In the morning, after breakfast, Aulus asks what we're good at to try and figure out what kind of weapons would be best for us to focus on the rudimentariness of. There isn't enough time to dig too deeply into something unless maybe you choose to focus on one area of study to the exclusion of all others and hope that it pays off. But that would be a real risk. Not every weapon available in training will necessarily be placed somewhere in the arena.
I've put my blue and white dress back on and Apple looks at it sort of askance, but doesn't comment, because does it really matter?
Beanpole and I have the same sort of background, so it's no surprise we both list swimming and fishing as our talents. Apple has us ride to the "Spa Center" in her car. Beanpole likes it, just as she expected. Unlike on our train ride in, no one recognizes us as we weave up and down the streets of the Capitol in Apple's green car. Beanpole and I try to explain to Aulus about different kinds of fishing- nets and hook and spear fishing, trawling, shrimping, and clamming (which isn't quite the same, but slips into the conversation naturally).
In the halls of the Spa Center, Beanpole and I are split up. Aulus and Apple don't split up to accompany us either, but leave us in the presumably capable hands of the spa employees. Apple sits down to read a magazine. Aulus flirts obviously with the receptionist, who seems to share his taste for the color purple. I can hear laughing echoing out of other parts of the building. It sounds youthful. Are there other tributes here being tended to at the same time as us? I think the answer is yes.
"Do I call you 'Mags' or 'Margarete?'" is the first personal question the young woman handling me asks.
"It's Mags."
I can only compare the small room I'm taken to to a doctor's examining room. I strip down to my underwear and Spring, who I assume must be in charge of me, weights me, takes my measurements (I take this to mean someone's going to be making me something to wear for the Opening Ceremony- very soon - that will be tonight, so they'll have to hurry), and marks down my height to top it all off.
Spring would probably be a whole head taller than me even without her cobalt-colored heels on. She had a high, happy voice. She reminds me of a dolphin. She has me take down my hair, then has me sit in a chair that tilts back so she can wish it in a special sink. Her attempts at conversation don't go as well as planned between the water that fills my ears and leaves me asking "What?" every few sentences and the fact that the life she lives sounds very different from mind.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No."
"Girlfriend, maybe?"
"N-no." This is an awkward subject to get into so soon with a complete stranger.
"My girlfriend in the one who's making all the clothes for District Four. This is her second year." Spring sounds proud. She tells me more about Erinne- how she studied at a special fashion school, how they met at an art show- and I do my best to listen. I'm able to converse a little better when she asks me about the hairstyle I came in wearing. "Those little bun things- is that your signature look?"
"What?" I ask stupidly over the roar of the hair dryer.
"Your hair," Spring repeats. When she switches the dryer off, the whole thing gets so much easier. "Is that the look you want to have on camera? 'Cuz it's sort of distinctive- which is good to help people recognize you, but if you win, people will associate it with you for ages."
"That's my look." It's one thing I don't have trouble making up my mind about. "That's how I want to look." Everyone back home will recognize me that way. It feels the most "me."
"Okay," Spring agrees to it. She moves on to putting some smelly goop on my legs, then using a special kind of paper to pull the hair off of them. "Sorry," she explains as I grit my teeth, letting out a squeal of pain here or there, "Waxing keeps the hair from growing back longer than shaving, so you'll stay smooth in the arena."
It would hardly have been the first thing on my mind.
Spring pins up my hair and sends me to go soak in a very hot tub. "I'll get my dress back?" I ask nervously before I leave the room.
"And your underwear too, goofy," Spring laughs and I pull the towel around me tighter. "I'll get them washed.
The tub smells nice, like lavender. It's big enough that I could swim in it, but I don't think Spring would appreciate it if I got my hair wet again.
When she comes back for me, another young woman is with her. This turns out to be Erinne. I turn around shyly and she tosses me a towel. "Come on, Mags, let's fit your outfit."
I pad down the hall after them in a robe and pair of slippers. I"m a patient in the hospital of beauty, or something like that, drifting around at the whims of my doctor and nurse in an outfit like this.
