage. It feels unnatural…my heart has been twisting and sinking alternately for days, and suddenly it decides to jump like that? Just because of Finnick's worried face? I clear my throat in an attempt to cover up my unease, stare straight at Finnick, force my face to remain still, balanced.
"What is it?" I ask softly, voice frozen. His gaze finally flicks away from Cato to find my eyes. He bends down slowly, puts both hands on my shoulders and stares intently into my face. I shift uncomfortably—what is he doing?—but his grip is firm.
"Are you still in there, Tobi?" he whispers, voice oddly serious, eyes sad. I stutter for a moment…what does he mean?
"Of course I am," I mumble, trying to turn away.
"Really?" I bite my lip—his tone has caught me off guard. I can't meet his gaze. He sighs, straightens and releases my shoulders. "You're walking a dangerous line, Tobi," he says softly. I can hear the knowing in his voice—the recognition. "Don't lose yourself in the act, little fish." I turn, slowly; feel the ice in my veins.
"Who was it that told me to do what I have to do?" I demand. Where's all that understanding I didn't want an hour ago? It's too late, now…
"I meant in the arena—dealing with other tributes. I didn't mean for you to completely change yourself, Tobi." I look at the ground, turn toward the stage.
"Well, too late, I'm afraid." I take a step away, only to be pulled back again. Like a fish on a hook…I land solidly against Finnick, his arms wrap tightly around me. I almost can't stand it, caught between the idea that he'll break my ribs, and the painful knowledge that it feels like home. His arms are just like Brooks.
"Never too late, little fish," he murmurs above my head, then abruptly he lets go, backs away with a little wave and a melancholy smile, coppery curls askew. Finnick Odaire, the capitol's playboy. Well, but I should have seen this one coming. You're not playing fair, Finnick. I turn, take carefully measured steps toward the line. Glimmer has already stepped onto the stage—I'm late.
I fall in right in front of Oscar. I can feel his soft gaze between my shoulder blades, curious. I ignore him, preoccupied by the sneer Cato casts back at me. I meet his gaze squarely, face blank, watch him chuckle as he turns back around. Within moments, Glimmer bounces back off the stage, and I've missed my opportunity to pinpoint her angle. Oh well, it's not hard to guess, based on her tinselly outfit, loose curls and seductress' smile. The line moves forward like a caterpillar, and Finnick's words weave their way back into my mind. Never too late…I suppress a sigh as Marvel ascends the stairs to the stage. Because of course, it is too late—it has been from the very beginning. I won't cry. I'm adrift on a chunk of ice, tossed by a storm. I've
got two options: die on the ice, or jump into the water and try to swim. And not even the playboy Finnick Odaire can keep me from swallowing some water along the way.
My hands have grown clammy, and I resist the urge to curl them in my dress as District 3's boy takes the stage. I'm next, and with each tribute my mind has receded further into blankness. What on earth should I say? Trust Flickerman. Right. He has made everyone in front of me seem utterly magnificent: Marvel, cocky and relaxed; Clove, mean and sadistic; Cato, ruthless, ready to kill. Even the rather plain boy on stage now seems rather valiant as Flickerman effortlessly highlights his personality traits.
All too soon, three descends the stairs, infuriatingly pleased with himself. He even tosses me a wink as he passes, which I pointedly ignore. My heart is hammering in my ribcage so loud that I'm sure Cato can hear it from where he stands at the back wall, arms crossed, sneering. Why do I feel like his eyes have settled onto the back of my head?
"Now, on to that mythical mermaid from the parade, Kuria Silverside!" Flickerman's voice booms with my cue, and Oscar gives me an encouraging smile as I step delicately onto the first step. I take my time—all I need is to trip onto the stage—and when I reach the top I am instantly blinded.
The lights are intense, pink and white and purple, reflected from iridescent backscreens; the crowd is wild, a chorus of screams, shrieks, bellows. Combined with my own heartbeat, I can't hear much. So I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, but allow my back some give, slink forward. Think shark, Tobi. Fast, deadly, vicious. Confident. Fierce. By the time I've taken the seat across from Flickerman, I am fully shark-minded. A spotlight has engulfed me, and the crowd has fallen silent.
