Anger has always come easy to me. I remember when I was little and couldn't figure out how to weave a half-decent net. All the moves were too complicated and no matter how hard I tried, my fingers refused to move as gracefully as Clara's did. She coached me with an almost supernatural patience, always offering words of encouragement in all the right places. But that just made me feel worse. I can't remember how long we went on like that, I just recall tossing my half-finished work into the sand and storming away, tiny fists balled at my side. It was a stupid reaction, I know that now. But back then, there was nothing I could do about it. The anger had already taken root.
But it's different this time. There's no heat to the feeling in my gut. In fact, it's the complete opposite, like the kind of cold where dying feels like falling asleep. The reaping was rigged, Finnick Odair has ruined my life, and I could be dead in forty-eight hours. These things are true. If I don't win the seventy-third annual Hunger Games and return to Clara in one piece, she will never forgive me. These things are also true. I cling to them every time my mind wanders.
It's wandering now as I watch Marina flit around our living quarters. She's a bundle of nerves and has taken to worrying a strand of aquamarine hair between her fingertips. Our training scores will be revealed at any moment. Right now, they are the single most important factor for potential sponsors. A high score means you've impressed the gamemakers and, by proxy, bumped your name to the top of the betting board. A low score means you're a sitting duck.
"Nobody has ever been awarded a score of twelve before," says Marina, grabbing a flute of champagne and perching on the couch next to Finnick. "You never know, today might be our lucky day."
I pick the seat furthest from them and resist the urge to sink into it. I haven't so much as looked at Finnick since our conversation on the balcony. And I know that I should. The smartest thing I could do now is set our differences aside and put all my effort into mining him for advice. After all, resentment isn't the best foundation for a relationship that could mean the difference between life and death. Unfortunately, I can't seem to convince my gut to think the same.
Axel swans into the living room just as Caesar Flickerman's face pops onto our screens. He takes his spot next to me, grabs two flutes of champagne, and then passes me one.
"You look like you could use a drink," he explains, nodding at the blood that's still caked under my fingernails.
I take it gratefully, savoring the sharp taste as it works its way down my throat. I can practically feel Finnick's disapproval radiating from the other side of the room, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I figure you lose the right to draw any moral lines once you've thrown someone into a televised death match.
"So, are you going to fill me in?" Axel asks, nudging my shoulder.
Of course. He hasn't seen me since I stormed out of the elevator covered in blood a few hours ago. I ditched Finnick the second our conversation ended and shut myself in my room, only emerging once Marina practically dragged me out.
"Maybe after a few more of these," I reply, raising my glass.
Axel laughs and clinks my glass with his own. "Deal."
Marina shushes us loudly, clicking in the direction of the screen. Caesar has finished his usual preamble and moved onto the moment we've all been waiting for. First they show a photo of the tribute and flash their score beneath it. The twins from One, Lux and Jewel, are first. They are both awarded a score of nine. Then comes the boy from Two, Mason, who scores an Eight. Titus snorts at that, clearly not as friendly with the careers as I had assumed.
"Here we go," Axel murmurs as Blythe's picture takes over the screen.
She's leveled the camera with an icy glare, like a dead-eyed shark. Even Caesar raises his eyebrows as he reads out her score. It's an eleven.
"Good heavens," says Marina, clutching her glass a little tighter.
I'm surprised that mine doesn't shatter in my hands. A score of eleven is rare, even for a career. What the hell did she show the gamemakers?
"You should've taken that offer when you had it, Medler," Titus says, sending me a smug look from across the room.
Great, so Blythe has told everyone I rejected her and most likely painted a few extra targets on my back in the process.
"What offer?" Finnick says, leaning forward in his chair.
I meet his eyes for a half-second then shift my gaze back to Titus.
"It's nothing," I reply, draining my glass and reaching out to grab another one but Axel's hand stops me.
"Hold on, you rejected Two?" says Axel, looking oddly impressed.
"I didn't reject anyone," I say. "She didn't want an alliance."
And it's half-true. Offering to train with someone after holding their only ally at sword-point isn't exactly the same as making a formal offer.
"That's not what I heard," Titus continues, clearly overjoyed at any opportunity to make me look stupid.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Finnick continues.
I do look at him now, hard, "It must've slipped my mind."
He's recovered from our conversation well. If I didn't know better, I wouldn't think that anything had happened. But I guess that's the whole point and, if anyone could put on a show, it's Finnick Odair.
"Why would you keep that a secret?" he asks.