At the First Games, the tributes went through the Opening Ceremony in their old clothes from home, but Capitol viewers didn't find that particularly inspiring. For the Second Games, the tributes were provided with clothes to wear, but they weren't very exciting. Then some enterprising young designers decided that volunteering their services and making clothing for the tributes would provide them with free publicity. So that's how it works now- nothing too fancy, but designers like Erinne Cousla make two costumes for each tribute before the Games- one for the Opening Ceremony and one for the interview. The types of clothes are focused basically on whatever will make their tributes look nice. The recognition at these levels comes mainly from within the world of designers. What each of these people ultimately wants is to dress a victor. The clothes that a victor wears afterward are remembered; they set trends. And they need a lot more- for their crowning ceremony, for their Victory Tour, for television appearances…
It occurs to me that Spring and Erinne and whatever other member (members?) of their team must have fixed up Beanpole will be among our biggest fans in the Capitol. I wonder which of us they would rather keep on dressing as long as the position holds their interest… Does Erinne prefer to design for men or for women?
The outfit Erinne has concocted is lovely in white and navy blue and a mousy brown. There's even a little beribboned hat to go with it. I can grasp her concept immediately, but I keep my thoughts to myself and allow her to explain. "I studied up on District Four stories and folklore." I wonder where she learned these things in the Capitol. "Although I do know that the people in Four work in all sorts of clothes now, I learned that there's a certain look historically associated with sailors."
She's put her own spin on the concept, but I know for sure that everyone watching back in 4 will know what she means. Whether it will mean all that much in Capitol, on the other hand…
Spring has the underwear I arrived in freshly washed and waiting for me. She grins when I notice my dress also set to the side. The sailor outfit isn't the kind of fancy clothing that requires special undergarments.
The outfit basically fits. Only minor alterations will be necessary. I change back into the clothes I arrived in. Apple, Beanpole, and Irish, the third member of the styling and design team are waiting for me. I wonder if Beanpole was embarrassed getting fixed up by a woman. He's the same as I left him though, aside from a bit of a trim to his hair. It's just Beanpole really clean. We eat lunch together and after that Erinne works on the adjustments for our costumes. It's kind of funny- Apple wants to see the costumes, but Erinne tells her she's going to have to wait like everyone else (well, basically- since Apple will be with us before we get onto the chariot, she'll be a bit ahead of the cameras).
When the alterations are complete, we get dressed up in them and Irish and Spring set to work on our hair and makeup for the Opening Ceremony. Spring gets Apple to hang onto my dress. Beanpole tells them that his mother made that dress. I think he wants them to stop laughing at me. He and I aren't separated for this part, but are worked on side by side as we sit in front of a long mirror.
Irish asks if either of us has a plan in mind for the Games. "Try not to be a complete idiot," I offer, which makes the Capitol women laugh.
"Mags might win if she distracts her opponents by making them laugh," Beanpole suggests. He sounds bitter. I frown. I don't want us to die hating each other. I hoped that we could just avoid one another in the arena and stay friends.
"You're fast though. And you're smart," I reply, "And bigger than me. I still think the odds are stacked toward big guys."
"…I'm not big compared to those guys from Two or Sven."
"If it makes you feel any better, they're probably either slow or stupid," I continue. Beanpole looks so solemn. I don't think it would be impossible for someone of his size and abilities to win, but he doesn't have much of a survivor's mentality. I mean, it's not like I'm cocky enough to think that I'll win, but I'm not giving up before I start.
"Jean Paul," I say, holding my head still as Spring powders my cheeks but looking at him out of the corner of my eye, "Do you want to team up in the arena?"
"I've got to think about it some more, Mags," he sighs.
The two of us fall silent. I watch as Spring does my hair up into the perfect version of the hairdo Papa called my "barnacles" when I was small. "You're stayed in the sea too long and grown barnacles just like an old boat." I try to imagine what he's doing right now. Probably on the boat, since work has always been his refuge in times of trouble. During the big hurricane, three years back, the two of us just spend the entire storm making hooks. We'd filled half a barrel with them but he time the storm was spent.
"There you go," Spring breaks my reverie.
"Oh!" I look nice, but my compliments should be reflective of my gratitude for the work that was put into me, not just how I think I appear. "I've never looked so beautiful," I tell her, which might be true, but I'm still not exactly beautiful.
Spring and Irish gush over their work a bit, but Erinne just stands back and looks us over in a proud silence. Apple inevitably gushes a lot too (I don't think she can help it- she's just really excitable). Her driver chaffers us away from the Spa Center to the starting point for the procession through the Capitol.
