Oh shit. So, I mean, I do like this fic. I like how oddly Adrian views the world, even if it doesn't make much sense to most, because she's a really twisted kid that was always treated more like a stray dog than a human. Anyways, sorry that this isn't being updated as much as I wish.
…
The first day of group training goes almost exactly as the Tributes and their mentors imagine it. Adrian isn't surprised that when they enter, eyes zero in on herself and Katniss, who escorts all four of them but sticks closest to her. They are the volunteers of 12, and though they seem similar with their collected gazes and quiet manners, they are different. Fire is not the same as smoke, and vice versa.
Samhain is close enough that if he reached just an inch or two over, their hands would touch. She thinks that if they weren't being scrutinized by forty-four other Tributes, he might reach over for comfort. He seems so much younger than his twelve years, Adrian thinks, and it's a pity, because that won't matter to some of the killers in here.
There's a hand gently pushing the small of her back. Katniss' fingers on her back and her murmur in their ears.
"Do what you have to, be good, don't start fights." is her advice. She looks very pointedly at Livius Portshore for the last one, though.
Portshore doesn't reply. His tongue is sharp and his attitude acerbic, and Adrian is sure that if he didn't keep his silence, he would say something rude; and this time, there is no Peeta Mellark to calm Katniss down and prevent her from attacking him. Another reason why Katniss Everdeen is deemed 'The Girl on Fire': she so easily follows through with her emotions. (Volunteering for her sister, attaching herself to a child, caring for Peeta Mellark despite everything; how easily she burns, and burns brightly.)
Juniper Combe is cowering slightly behind him. Adrian knows what sort of girl she is: the better part of Seam, a full family but not quite enough food; full of misplaced pride, longing for town life and trying to act like one of them but utterly hating anyone above her station; quietly keeping everything close to her chest, unable to comprehend her own emotions so completely that she's constantly paralyzed and on the sidelines.
(Needless to say, Adrian does not enjoy Juniper Combe's character. There is, after all, a reason she and Portshore were voted to die so others would live.)
She's almost fond of how Samhain refuses to tremble — even slightly — as the other two are. He faces forward and though he doesn't meet gazes the way she does, he does not bow his head, either. It is good.
Katniss is not there anymore, only the four of them. Adrian leads because the others will not, or cannot.
"You would do best," she mutters near-silently to Samhain, "to find the other children and train with them. Survival skills and alliance-building."
Samhain doesn't nod — she has impressed upon him the importance of not parading their quasi-friendship about, for both their sakes — but he glances at her and then breaks away, heading to the fire-starting camps. He would have a few hours to work on what he wanted, before the trainers came to assess them and give them guidelines. All Tributes were welcome to the training rooms whenever they wished, though official training only began at noon.
Interest in her slowly dies out in favor of need to train to survive, and she lingers, trying to find the stealth training area. When she does, she sighs a little; it's not open, like many of the more intensive training units, and won't be until group training with the actual trainers.
Which leaves weapon training. She won't go to survival training until later, but a knife in her quiet hands would certainly do her good. Katniss suggested, when she admitted an interest in knife-work, to learn how to throw them, if she could; which was obvious of the Girl on Fire, whose weapons were purely long-range.
The idea is a good one, though, and Adrian makes to practice when a figure steps out in front of her, stopping her.
She knows him.
"One," she greets with a considering nod.
"Twelve." Says the boy with pale hair and dark eyes.
"Did you need something?" Adrian asks, somewhat knowing exactly what the other Tribute wanted.
He studies her. Then his eyes flicker to the corner, where the spear-throwing is. All of the Careers are there, 12-year-olds and teenagers alike, looking pristine and beautiful and utterly deadly as they easily heft lances at targets. They are even better trained than last Games, possibly because of how their 74th Tributes were killed by Katniss and Peeta Mellark. Adrian thinks it is a good thing, indeed, that she plans on being counted in their number, seeing how easily they destroy Capitol-crafted dummies.
"We were shown, in your mentors' Games last year, the value of stealth," the boy says slowly.