"Like you've never done the same," I shoot back without thinking.
The room falls into a deathly silence, save for the sound of Caesar's voice reading out scores for the tributes from Three. I tear my eyes away from Finnick's face, suddenly fascinated by the blood that's lodged stubbornly beneath my nail beds.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Axel asks, voice lilting with interest.
I scramble for an excuse just as Titus' picture flashes up.
"And now, from District Four, we have Titus Cardew with a score of–" Caesar pauses for effect and Titus forward so much that he practically falls out of his chair. "–Seven."
The announcement lands hard in the middle of our small party. Nobody speaks, not even Marina. I risk a glance in Titus' direction as he processes the news. Seven isn't a bad score but it's the lowest out of the careers. Titus has realized this too as his features twist into something beyond rage. Whatever he's thinking, he can't seem to articulate it. Instead he chooses to squeeze his champagne flute until it shatters between his massive fingers.
At least this spurs Marina into action. She totters over to him in her heels and launches into a speech on how unreliable the scoring system can be.
"Do you remember Joanna Mason from a few years ago?" she says. "She was only awarded a Three and now–"
"I'm not a sniveling coward," Titus snaps, jumping out of his chair and stalking over to the drinks table next to my seat.
He grabs another glass and drains it in one gulp before jerking his thumb at the screen and saying, "Your turn, Medler."
I turn to meet my own eyes staring back at me as Caesar begins.
"Wren Medler from District Four with a score of… Eight."
Eight!
Axel claps me on the back and Marina lets out a sigh of relief, but I'm not watching them. I'm watching Finnick whose eyes are still glued to the screen. But why? Eight is a career score and that equals sponsors. So why isn't he celebrating too?
"Wren," Marina says, laying a gloved hand over her heart. "What on earth did you show them?"
I shake my head, glancing at the flashing number and willing my brain to catch up. Something isn't right, but I can't put my finger on it. I think the cogs are finally beginning to grind into gear when I make the mistake of looking at Titus. It has the effect of spooking a wild animal. First he freezes, glancing between me and the screen. Then it happens.
Within a fraction of second, Titus smashes his glass against the side of the table and lunges at me with the broken stem.
"You're a fucking cheat, Medler," he bellows as we connect violently.
I throw my hands up to protect my face as he heaves me off the couch and onto the floor. Then his massive hands wrap around my throat and squeeze, hard. I'm vaguely aware of hearing Marina shriek as I squirm under his weight. Then I see the light bounce off the glass as he plunges it down at my throat. I do scream then, trying desperately to twist out of the way but it's too late. My eyes screw shut as I brace for impact. Am I going to be the first tribute to die before the games begin?
But the killing blow never comes. I open my eyes just in time to see Finnick tackle Titus to the ground as Axel wrestles the shard of glass from his hands. He's disarmed in seconds.
"You don't touch her," Finnick says, voice cutting over Titus' rantings. "Do you understand me?"
"I didn't do anything!" I protest, as Marina pulls me to my feet. "It's not my fault you blew your private session."
This unleashes a new wave of fury as Titus attempts to unseat Finnick and finish what he started.
"What did you say?" he shouts. "Say it again!"
"I said it's not my fault that you–" I start but Axel cuts me off with a firm shake of his head.
Then the elevator doors burst open and two peacekeepers file in, drag Titus up, and escort him down the corridor and out of sight. He curses me all the way.
Finnick is at my side in seconds, assessing the damage. He goes to trace his fingers over my neck but I jerk away.
"I'm fine," I say.
Finnick dismisses me outright, shaking his head. "No you're not, Wren. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
The idea of accepting Finnick's help doesn't sit right with me. But the look he's giving me says that this is about more than Titus, so I force myself to follow him back to my room. As we walk, I can hear snatches of a hushed conversation between Marina and Axel. They're talking about Titus and, by the sounds of it, are horrified by his actions. That's fair, I suppose. I'm feeling pretty horrified myself. I wonder who will kill me first, Titus or Blythe? The question rolls around in my skull as I trail behind Finnick. Titus or Blythe? Titus or Blythe? Titus or Blythe?
"Don't ice it," Finnick says, as my hand floats over the ice bucket.
Despite Axel's influence, I've never used the mini-bar in my room. But after the events of today, I might consider starting.
"Why not?"
Finnick settles into the window seat. "Because you need it to bruise. Your interview is tomorrow, it'll show the audience you can hold your own in a fight."
Hold my own in a fight? I'm pretty sure I just narrowly missed being skewered by a champagne flute.