We're led to our chariot and I'm struck by how large the horses are. Ours are, um, I think there are special names for horse colors and patterns, but I don't know them. Our horses are a brown that compliments our costumes. I'm concerned about how we're going to direct the charier, but one of the horse trainers assures me that the horses know exactly what to do. "Just don't fall off," he says as he boosts me up.
The chariots start to queue up. They'll proceed through the streets in district order. It's hard to recognize some of the other tributes based on the reapings recaps now that they've been cleaned up. The pretty girl from 6 is even more gorgeous now. If this were a contest of looks, she'd win.
"Don't fall off, Mags," Beanpole says to me.
"Do you think I'm going to fall off?" I ask. Why does everyone say it to me? I haven't heard anyone say it to Beanpole.
"You might do it on purpose if you think it would be funny," he explains, then the opening music begins and I can't hear the rest of what he says.
Off go the District 1 tributes. Then 2… 3… And it's our turn. There's a lot of cheering as people line the streets and watch from windows and balconies, but I don't think much, if any, of it is directed toward us specifically. The people of the Capitol just like a good show. I wave at the crowds, timidly at first, but encouraged when they wave back at me. I wave toward the cameras too, so everyone back in 4 will know I'm waving long-distance to them as well.
My arm is getting tired by the time our chariot reaches its destination- the City Circle- where we come to a halt facing the presidential mansion. We wait patiently as the music blares on and the rest of the tributes take their places. The overly loud music fades out once 12 has fallen into place. The president gives us his official welcoming speech, which is hardly altered from last year's. The cameras don't remain on the president the whole time, but drift across the assembled tributes. It's not until I see myself projected up onscreen that I realize how bored I look, which makes me grin. People watching this probably think I'm pretty cheeky. …Which is not entirely wrong.
We make another lap around the City Circle when the address is concluded and head back to the stables, where the stylists fuss over us and Beanpole gives me a joking shove for almost cracking up in front of the president, before Apple appears to whisk us all back to our quarters in the Training Center.
Beanpole and I are both pretty worn out, but not too tired to eat, so everyone settles down for a meal. The blond Avox from the train is back. I wonder if it's a coincidence or if she's been specifically assigned to us. She reminds, I finally realize, of an Avox character on this really melodramatic television drama a few years back. "Cicely." That was the character's name. She was the one who discovered that the heroine's husband was cheating on her with the shipping magnate. I wonder if this Avox ever saw that program, if she gets irritated because a lot of people tell her the exact thing I'm thinking but she can't tell them to shut up about it.
"About the team up?" I ask Beanpole, shifting my mind to more relevant things.
"I want to talk to Aulus about it," he shrugs.
I figure that's fine. But what is Aulus even up to? I haven't seen him since the Spa Center this morning. I'm sure whatever he's doing he thinks it will help us, but I think he and Apple are alike in that their enthusiasm may outstrip their abilities.
I've had a better time with both of today's meals than I did with the previous day's, as I seem to have convinced myself to exercise a greater degree of self control.
I'm glad to see that Apple has put my dress back in my room. It still smells freshly laundered.
The makeup is harder to wash off my face than I expected, but I turn up the strength of the shower and I'm eventually able to scrub it away. The hot water is relaxing. I dry off, slip into some pajamas, and melt into bed.
I dream that I am on a sinking ship and only Beanpole is on board with me. I shake his arm, but even when the water reaches him he won't wake up. What do I do? Leave him behind? Try to bring him with me? The cabin is filling up fast. Both of us might drown.
My mind is filled with bad images as I pick out an outfit to wear to training and make myself presentable. Long hair can be a disadvantage in the arena, but I think the way I wear mine keeps it close enough to my head that if I get into a position where it causes me trouble my odds will be looking pretty bad anyway. …Of course, when the boy from 11 grabbed Emmy Pollack by one of her pigtails last year she whirled around and pulled out the knife she had been hiding and stabbed him in the guts. She didn't hurt anyone in her Games who didn't touch her first, but being touched triggered such a violent survival reaction in her…
I don't think if I met her now I would want to even shake her hand unless she initiated the contact. "An attack of nerves," she had said of it at her recap while looking into the camera so placid and serene. For the first time I wonder if during the recap she was sort of drugged.