She thinks of a girl in the trees, finger to her lips. She thinks of a knife to a branch, the sawing motion, the withheld breath of the crowd as she slipped between them. She thinks of the moment the brach snapped, the Careers screamed, and two Tributes — one of whom went on to become a Victor — walked away from it all.
"I'd imagine so." She replies blandly, but not impolitely.
"You're being considered. That's all." So show us why you should be a Career, goes unsaid.
A test. They wish to assess her. Adrian Valencia wonders who else they have approached. Perhaps the voted-in from 7? The one with the crazed look in her eyes, the one who could either be a monster or just another fallen. Her eyes dart around, looking for others with slighter frames and quiet natures.
She sighs. It's too early. Everyone is quiet, coiled tighter than clock springs with tension.
"Not until noon," she says softly as the boy from District 1 turns, and glances back at the soft lilt of her voice, "After the Trainer is finished with us. My best station doesn't open until then."
The boy's gaze lingers, conflicted. Then he nods sharply.
It's an utterly odd thing to see, Adrian thinks to herself. In her books, she knows children are meant to be carefree and happy and little balls of sunshine. Or something of that nature. But he walks like he was trained, nods like he understands that they might be splattering each other in blood in little more than a week.
It should be pitiful. Adrian only feels empathy.
(He has not wanted something to eat so badly that he's bitten into rats and felt their soft bellies come away under his teeth. But she has not been groomed from birth in some need to bring glory to a District that loves to raise child killers, has not been targeted and singled out the moment the other Tributes learned what number graced the Capitol-made uniform.)
They don't introduce themselves. It's easier that way, Adrian thinks. If you do not know the names of the bodies you will be killing, you will be less inclined to feel guilty afterwards. The opening Cornucopia bloodbath is all business; mechanical, easy. Kill to get what you need to survive. After that, death is systematic. Hunt down competitors of your resources, challengers to the much-coveted Victor's (survivor's) crown. Then it becomes personal. Those you hunted with become your prey, and names said in laughter are now snarled and breathed in death rattles.
Who will she be to the Careers?
That's what they're asking. Adrian Valencia knows the answer, like she knows that she will not survive easily on her own, like she knows a mouse's stealth could help clumsy, large predators, if only they knew to work together.
…
Noon announces the Trainers and the general assessment. It's a very simple obstacle course, made for one Tribute to go through while the others watch and judge. There are already opinions from what choices of stations the Tributes chose before the Trainers came, but this course cements that further. To look into your opponent's physical capabilities, that is an important element of the course.
The Careers do well, as expected. District 1's Tributes are the strongest, though there is a tall red-head from 2 that is faster and looks more vicious. District 3 is negligible, one boy trips, the voted-in girl has some of the worst scores the Trainers have ever seen, which is announced loudly and causes much laughter. District 4 is more elegant, more fluid, just like their sea-faring District, but quite strong in their own right; not as fast as the 2, but more graceful in their dodging and ducking.
Adrian watches closely, never taking her eyes from the course, memorizing everything about it in order to make a better impression. She is not healthy, her body is only just getting to a slightly good weight, but she is fast and agile and silent. The silence won't make much difference here, but if she can get through quickly, perhaps her lack of stamina will be overlooked.
Portshore is the first of them to go, and while he is definitely not Career level, he is not the worst. Unsurprising, she thinks, because Portshore has always been rather vain and took care of his appearance and health. His movements are clumsy, as he is not used to vaulting over and under obstacles, swinging from bar to bar, dodging foam projectiles as fast as he can. He's one of the oldest Tributes, and she thinks he'll survive for quite a while if he doesn't get caught in the Cornucopia bloodbath.
Combe is next, and she is abysmal. She tries to copy what others have done with her still-weakened body, often overshooting or missing timing. There are bruises on her from how many times she's been hit with the projectiles, and she breaks into tears even as she tries vainly to keep her emotions down. She's not the only one, but there are traces of faint embarrassment around Samhain and Portshore, who don't move to comfort or tease her.
Samhain is acceptable for his age. Clumsy, definitely. Bruised afterwards, just a little. But he holds his head high at his rather low time, nods, and returns to the other three from 12, where his shoulders slump in disappointment and exhaustion, then. Like he is trusting them to protect him if someone pounces. No — not someone. Her.
