The Arena is nothing like I imagined it. It's a wasteland…desert sprinkled with spiny, tube-like plants and beige rocks that lizards sun themselves on. I am so thirsty, but there is no water to be had, and the sun is burning down on me relentlessly. Heatstroke is imminent.
The air in front of me shifts, takes on the pattern of fish scales, and reveals a small forest far in the distance. My feet drag in the sand but I manage to shuffle in my half-dead manner to the wood. I would cry if I had any tears left in me. Unfortunately I don't—those evaporated with the rest of the water in my body—so I simply cough, and walk as quickly as I can to the pool of water I spy in the middle of the grove.
I throw myself face down in the cool, clean liquid, only to open my eyes underwater to discover the streams of scarlet drifting towards me. The water slaps as I rip my head up out of it, finding the body that has joined me in the oasis. It's Rig, a knife is his stomach, his hand still clasped around the hilt.
I scream. The cold, dry air of my room in the Training Center pours into my lungs as I suck in breath after breath of fresh air untainted by the suffocating heat of my dream. At the same time I ask myself why I would dream of Rig, I know that part of me already feels left behind. We aren't partners, but the idea of being abandoned, without even one ally in the arena horrifies me.
He's not my only choice, as far as allies go, yet I need the closeness of someone from my own district, the familiarity and comfort that can bring in such a dire situation. Other tributes pass by in my mind, the boy with the boots from District Ten, the Twins from Eleven, the golden swimsuit girl from Four. Briefly an image of a boy with red hair comes to me, but I can't remember where he's supposed to be from…
I know I'm not enough on my own. I'm going to need someone to watch my back, even if it's only for a little while. It takes me a long time to get my baring, and the Games go on for weeks in arenas it takes a few days' walk to cover. I won't be able to travel all of it, and I'll need time to scout for an acceptable spot to start from. There isn't going to be any time after the sixty seconds are up at the Cornucopia.
If it were only so easy and I could just kill myself now, like Rig. Then nobody would have to worry—least of all me. The anxiety would be over with. The endless dread. Yes, if only…I think.
The carpet is soft and springy beneath my feet, so much so that it muffles the sound of me leaving my room. The hall of our suite is empty, the doors of my mentors, escort, and fellow tribute all closed for the night. After the parade, we all collapsed in relief that nothing had gone awry.
I head for the elevator. The Center has twelve floors above ground, one for each District's tributes. We're on Floor Six, of course. I haven't been to any of the other floors as the contestants are not allowed to associate with each other until they hit the arena. I think for a second that perhaps that's strategic—it makes it easier to kill one another.
The lift shoots up the last six floors, and opens to a corridor identical to the one in our suite. At the end of it, though, is an extra exit. I'm surprised to find it unlocked, and close it silently behind me before I start to climb the stairs.
You can see the balcony on the outside of the Training Center, but no one tells you about it once you're inside. Possibly for this very reason. Who knows what would happen if a tribute decided to throw themselves off the roof?
I wonder how many Tributes have tried to kill themselves. Have any? Or have they simply decided that eventual death at the hands of someone else in the Game is close enough? I suppose some would want to have a little fun before they go; a little luxury until they have to die. The fame is scintillating too, for certain people. I don't have that—just the non-feeling that pervades my mind and body whenever reality gets to be too much.
I was afraid that that might happen in the arena, that my mind might shut off like it's been doing so often lately, and my body would follow suit. I would definitely be easy pickings, then.
Now there's nothing to worry about. It's almost funny to me, how simple the solution is. How needless my self-torture over the Games has been.
Carefully (haha carefully, no need to be that now), carefully, I put my foot on the edge of the wall surrounding the roof. It's short enough that I can hoist my other leg up as well, and stand. A garden occupies the top of the Training Center, and I can hear wind chimes jingling behind me in the breeze. They meld with the shouts and music coming from the streets below, a party to celebrate the opening of the Games.
The midnight air billows around me, wafting the thin material of my nightgown between my legs and up my arms.
What will they do when they find this same dress spattered with blood in the morning, laying over shattered limbs and skin flush with bruises?
They'll take me away immediately, I believe. Cover me quickly so no passerby can tell who it was that threw themselves from twelve stories during the night. Maybe they'll paint it as a tragic accident, spread the lie that I couldn't have been more honored to be chosen in the Reaping, and that, although I was destined to die anyway, my premature departure is a great loss.
