Alright, so this is a very odd chapter. To begin with, it's an addition after the fact, which makes it inherently awkward. Going back over this story, I realized that this part of the story-the individual assessments and the scoring-was completely missing. Ordinarily I might just leave it and leave you to assume that it happened and was uneventful. But I think it was necessary to develop Tobi fully as a tribute, and it's just a fun part of the Hunger Games universe, so I threw it in. That being said, it was pretty challenging for me to add something retroactively like this. We'll see how it turns out, I suppose.
I've been trying to paint my arm into a rock for what feels like house when a thick hush falls over the entire training room. I glance up at Oscar and find that he's staring off over my head, face intent and clearly listening. My heart pounds in my chest-this must be it.
I turn to look back over my shoulder, following his gaze to the entryway of the training room. Our training leader stands there, stiff and formal, wearing the exact same blase expression she used at the beginning of our training to tell us exactly how we would all die. As I watch, she claps her hands twice for attention, though by this time you already could have heard a pin drop. All of the tributes are already keenly focused on her, and we all know what's coming.
"Attention tributes," she calls, voice ringing through the room. "The time has come for you all to present yourselves to the game makers, individually. Please gather around while I explain the procedure." I scoff quietly under my breath as we all drop what we"re doing and form a crude semi circle around her. There's no need to explain-we've all seen this televised since we were old enough to crawl, and I feel like I know the procedure backwards and forwards: go in, show off to the best of your ability, and pray the game makers like you enough to give you a fighting chance. My heart taps a racing tattoo. The score I receive this evening will have a gigantic impact on my sponsors-or potential lack thereof. If I fail here, no one will sponsor me, and I'll be as good as dead without their help. I grit my teeth as our trainer begins to speak.
"I'm sure you all know what's coming," she intones flatly. "You will line up by district, girls in front of boys, and exit the training facility. You will wait in the adjacent room, and come in when your name is called. Once you enter, the next five minutes are yours. Show the game makers what you can do." She surveys the room, and cracks a smile. I glance around and notice that almost everyone looks supremely nervous, many like they might bolt from the room. The careers all look determined, cocky, and it makes the rest of us feel even worse. I glance over to where Katniss Everdeen stands near the back and am impressed by the steady, steely expression she affects. I try to school my own features into something similar, and nudge Oscar in the shoulder. He looks so pale, he could already be dead.
"Don't look so terrified," I hiss. He looks at me, startled, and I realize how ridiculous my advice must seem in light of my behavior over the last few days. And I think Cato has multiple personalities.
"Many of you may have been told to hold back in training," the woman continues. "Now is not the time for that. Remember that your performance this afternoon will affect your chances in the arena, and could mean the difference between life and death." As though we needed reminding. "Alright-file out, please." With that, she leads us all out through the double doors of the room and through an identical pair not twenty feet down the hallway.
Inside the room is nothing at all like the gym. It's much smaller, with exactly enough space to fit twelve pairs of metal seats, welded to the floor and to one another in a square. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of the same material-the odd, silvery metal that seems to pervade every building in the capitol, shimmering and sterile. Soft LED lights in blue and green are embedded in lines along the walls and ceiling, with a smattering of white lights on the floor, giving the room an odd darkness. As though we sit in the night sky surrounded by fluorescent, multicolored stars. It's unsettling.
We all take our seats, sitting in our district pairs, and before we've all settled a voice projects into the room. It calls the girl from district one, Glimmer, and with a confident flounce she exits the room, blond braid flung over one shoulder.
And now we wait.
"Do you know what you're going to do in there?" Oscar glances sideways at me. I flinch at his volume. Surely he can't be serious-who discusses such things in a room full of other tributes? I glance around, notice that no one looks at us directly, but everyone has gone rigid and is clearly listening. Except Cato, of course-he lounges with Clove in the back of the room, arms crossed, and meets my gaze unflinchingly. He offers a cocky grin and flaps his hand, as though encouraging me to hurry up and answer the question. I glower at him and twist back around to face forward in my seat. I give Oscar a shrug.
"I haven't decided yet," I say thoughtfully, as though I'm not particularly worried. "I suppose it depends on what they've got in there."
"You know as well as the rest of us they have everything in there, four." I whip back around and level Cato with the hardest glare I can manage.
"Well then I'd watch out if I were you, two," I spit. "I might just show you up." The threat is completely empty, and I regret the words immediately. After all, everyone will see my score this evening-my bluff won't carry me long. I expect Cato to point out as much, but instead he tilts his head back and laughs. I narrow my eyes, and notice that Clove appears startled by Cato's uncharacteristic outburst. Her wide eyes slowly turn to me, however, and if possible she seems to hate me more than before. I clench my teeth. Careers...Then Clove's view of me is cut off as her name is called and she saunters forward. On her way she swings her hip pointedly into my shoulder with enough power that I lurch sideways and resentfully rub my arm-that will definitely leave a bruise.