He expects — without even understanding it himself — that Adrian will defend him if some threat approaches him in his tired state. She is the protector. It's an odd feeling.
She is the last of the entire selection of Tributes.
"Valencia, Adrian! District 12! You're up!" The Trainer yells.
Adrian steps forward.
The course is simple. The Trainer takes her down a flight of stairs, from the glass viewing area, and into hissing doors; he is stoic and sure in his steps, which are thunderous compared to her own, light patter of feet. The course will take her across floating footholds on water, then a rounded beam — to test balance — and then edges along a wall while hatches open and close in timed patterns, threatening to blow her into the water. After that is much climbing, nets strewn across the air, while the walls shoot foam balls at the Tribute randomly. Then the water, again, shallow and meant to be run in, with obstacles in the way of the finishing platform.
The best time would be seven minutes, or close to it. District 1, 2, and 4 have gotten the closest, their 12-year-olds perhaps at 8-9 minutes due to their less developed bodies. The truly horribly-out-of-shape girl from District 3, who is only marginally worse than the weeping Combe, had a time of nearly fifteen minutes. Adrian believes that, at her best, she could pull 9 minutes.
She has to be better, though, for what she wants.
(Fight for every last breath. To fight is to live.)
It's daunting, she won't deny that. Standing on the starting platform, looking at the obstacle course before her, it's obvious now, more than ever, how small and fragile she is compared to the others. A sliver of apprehension claws its way into her mind, flooding her with doubt. Fear.
Fear is dangerous, Adrian Valencia knows this. The Matron hit harder, smiled wider, when she knew you were afraid. The gangs in the alleyways of the Seam, the thieving outfits and extortionists and blackmarket organ harvesters, they chase the ones who are obviously afraid. The Tributes, the Careers, they like to target fear, because people like to see fear be realized or overcome — whatever the case, the audience wants it gone.
It's easy to fear in these Games. That's what they're designed for. To take hostages of the Districts, remind them how thin their children's necks are, and how the Capitol is a very thick, powerful noose.
She crushes that sliver of doubt, that fear. Fear has never helped her. The Games like to break people with fear, of death and of themselves and of everyone around them. Adrian was broken long ago, and a whisper and a warm memory scraped her back together again.
"Begin!" Shouts the Trainer.
Adrian Valencia darts off, unafraid.
…
"Nine minutes, forty-two seconds. Not bad, brat," says Haymitch Abernathy, that night, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and only a quarter-full. "And what's this I hear about the Careers approaching you?"
She was going to read. Abernathy likes to interrupt her when she tries, which she is mildly annoyed by. "I already reported to Katniss." She says, instead of hissing at him or ignoring him, as she's already done.
"C'moooon, kid, I'm bored, here! The fucking brat doesn't talk to me, no surprise there."
Uncreatively, she is 'brat', Samhain is 'little brat', Combe is 'whiny brat', and Portshore…
Portshore. She knew he was stupid, but this is ridiculous. 'Fucking brat' indeed. Adrian sighs. "They are… open to negotiation, due to the Trainer's course. But the stealth course was not open today, due to a Tribute from 3 seemingly destroying half of the programing, and I was not able to use it."
"Tch. The voted-in girl, wasn't it?"
"I have never met anyone more incompetent." Adrian says flatly.
Abernathy laughs at that. "If Portshore didn't have a silver spoon shoved up his ass, he'd give her a run for her money, that's for sure. A bit smarter, since he knows he's a fucker, and has too much pride to do things he's bad at."
"Inferiority to younger children would leave anyone in a bad mood."
"Defending the fucking brat?"
Adrian narrows her eyes. "I would rather not."
Abernathy snorts into his drink. "Same here, the ungrateful little shit. You got a plan, girlie?"
She nods. "Stealth tomorrow. Learning the Careers. Survival training encompassed most of my time today. I believe I'm relatively prepared, though I noticed a distinct lack of stations on poisonous plants and wildlife foraging."
At that, the drunk man sits up straighter. His words are slurred, but his eyes are bright and sharp. "Nothing on forest-foraging? Hunting? Snaring, trapping, fishing?"