My body will be sent home to my family, bathed and clothed in something fresh, perhaps even what I came here in. All boxed up, one dead tribute. Mother and Marten will have a little less time to prepare, but at least they'll know I didn't suffer, that I went out on my own terms. That I controlled this last bit of my life. Titania and Streak will cry with my mother and brother, and then move on. Remember me when they sit in class, or when they're in the factory, watching a new hoverplane roll off the conveyor belt.
And the Capitol will be short one tribute. Rig will be able to guiltlessly kill himself in a few days—not that he's feeling that way anyway. And Pallas, for the first time, won't have had to ready two children for their brutal deaths. Singe and Torch won't know what is going on, maybe simply an atmosphere of shock, sadness. They can return home to more morphling, and continue to enjoy their time in the Capitol each time they're called up to mentor a tribute.
…New tributes. Of course there will be more tributes, more Games. Why hadn't that occurred to me? What will the Capitol really do when they're short one offering from District Six?
I don't even have to consider the answer. I know right away what they'd do: they'd hold another Reaping.
The air's knocked out of me—I can't believe I didn't see how my death would turn out. It seems so obvious. The Capitol can't let people know that they couldn't control one of the tributes. That someone managed to circumvent their yearly reminder of complete domination over our lives. Maybe they wouldn't televise it. Maybe they wouldn't even let the Districts know it was going to happen. But the day that they found me, they would send someone directly to District Six to pull another name. Someone that thought she was safe. Another female tribute to take my place.
And District Six will have given three of its children this year.
If I kill myself, I kill someone else, too. And I can't do it. I feel the tears running from my eyes before the sobs begin, and very soon I'm down off the ledge and curled at the base of the wall, crying at my stupidity, at my selfishness, at my complete immobility as a Tribute. I rest my forehead on the brick, and smack it off the rough red clay again and again. Not enough to kill me, oh no, I won't do that. Just enough to make myself unconscious so I don't have to think about how trapped I am.
"I've been informed that you went to the roof last night."
Pallas is waiting for me when I emerge from my room the next morning.
There must have been cameras. Something else I hadn't thought of. They may not televise us here in the Center, but what is there to stop them from keeping an eye on us every step of the way. "Yes. I did." How much did they see?
"You wouldn't have been successful," he whispers. Not harshly, as I'd expected, more practically rather. We walk down to the dining room for breakfast. "The perimeter of the roof is enclosed in a force field."
Fitting. I was probably an inch away from being zapped backward the whole time I stood on the ledge. All those tears and guilt over what I would have put my family through, and I wouldn't have even been able to jump.
In the daylight, things seem different. My vision is sharper with the help of the bright sun shining through the windows of the suite. And the banquet laid out before us makes my appetite reappear. Today is training day, and although I'm nervous about what skills I can acquire before my time is up there, I'm anxious to get started.
I sit down next to Rig, who butters a roll silently beside Numen. We're dressed in our training clothes, and complement each other again. Each of us has on a sleek, body-fitted shirt made out of some crimson, synthetic material. Valencia says it'll wick away moisture so our bodies say cool. Our black pants stretch, made from the same substance and I don't like the shoes we have to wear—they seem too thin to take much stress.
Rig looks sideways at me, startled by my proximity. He doesn't know that, after last night, I understand his aversion to life in the Games. His almost cocky willingness to take his own life in order to save them the satisfaction. I'm on his side.
Our head trainer is Atala, a tall athletic woman with light brown skin and dark hair. She informs us that the Training Arena is set up in different stations, each with its own subject or specialty that we may move to at will. Rather than perusing the various skills I can learn, I study the other tributes.
There's the girl from District Four, looking about ready to murder her fellow tribute, who is busy flexing his muscles at no one in particular. That will probably come in handy, later. I also recognize Trinket, the long-haired tribute from District One. Her hair is tucked up today, braided elaborately, and pinned—I hope, securely—around her head.
The Twins from Eleven immediately separate, the girl going to the knot-tying station, while the boy heads over to the edible plants table. Maybe they're trying to cover more ground, or are fending for themselves. Rig and I were informed that, if we have any talents, to keep them to ourselves until our time with the Gamemakers. Otherwise, try to absorb skills you think you might lack. For us city tributes, that means anything dealing with the natural world.