"Your score changes things," Finnick continues. "You're on their radar now, so you need to act the part."
"And how do I do that?"
Finnick pauses, considering me carefully. "Do you trust me?"
The question catches me off guard. Trust and Finnick Odair aren't two things that go together. At least, not anymore. I glance down at the necklace he gave me, unsure whether I want to rip it off or cling onto it for dear life.
"I did," I say after a long moment.
And it's true. Before I knew the truth, I'm pretty sure Finnick was the only person I trusted outside of Clara.
"That's fair," Finnick replies after a long moment. "But I'm going to need you to do it again."
I cross my arms reflexively, turning the idea over in my head.
"We made a deal, remember? " says Finnick. "We're still a team."
A team. I'm not used to having people on my side, but that doesn't change the fact that I need them, especially now. I can't just toss my rope in the sand and storm back to Medler House. I'm not eight-years old anymore. I need to be smart.
"Fine," I say, willing the anger out of my tone. "What do I need to do?"
Finnick practically breathes a sigh of relief then launches straight into mentor mode.
"Well, first you need an angle. Every tribute out there will be gunning for something different but the aim is always the same. You need to get the audience to like you."
I think back to the night of the opening ceremony. The screaming crowds, the big screens, and how fickle the crowd's interest was. Their eyes seemed to linger on me for a brief moment, and then shift to the chariot behind. How was I supposed to make that moment last?
Finnick must pick up on the question behind my eyes as he says, "You've got something the rest of them don't. You're an underdog."
"I'm from Four," I say. "That doesn't exactly scream underdog."
"You're from a community home," he corrects. "You're an orphan."
"An orphan who just scored an eight."
He shakes his head. "And why do you think you got that?"
I think back to my private session. Sure, picking that dummy clean was a gory scene, but even then an eight seems exceptionally high.
"I don't know," I say. "Maybe they liked me?"
Finnick's voice is a touch gentler now. "It's a target, Wren. It plays well with sponsors but what about the other tributes?"
I feel my stomach drop. The other tributes, of course. I already knew Titus was out to get me, but I never stopped to consider the others. A nine is a career score, which means that unless I'm on their side, I'll be the first person they come after in the arena.
"You mean it's a trap," I say, thinking back to the reaping and Snow's office.
Even if my knife skills were twice as good as they thought, I shouldn't have bagged a score that high. This is just another nail in my coffin.
Finnick rises from his seat and walks right up to me, then places his hands on either side of my shoulders. I don't jerk away this time. I just look up at him, half accusatory, half terrified.
"It doesn't have to be," he says. "We can make this work."
"How?"
"You give them something to root for. You're not just Wren Medler from a community home in Four."
"That's exactly who I am."
"No, not anymore. Now you're something else, you're an orphan who's been plucked from obscurity and dropped into the heart of the Capitol. They're your family now and you're their favorite daughter."
My face curls in disgust.
"They're placing bets on whether I live or die, Finnick! They're not my family."
Finnick shakes his head, "I know that but this is a show, Wren. You've got to create a character and stick to it."
I know he's right, but I can't let go of the fact that I already have a family. A real one. And she would be disgusted by this plan.
"We can think of something else," I say after a beat.
"All I do is think, Wren," says Finnick. "This is your best bet."
I hang my head, trying to weigh up what he's asking. I hate to admit it, but I can see his point. Every tribute will be aiming for sexy, or ruthless, or doe-eyed. Those angles are predictable, we see them in different flavors almost every year. It's like Axel said, if surviving Medler House is an advantage then I should take it.
"And what about after?" I ask. "If I win, what then?"
Finnick releases my shoulders. "Let's take it one step at a time, Wren."
In the end, the only thing that drags an agreement from my lips is the memory of Clara's last words to me back in the Justice Building. I promised to do everything I could to get back to her, no matter the cost. The only thing to do now is hope she can see through whatever performance I put on tomorrow night.
"If I do this, it'll help me in the arena, right?" I ask, searching Finnick's face for any sign of a lie.
He nods. "If you pull this off you'll have sponsors coming out of your ears."
I take one last look at him, then sure up my resolve. Titus, Blythe, and the full weight of Snow's wrath are lining up to kill me, so I need every advantage I can get. It's funny, I always thought anger was a weakness. It's cost me a lot over the years. Friends, relationships, happiness. But maybe I'm made this way for a reason. From here on out, I need to turn everything they throw at me to my advantage. I need to survive.
"That decides it then."