Over breakfast I tell Beanpole about my Emmy Pollack flashback musings. He relates to me the nightmare he had about the infected bite that took Gerik Rinsai's leg below the knee. His fake leg is made of some sort of high tech metal and he apparently enjoyed clinking things against it to test the sound. But Gerik had that infection and won. The same kind of thing kills at least one tribute most years, whether the original wound is inflicted by another tribute or something, living or otherwise, that's part of the arena. And the bat-mutt that bit Gerik was tiny. One year there were hybrid stingrays. If I were a Gamemaker, I'd see within the ocean plenty of dangerous creatures to serve as inspiration (ones I've seen and ones I've only heard of): sharks, jellyfish, pufferfish, electric eels, sea anemones, barracuda…
Aulus joins us and shifts my thoughts in another direction. "This is going to be the first of three days of training. Take it seriously, but don't push yourselves too hard. It's okay to interact with the other tributes, but absolutely no fighting. Try lots of things today- maybe you'll discern a secret talent."
Do victors give more specific advice than this or are they just as in the dark about how to procure their tributes a win? …I could say they probably feel more pressure than a coach like Aulus does to bring back a winner. "You did it for yourself, why can't you do it again?" That kind of thing. Hometown pride too.
Apple collects us at a quarter to ten and we ride down the elevator (which still makes me dizzy), heading down past ground level this time to the part of the place where the real training in the name Training Center occurs.
"Be good and have fun," Apple tells us like she's our- I can't say mother- our weird aunt.
"We will."
We proceed through the doors and one of the trainers pins a piece of paper labeled "4" to my back. Only the tributes from 1 and 2 have beaten us down, but those from 6, 9, and 10 are quick to follow. The head trainer has to wait for everyone to arrive to give us our instructions and let us begin. The girl from 1 does a handstand against her partner. While I think most of us would like nothing better than to blend into the walls, the pair from 1 don't seem to mind drawing our eyes toward them. Are most of the citizens of 1 naturally gregarious? Did their mentor tell them to do it as some kind of strategy? What kind of strategy would that be?
None of us mix with the other districts' tributes yet. The pairs from 3 and 5 come in, then 8, 7, and 11. The clock ticks past ten o'clock. The poor kids from 12 are late. The head trainer starts his explanation of the center and its stations and the tributes from 12 burst in at last, looking embarrassed.
No one comments on their tardiness, so once their numbers are tacked on, the kids from 12 do their best to settle in. Unless they're hiding some amazing tricks that I can't guess at, they're at the bottom of the pack. The girl is eighteen, I think, but she couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds sopping wet. The boy is thirteen and bewildered.
The head trainer dismisses us to do as we like.
"If we split up, we can cover more ground," I suggest to Beanpole. I still don't know if we're teaming up or not. Either he doesn't want to tell me his decision for one reason or other, or my indecision pales before the high and low tides of his waffling. "Then when we meet back up at, uh, lunch or something, we can let each other know which stations are worthwhile."
"It's a plan," Beanpole agrees. He drifts off to ropes and knot tying, probably because it's familiar.
I decide to try out archery. My arms are weak, my aim is iffy; I have a hard time adjusting my stance to meet the archery instructor's suggestions. Beanpole may have picked knots because he knew them, but it was a choice that makes him look smart- like he knows his own strengths and weaknesses. As usual, I must appear gung-ho and stupid.
The girl from 6 joins me at this station. She fumbles with notching the arrow, but when she lets it fly, it's a better shot than any I've managed so far. I put down my bow and clap for her politely. The instructor asks if she's ever shot before and when her answer is, "No, I just thought it would be fun," I replace my equipment.
"That's it," I hold up my hands, "I'm out."
"No, stay, Four," the pretty girl urges me. Her black hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, but I can see that it reaches past her waist. So fancy. "You'll get it if you practice."
"I'm not sure it's worth the practice," I grin. "But my name's Mags."
"I'm Sparrow."
I stick it out at the archery station long enough that I can actually hit the targets (albeit just barely) by the time I leave. "I've got to try something less physically taxing," I reach back and rub my aching shoulder.
"May I come with you?" Sparrow asks, "You won't mind?"
This is a strange turn of events. It…might not be the greatest idea to make friends. But in all the time Sparrow has been watching me, all I've done is show that I have weak arms, bad aim, and questionable judgment, so I can't think of any purely strategic reason for her to continue following me around. "If you like," I assent, curious.
Sparrow hums a little tune to herself as we go over to the edible plants station to look at sample and run flashcards. "Would you be offended if I ask about who's coaching you?" I ask tentatively.
"No. It's Sunny. And Bailey has Teejay."