It's no time at all before my name is called. I stand slowly and pause to tighten my white-blond ponytail before stepping out into the aisle and toward the door.
"Try not to fall, land legs," I hear Cato sneer, followed by a mean snicker from Clove. I resist the urge to turn around, sure that the unflinching confidence, present all the way to his individual assessment and all the way back, will remain infuriatingly present. So, squaring my shoulders, I simply march out the door and into the training room.
I fight not to turn back and leave immediately. Upon entering, I see that the open seating atop the wall at the opposite end of the room is positively packed with gamemakers. It's not unusual for a few to be there-they always come to watch us train, sizing us up and snickering at our mistakes. But this time the satanically red area is bustling. And they're loud, all chatting and eating, holding strangely colored beverages. I walk to the middle of the room and clear my throat.
"Kuria Silverside," I announce as loudly as I can. To my relief, they seem to settle back into their seats and quiet down, turning to watch and wait. My heart twists and my own breathing seems unusually loud, the lights painfully bright. My palms are sweating. What should I do..? I stare around the room for a moment, aware every second that my time is ticking by. My eye catches the throwing knives, and then flickers to the twine and wire in the traps section. I set my mouth in a determined line and set to work.
I hear a restless shuffling as I settle on the floor with my materials, and risk a glance up at the gamemakers. A few have lost interest, and my heart flutters nervously. But Seneca Crane, the head gamemaker, leans over to watch with curiosity. I almost smile-as long as a few of them are paying attention.
Deftly I use the twine to securely attach a knife to the end, thickening the twine as I go to create a whip that can support the sudden weight at it's tip. Along the line I attach small, crudely fashioned hooks made from wire, designed to sink in and get a hold on flesh. The weapon could also double as a grappling tool, or even a fishing line if I removed some of the knives.
When I'm finished, I stand and twirl my invention above my head for a while, then cast it easily into one of the dummies. It has a reach of several feet, and thankfully, it works as intended. Some of the hooks snag in the dummy, and I yank it forward, off balance, before flicking my wrist to release the hooks. In the same motion, I flick the whip back, like I'm using a fly rod, and flick the knife over into the next dummy. It lands embedded in its eye for a moment until another flick yanks it out and sends the whip to coil, deadly, around the neck of the third dummy.
I'm nearly grinning when at last I let the whip drop. I can't imagine what they think of my demonstration...but either way, I'm pretty happy with it. Nervously, I glance toward the gamemakers. Crane appears thoughtful, pensive, and I watch as some people near him scribble madly in their notes. Finally he nods, sits back in his chair, and I realize my time is up.
"Thank you," I finish lamely before simply leaving my makeshift weapon where it is and walking-almost running-out of the room.
"How'd it go?" Oscar asks as he stands to go in for his own assessment. I nod and take my seat.
"Not too bad."
That evening we crowd, tense and anxious, around the television. Blye paces around the room, periodically announcing unconvincingly that the scores are no big deal, and we shouldn't worry too much. Oscar, who hasn't spoken a word since his assessment, sits stiffly on the couch, pale and wide-eyed. Finnick is missing, but he saunters into the room just before the announcements begin and takes a seat next to Oscar while I perch, restless, at the edge of an overstuffed chair.
In silence, we watch the first few tributes get their scores. No one is surprised that the careers all rank at 8 and above. I narrow my eyes as Cato's score floats around the screen, a whopping 10. Then, finally, they announce Oscar Tigerfish, and a glowing white 7 circles his picture. I hear a breath escape Blye, and Oscar smiles quietly as she pats him on the back.
"Seven!" She breathes happily. "What did you do in there?"
"Well done, Oscar," Finnick agrees and offers a wide smile. Then tension returns as Flickerman introduces my name, and my pale face floats like a ghost onto the screen. I hold my breath, chest constricting almost painfully.
Then I nearly laugh, nearly cry, in surprise. A 9 hovers, as pale as I am, around my head.
Blye lets out a whoop, and Finnick stands so abruptly that he appears confused and, with a blank almost-smile, sits back down. Flux, standing in the back of the room, waltzes forward and comes around the chair to face me. With a perfectly straight face, he actually lifts me out of the chair and spins me around, to my shock, before setting me on my feet and giving me a hug. I giggle once, then again, and find myself genuinely smiling.
"I don't know what you two did in there," Finnick says with a broad grin, locking eyes with me. "But whatever it was, you just made all the difference."
Well, so now we have that little window filled in. Who would have suspected Tobi's knack for invention? Perhaps the idea was a little far fetched...but no one said this had to be realistic...right? Oh, well. Let me know what you think, as always :)
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