The heavy trident is familiar in my hand. Except the one I hold now is much nicer than my old one back home; this one is clearly meant for a far deadlier purpose than to just to spear fish. It is made pure titanium, rather than District 4's palm wood, and has a small curve on the shaft that is tapered for the user's dominant hand to grip. It has a few buttons too, none of which I bother to press because I already know the basics of how to use the trident. It is something foreign, and yet something totally common for me. I stare at the weapon in silent appreciation for a few moments until I violently spear the practice dummy in half.
Glancing up at the so-called "Gamemakers'" tables, I realize that their idle chatter has ceased and that they are all staring at me, at the trident I twirl with ease back under my arm. At the dummy who, if it were a real person, would be annihilated in the matter of seconds my reaction time required to sever it in half. I glimpse momentarily at the dummy and focus my attention back to the hushed Gamemakers. "If that were a person, he'd be dead," I say humorously, stating the obvious.
A voice comes from the back of the throng of Gamemakers. "What else can you do?"
A sly smirk places itself on my lips and I respond, "Nets. I can weave nets. And I'm also good at distance throwing with a trident. Want me to show you?"
The Head Gamemaker, a small, snivelly young man with round glasses, rises from his seat and backs away slowly towards the generous feast on the table. "Actually, I think we've seen enough for today, Mr. Lynch. Thank you," he assures, voice quivering a bit as he says so. I've scared the living daylights out of him. Good. I should get a pretty good score.
The scores for individual training are numbers between one and twelve, one being the absolute worst and twelve being almost unattainably exceptional. The scores will help viewers and sponsors to determine if you've got a shot at being a winner, and then they'll send you stuff. Like food and shit. I found out this morning from my escort that the scores are supposed to be based on physical strengths and the measurement of survival skills, but that likeability plays a huge factor in how high one's score ends up being. So I'm good at netting. So I am just a tad excellent with a trident. So I'm a little funny. I should get a pretty good score or else. Actually, "or else" nothing. I can't really do anything about it but complain and kill some kids. So then I guess that's what I'll do if I get a low score.
Complain and kill some kids. Not a bad life.
I smile again and exit the room, passing the obviously anxious girl tribute from my district, Mina Reid, whose name I actually bothered to learn because she's kind of hot with her copper-colored hair and inviting brown eyes. But she looks too much like a little kid, too much like my little sister Ionia; the only features that separate the two are their ages (Ionia is younger) and Mina's red hair. I've got to ignore that comparison when I kill her, I think.
Mina taps me softly on the shoulder. "Hey, how was it?" she questions, giving me a look that is something like hope mixed with severe nervousness.
"Great. You're on next. Good luck, Skipper," I lie, shrugging her hand gently off of my shoulder and nonchalantly strolling away. In District 4, the nickname "Skipper" is a term of endearment used for people you're very close to, people you trust. It's probably a little much, but I can't really crush her spirits yet; she has to think I'm on her side at least until I can off her in the arena.
I'm strangely very happy, so high above the world that no one can touch me. No worries, no cares. Just thinking about what life will be like when I get that title and all of the benefits that come with it: "Caspian Lynch, Victor of the 1st Annual Hunger Games." The food and upper-class housing is a plus, but the other, implied benefits are prime. The fame, bringing pride to your district, the girls… Everything will be mine for the taking when I kill that last tribute—
Having entered the narrowest part of the hallway, I slam right into the back of some huge guy, who turns around and glares at me like he wants to roast me over a fire until I'm crispy and eat me. "Watch it, Four!" he roars, towering over me until all I can see is this boy with his ridiculously enormous muscles. It takes a moment to register that he is the male tribute from District 1. My mind, sharp as a bullet, processes the information associated with him that I saw on the recap of the chariots last night. Name: Spekter Hunt. Age: 17. Height: About 6'3" Strengths: Unknown .
I glare at Spekter long after my mental assessment of him until he shoves my chest. "What are you looking at?" he grunts angrily.
"Your face," I snap back. "It's pretty damn ugly, too, in case you were wondering."
Granted this isn't entirely true, but it's quite hilarious to watch his face turns beet red, and I swear that the tufts of cropped black hair on his head are sticking up further and further like the quills of a porcupine. "I'll kill you," he threatens, moving to bump his chest against mine as an animalistic show of his strength over me. "And then I'll kill the redhead you came with."
I'm not afraid; I don't fear anything or anyone. I push him away from me and laugh, "You're not gonna do shit, 'cause by the time I'm done with you, you're going to be in two separate pieces." I grin maniacally and point at him as though to challenge him to a fight. "Try me."
An extended, tense beat of silence passes between us until Spekter breaks out into a strange smile. "You're funny, kid. You and I should team up; no one could stop us."
"Team?" I ask. "Me? Ha, no. I don't play well with others."
He begins to move towards the open elevator, but just before entering, he turns back to me and says, "You'll do anything you have to in order to survive."
He's right. I never really thought about it, but the more I consider teaming up with some other people, the more I realize that it may just be the smartest idea anyone other than me has come up with. I'll pick the strongest, the smartest, the best, the most well-fed. The upper-district kids; the tributes from One, Two, and us from Four—maybe even the ones from Three if they weren't so dang weird. All they know how to in District 3 do is techy stuff, skills that might not even be possible to use in a nature-themed arena. But if we all team together, we can eliminate the other "competition," and the rest will be a piece of cake. Then I'll just kill my "team" and I'll get that title. I'll be a victor. In a split second, I sprint to the elevator and jam my foot in the closing door to get it back open.
Spekter raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, muscles bulging past the point of normality. "What?"
"I've changed my mind," I wheeze. "Let's play the hell out of this Game."
He nods smiles menacingly, probably imagining the deaths of every one of his victims. "They want a show? We'll give them a freaking Field Day."