"Oh," I nod and study a picture of poisonous nightlock berries. I can't exactly ask if her coach has had any good tips for her, but Sparrow ends up addressing my musings anyway.
"Sunny doesn't act like her Games were that big a deal at all. She gets much more worked up over the things that happened to the girls she's mentored. 'I barely remember mine,' she told me, 'The whole thing was like a blur.'"
"Safe or deadly?" I turn the picture in my hand toward Sparrow.
"Deadly- and how," she meets the challenge, "I guess it was so traumatic she had to repress it. …Well, if that's what works for her. She's in much better shape than Teejay. I can't tell if he's sick or anything, but he's been floating along on Morphling the whole time we've been with him. He barely talks, he barely eats; he just smiles and stares out the window. Back home in Six you never see him. He might as well never leave his house. …Sunny volunteers at the hospital."
I bet that if Sparrow wins, she and Sunny Lightfoot will become friends. I don't know how all the victors feel about one another across district lines, but Hector and Gerik from 2 look like friends.
Lunchtime arrives and all twenty-four tributes sit down to eat together cafeteria style. There's enough space at the tables that everyone could easily sit alone, but not everyone separated themselves. I invite Sparrow to sent with me and Beanpole and tell her she can bring Bailey too if she wants because it seems like the right thing to do. She accepts the offer, but comes alone. Beanpole wrinkles his nose, slightly irritated that I've made a friend here already. He probably thinks I am completely doomed by this point. He recommends the knot tying, but not the sword-fighting. I recommend the edible plants, but not the archery, which makes Sparrow laugh.
"Let me guess," says Beanpole, "She's really bad."
"I'm really bad," I confirm.
Our laughter brings a lot of eyes in on us. The pair from 1 seem to be the only tributes other than us who are holding a stable conversation. Half the people here probably think I'm insane.
As we stack our trays up for the staff to take away at the end of lunch, the girl from 5 approaches me. "Is there something in the water in Four or has what's going to happen not really sunk into your brain?"
"I think I try to fight my fear with humor."
Apparently it makes sense to her then. "There's a name for that in Five. Gallows humor."
"Do you like to laugh?"
She smiles a pinched, toothless smile. "I think it would take a lot to make me laugh here, but it is nice of you to ask."
It isn't until I look up for from the crackling sparks of my handiwork at the fire-making station that I even notice the Gamemakers idly watching us. "How long have they been here?" I whisper to Sparrow.
"They trickled in around eleven, I think."
I guess I have a greater tendency to keep my attention tightly focused on one thing than spreading it around. This will probably be a poor trait to possess in the arena. "Have they, uh, have you noticed them doing anything in particular?"
"No, they're just watching and chatting with one another. They keep pointing at Clark and Korona." The pair from 1. I haven't paid too much attention to the performance of anyone who wasn't right beside me (the tunnel vision focus thing), but even I can tell they're fairly talented. Flashy too. That's what really sets them apart- that weirdly theatrical District 1 flair. After her handstand this morning, Korona walked on her hands.
"Did you ever see them look at you?"
"Only when they were looking at you, actually."
"How do you know they were looking at me?" my voice raises a little.
"Well, I haven't been watching absolutely everyone of each of their movements, of course, but whenever you start laughing, or make me laugh, it seems like at least one or two of them focus on you."
"I wonder if that's good or bad."
There's no way to tell now. …And later we'll still only be able to guess.
At the end of our day of training, Apple shows up to escort us back to the fourth floor. She and Aulus asks a lot of questions about how things went. They don't seem to share Beanpole's reservations about Sparrow. "I can't see any harm in making yourself likable," Aulus says, "I'd think it would make it harder for them to kill you."
"I don't think anyone is ever going to win the Hunger Games because they're too charming to be killed, Aulus," Beanpole rolls his eyes.
"It's still got to be easier to convince yourself you can live with yourself for hurting someone you don't know anything about or who's a total jerk."
Apple agrees with him about this.
After dinner, when Beanpole and I are alone again, he stops me in the hall before I duck off into my bedroom. "Mags," his fingers fall away from my arm like leaves in the wind, "I decided."
"Oh."
"I think we shouldn't stick together in the arena. I'm going to do things alone. You go with anyone you like." So he can tell I'm considering those possibilities. "But, there's one other thing." He looks me in the eye. "During the reaping, you were one hundred percent right about what District Four should be like. If I make it back home, I promise I'll try to think of something that will protect the weakest kids from the arena. …I know if you win, that's what you'll do."
