.
THE SCORES
Whatever else he could say about the Capitol - and he could say a lot - Hiccup has to admit that they know how to make a comfortable sofa. The scoring is going on the air any minute now, and the sitting room on the tenth floor is laid with an after-dinner spread of fresh fruit and drinks. Astrid has claimed one end of the sofa and is blowing on a hot cup of tea. She's got a plush blanket tucked snugly around her legs. Their mentor has sprawled his considerable bulk in the middle with a contented sigh, and Hiccup is occupying what little space is left and picking through a bowl of grapes.
If the circumstances were different, the tableau they make together would almost seem homey.
"Now, listen here," Gobber says, and steals a grape out of Hiccup's bowl. Smacking his lips with relish, he continues over Hiccup's protests, "Yer score isn't the be-all and end-all of yer sponsorship chances - par-tic-ularly for you two - though it wouldna hurt to make a decent showing. Either way, what ye want to do now is size up the competition, so pay attention."
He spits the empty grape skin into his good hand - the other is a hook, from his time in the arena - and tosses it onto the coffee table. "Oh, ew," Hiccup winces. "What, are you - are you trying to gross me out, so I'll give you the rest of these? Is that the plan here? Because - "
"Focus, Hiccup," Gobber grumbles, with a roll of his eyes.
It's slightly bizarre to hear that familiar grumble, even here in the Capitol. Gobber has been friends with Hiccup's father since they were boys; his talent is smithing, and he apprenticed Hiccup by way of convincing Stoick that his son wasn't entirely useless, back before his skill with animals came to light. Hiccup never developed the rippling muscular bulk that Gobber carries, but they get along well enough all the same. He could do a lot worse for a mentor.
"It's starting." Astrid is sitting up straight, now, with her fingers curled tightly around her mug.
They watch the first few scores together in silence. Gobber snorts at the high numbers for the Career tributes. None of them score less than eight. "Showoffs," he mutters, though his bushy eyebrows rise slightly when the boy from Five gets a respectable nine. His sister receives a five; not bad for her age and size, but not very encouraging, either.
Most of the scores fall in the usual depressing range after that. There are a few standouts; both tributes from District Seven pull a ten, which makes Gobber let out a low whistle. "Poor devils. They'll have to watch themselves," is all he says when Hiccup looks at him.
And then, before he knows it, Hiccup is staring down his own image. He swallows his mouthful of fruit with an audible gulp. Rigging a trap out of rope and weights seemed like his best chance at the time, and it knocked the training dummy halfway across the room when he set it off, but the rigging process took forever. Was it enough?
His number flashes across the screen. Seven.
"Ha!" Gobber shouts, and pounds Hiccup on the back so hard that he chokes. "Ye had it in ye after all, lad!"
Hiccup coughs and sputters. "It's-it's not that good," he protests, "I mean, a seven is...I think the best you can really call that is 'not terrible', it's not exactly a ringing endorsement..."
"Ach, we'll work with what we've got," Gobber laughs. "It's a fair shot better than nothin', and no mistake! Ye've a shot at sponsorship outside the district with a score like - "
"Eleven," Astrid says.
"Eh?" Gobber blinks, thrown off his train of thought. Astrid is staring at the screen in dawning delight.
"Eleven," she repeats, and gestures at the screen. It's displaying the face of the boy from District Twelve; the broadcast has already moved on. "My score. They gave me an eleven!"
"Oh!" There's an awkward pause. Gobber looks nonplussed for a moment, then musters up a broad grin. "That score! Well done, lass! That's...that's fine news." He reaches over to pat her on the back as well, but Astrid has gone rigid and pale. The fingers of her free hand are clenched in her blankets.
"You weren't even watching," she says, stiffly. "Were you."
Hiccup and Gobber exchange a guilty look. With a strangled growl of frustration, Astrid slams her drink down on the table. She kicks off her blanket and stalks out of the room, leaving the plush fabric in a heap on the floor.
The door slams behind her.