"My, my, Kuria—don't we look severe, tonight?" Flickerman begins, looking to the audience for confirmation.
"Call me Tobi," I purr, lower my voice to a dangerous tenor. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
"Well, Tobi, tell us: what have the last few days been like, for you?" He leans forward, indigo hair catching the light. I offer a toothy smile that doesn't reach my icy gaze.
"Most amusing, Caesar," I answer with a small chuckle. Of course, they have been anything but—more like terrifying or heartbreaking, really—but they don't need to know that.
"Amusing? Now, I must admit we don't often hear that, do we folks?" There are shouts from the crowd.
"Well, Caesar, in circumstances such as these, one has few options," I confide, allow the killer to show a touch of warmth. "Sorrow, depression, desperation, anger…these are emotions with dead ends." I stare directly into the audience, offer that toothy smile again. "Amusement…detachment. These are almost as good as hope." The crowd is hushed. I've got them!
"That's an interesting way to think about it." Flickerman muses, before deciding that's enough of the moping. "So Tobi, do you think there is hope, after all, for you? I mean, once you hit the arena." I'm surprised by the bluntness of the question—he's basically asking what I think my likelihood of death is.
"Well, Caesar, I don't think it matters if there's hope or not; I don't care what my chances are." He leans forward, grabs my hand.
"But Tobi, surely you aren't giving up so soon?" His voice is overly animated, clearly misconstruing my answer as suicide. He sweeps a hand out to the crowd. "We all want you to fight, triumph, don't we folks?" The cheers are wild. I shake my head, grin wider.
"Don't worry, Caesar—I won't give up." I look dead at the audience again, face completely serious. "No matter what my odds, I will beat them; even if the situation is hopeless, I will find a way to live. I have people at home, waiting for me, and I will not let them down." My voice is raw, naturally deepened by emotion. My throat constricts with unshed tears—I didn't know I had this bottled up. Well, better to let it out now, where the audience can consume it. Such thoughts are useless in the arena.
"That's a will if I've ever seen one," Flickerman sits back in his chair, eyes oddly sober, before sparking forward again. "And I hope it carries you through the arena and all the way back to those loved ones back home." He stands, and I follow, grip the hand he offers firmly.
"Thank you, Caesar."
"Let's hear it again for District Four's Tobi Silverside!" He shouts again. The wild cacophony of the crowd's cheers follows me off stage, down the stairs, and shakily past the line of tributes still waiting to go up. Oscar's hand snags me as I pass, and I turn to see that he's smiling at me.
"You were great, Tobi," he whispers, right before he takes the stage. I watch him go, heart in my throat. The interview went well; I did what I meant to. But on that stage, it was real—I meant every word. I gulp, look around at all the tributes; the children who will be thrown into the arena with me. I meant it all…that I will do whatever it takes to win. And what it takes…is killing every single one of you.
So...yeah. Still a bit angsty. Probably because there isn't enough action yet. Soon, we'll get back to the training arena, so there will be some more fun encounters...which will largely be defined by your responses to the poll I belatedly added to the previous chapter. So, I'll give you that one again...and add another one, just for fun:
POLL 1: Pairings
a.)TobixCato
b.)TobixFinnick
c.)Both (which will come with lots of emotional confusion, and probably some masculine spats...)
POLL 2: Scene prevalence (which of these settings would you enjoy more often?)
a.) Tobi and Cato in the training arena
b.) Tobi and Finnick in private training sessions
c.) Tobi and Cato meeting randomly around the tower (like on the rooftop, in the hallways, in the elevator, etc.) where Finnick may or may not interrupt.
d.) Offer your own suggestions
e.) Just get to the games already!
Haha-so, there are your many options. And again, if none of you feel like commenting, I will just have to continue playing God all by myself...mwahahaha...?