"You might be better suited for that task than me," I let out a weak chuckle.
"That's not all. Our ties as fellow citizens of District Four have to count for something in the arena. Unless we're the last ones standing, I swear that I won't hurt you. And if I see you're in trouble, I'll do what I can to save you."
I was right that day. I'm touched by Beanpole's generosity. He seems steeled now by some in inner resolve. Maybe he can win. We shake hands. I promise the exact same things. …Except I also decide in the silence on my heart that if it comes down to the two of us, I will not kill him. I came here to save one of our own from dying. I can't put myself ahead of Beanpole either.
The following day I try out the knots on my own, but Sparrow, who spent some time on her archery skills (she'll be disappointed if she never gets her hands on a bow in the arena), catches up to me at the funny rock-climbing wall. The one twelve-year-old in the group, Daisy, from 10, works there around us. She keeps looking at us, but doesn't speak up, until I greet her. I can't spare much breath while climbing, but this does convince her to say "hi" back.
The longer I train alongside the other tributes, the more I think it will be all but impossible for me to kill anyone. "You can't know what you're capable of doing in self-defense though," I remind myself. No one has ever won without at least one kill to his or her name.
Daisy sits near, but not immediately next to, Sparrow and I during lunch. I want to reach out to her, but, well, should I be extending my arms to enfold yet another person I won't be able to protect? This isn't a storm warning I'm fighting against here where you try to evacuate everyone you can. Only one person leaves the arena alive.
Some years it takes a while for the killing to begging. The Gamemakers have to break the ice even. Other years, someone like Hector Aurric or Luna Vetiver decides that the only way out is through. And for the two of them, it was.
Is there anyone in our group like that? Who are the ones to look out for from the start? The boy from 7- Haakon?- lifting weights that weight more than I do? Cadelle Vetiver, who, it turns out, can juggle knives? Clark and Korona from 1? The pair from 2 seem threatening in a more understated way.
Even the tributes who are unlikely contenders for the victor's crown can still kill. The blushing girl from 12, Juna Bright, was swinging that mace like her life was going to depend on it. Odds are, there'll be something in the arena that can be used as one, so it's a smart choice.
Sparrow splits from me amicably to spend her afternoon on different activities, while I work with an instructor to pick up knife skills.
Beanpole throws javelins, the boy from 3 works on camouflage, Bailey knocks over the stand of throwing axes (by accident, not on purpose). It occurs to me that if you don't know how to swim, there's no station set up to teach you even the most basic preliminaries of that. Odds are there won't be a significant enough amount of water in the arena for it to make a difference, but if there is, Beanpole and I may possess a marked advantage. I don't know about smaller or manmade bodies of water, but based on the map on the wall in school, most of the districts of Panem have no coast.
I've never been in a knife fight, but I know plenty about gutting fish. It's finally an offensive ability I can understand.
Hooks and lines, nets and knives. Petey, from 3, looks googly-eyed enough with his thick glasses. Daisy stares at Haakon's axe tossing prowess with lips slightly spread. Korona shows off a gymnastic leap where she twists and flips in the air. Catfish, minnows, marlin. Only the Gamemakers can play the part of fisherman, but many fish, I know, eat other fish.
"Tomorrow after lunch will be the private evaluations with the Gamemakers," Apple reminds us over dinner.
I scrape up the thick sauce left over from my pasta with a homey piece of greenish bread. Each of the cute little rolls is shaped like a fish. Back home the bakers make our bread in a variety of sizes and shapes, but all the bread for export looks like to judge from Aulus' reaction when Beanpole remarked upon it.
"Have you made up your minds what you're going to do in front of them?"
"Honestly, I'm not so sure I want to look that good," Beanpole says, "It's not like the betting odds on me are going to make me win or lose and, well, not that I think I can do anything great, but I don't see how a good score can help me in any way but in convincing Clark and Haakon and Wiley that I'm a big enough threat that they need to think about taking me out."
"If you don't look like you're putting enough real effort into your demonstration, won't you be worried that the Gamemakers will get you back for it?" I query, although his points make perfect sense based on the criteria he name.
"I am going to try. It's just… I won't be crying or anything if it turns out poorly."
Aulus' laugh now is high but stiff. We're going places with this his mind would rather not venture down. "Have you decided, Mags?"
"I'll do the one thing I really know I can do- a little impromptu fishing."