Citing this as good a reason as any, I decide to spend most of my time that first day at the edible plant station. Along with the Boy from Eleven, the girl from Ten, and another boy that I think is from Five, join me. Dimly, I realize he is the boy that came to mind last night when I was trying to think of possible allies. He stands out because of his red hair, but I can't recall his name.
Automatically, I feel awful. If I'm going to kill him (or he's going to kill me) I should know his name. Just like at the Reaping though, when I shook Rig's hand, I don't know how to say this.
So I pay close attention to what the instructor says about which plants we can eat and which we can't. I listen when he lists medicinal herbs for bruises and minor cuts. I stop him and ask what something is when it looks too much like something else. Right away, I seize on a delicate, flowering plant named Arnica. It looks like a yellow daisy, with an uncharacteristic white fuzzy center.
"Shock, bruises, wounds." Tibalt says, holding up the flower.
"It looks like a weed," the boy with the red hair says. His soft voice is skeptical.
"Yes. Indeed, but a regular weed will do nothing for you out there. Arnica can tame inflammation and be used to clean cuts. This, however, is not edible."
"Great," observes District Ten. Her hair is in two braids that lay over her shoulders. Her freckled nose crinkles as she tried to commit that piece of information to memory.
Tibalt begins to quiz us once he has gone through his selection of plants a few times. "And this?" He presents us with a floppy plant with large, diamond-shaped leaves. I note the small, orangey blossoms that have yet to open up.
"Comfrey?" I guess.
"Correct," Tibalt smiles. "What does it do?"
"Edible. Speeds healing in fractures, bruises, cuts, and burns."
"Very good. What about this one?" He grasps a branch with slender, pointed leaves. At the base of the branch hang green orbs about the size of my fist.
"Walnut," says Red Hair. "Black Walnut." He's been very good at this, whereas I'm only just getting the hang of identifying things. Granted, the nuts should have helped.
"…And?" Asks our instructor. We stare at him. Red Hair presses his brows together and looks at the ground. In a moment, he comes back up with a smile, knowing he's got it.
"Edible. Open the fruit. Crack the nut."
"Excellent, Shatter. Very edible. Your hands will be stained for days, though." Tibalt reaches behind him and pulls out a plant with tear-shaped leaves. Hairy all the way up the stock, it has tiny white petals that blossom from drooping buds. Chickweed.
I wait to see if someone else will come up with the answer. "Star-something," says Ten.
Tibalt nods his head to the side. Half-right. "Hm…yes, but what else?"
Star chickweed, I think. Star Chickweed. "Star Chickweed," says Shatter.
"Yes! A star-pupil," praises Tibalt. We keep naming plants, or staring dumbly, for the rest of the hour.
Rig, on the other hand, has been occupied at the spear-throwing station, and seems quite adept. I have no idea where he would have learned his technique, but it would valuable if he were planning on lasting beyond the first day in the arena. Sweat pours off of him, and I think he must be over-exerting himself.
When he bends down to rest his hands on his knees, I see that while his arms do glisten a little from the exercise, what I thought was sweat dripping from his face are actually tears.
He's crying.
Furiously, he sucks in air, as if exhausted from throwing so many javelins. I'm not sure what to do—if I should try to help him pull together, or if we're better off if I let him carry on, and not attract attention to him.
Atala is already on her way, though. By the time I get to him, she is leading him from the room and I am left as the only District Six tribute in the training area. The other twenty-two tributes eye me from their stations as if I've personally poisoned him. (Maybe it's best if they think I did—they'll be wary of me before the Games even start.) I ignore it, mostly because I can't think of another way to handle it quick enough, and I don't want to spoil whatever effect I'm having by seeming indecisive.
I can't help but worry about Rig. Sure, he wants to kill himself when we hit the arena, but until then we're here together. The only two that know what Six is like, and share it as home. He's the piece of Six that I've brought with me, and I don't want to lose it before I absolutely have to.
He doesn't come back for the rest of the session, and I end up eating alone, like most of the tributes aside from the Careers, who have become a gang before the Games have even begun. I spend my day hopping from station to station, wondering how much I'm missing that is crucial to my survival. It's possible that there's something here that could provide me with an extra hour, maybe days, and I don't know what it is.
Late in the afternoon, I hover around the archery area, having decided that one-on-one combat is not going to be my best chance. I need something that I can strike at a distance with. At the last minute, I turn away, convinced that no one could be good enough in three days to gain an advantage.