"Little. It was combined into one station, when you said there would be several."
He sits back, frowning. "What was the focus?"
She tilts her head. "Combat. Agility and speed."
Abernathy strokes his thin, stringy beard. "Hm. Sounds like the area'll be urban, this year."
Adrian recalls those arenas. They were used much more liberally in the first few Games, though not so much now. It interests the audience of the Games when the environment is more natural, because death through nature is always interesting; the muttations seem to count as such. The arena of the 14th Hunger Games had been the ruins of a city, however. The Victor claimed so by beating his opposition to death with a brick, even with his leg nearly torn off from landing wrong on a rebar.
Urban-esque Games are much more gory, but also easier for Tributes to navigate because of their familiarity with cities. It's boring. But fill a ruin with fifty children, half of whom are 12-years-old and desperate, the other half older and wiser and angry at the world…
Adrian Valencia is not the type of sick human who revels in the suffering of others for little reason but sadism, but she can see the appeal.
"Would it be prudent of me to reveal this to the Careers?" She asks.
"A sign of goodwill goes a long way, this early in the Games."
The Games haven't started yet, is what immediately comes to mind. But Adrian Valencia says nothing, turning back to her reading. The thought is immediately discarded. The Games began the moment the names were called from those glass orbs, paper in silk-gloved hands. They were set into motion when she stepped forward, obsessed with death and dreams of blood and ambrosia in her head.
She knows, too, by the way Peeta Mellark sighs when he thinks no one is looking, the way Katniss grows tenser with every hour passing, the way Haymitch Abernathy begins to keep a more careful eye on her and Samhain rather than the older two, that the Games are practically half over in their eyes. The bets are probably all but finalized in the minds of the wealthy Capitolites.
Her eyes slide to Katniss, who is sitting in the corner, something small and glinting in her hands. Golden. Adrian Valencia does not know what it is, but Katniss holds and examines it like she's praying.
How many people bet on the Girl on Fire? Adrian wonders.
How many people will bet on the one who's smoke?
"Haymitch Abernathy." She calls.
The drunk raises bloodshot eyes to her. "Just Haymitch, brat."
"Haymitch," she corrects, "Would you recommend downplaying skills during the ending assessments or not?"
The assessments of the Game Makers. The ones that are scored and announced publicly.
Haymitch blinks, and starts sipping at his glass. It smells like nail polish, sweet and painful, strong enough that even as she's moved to the other side of the coffee table, it's just as pungent as when she'd been next to him.
"Depends." Answers the man after swirling his drink thoughtfully.
She catches on immediately. "On the Careers?"
Haymitch nods. "That's the tough thing, girlie. Makin' alliances beforehand means you better consult them about this shit, especially if they don't trust you already. No one trusts 12's, and no one trusts sneaks. You're bogged down."
"I will not survive without a larger group to watch over me." She says softly.
"Pshhh, obviously. The only reason you're still kickin' is because you know the way the Seam works. Good thing, too. You learn quick, which'll endear you to those glossy fucks." Haymitch often mumbles and mutters his words. As he does now. "You learn shit today?"
There is an odd heaviness-lightness in her chest. She remembers a blurry scene, sun streaming golden afternoon light, smoke columns covering the mountain ranges. Bodies are pushing all around her. A red backpack clips her arm, she stumbles, watches silently. The boy rushes forward, tiny hand slipping into a larger one — calloused and smeared with coal dust — and wide, identical grins are turned on each other.
Did you learn a lot today? the older man asks.
"Yes," replies Adrian, closing her eyes and letting the fuzzy memory fade into nothing.
Good job, bud!
"Good girl." Says Haymitch Abernathy, downing the rest of his liquor.
There should be some sort of keening disappointment at that, Adrian thinks. But she can feel the corner of her mouth rebelling, trying to lift itself up, and forcefully looks down at her book.
Then she frowns.
How dangerous, she thinks, how strange and dangerous.
Adrian Valencia reads without taking in information, waiting for tomorrow. Sometimes, she forgets that she is going to die, likely violently, with lots and lots of blood on her hands. Which is odd, because that was all she was looking forward to, sitting on the train with the community house behind her. Katniss and Haymitch and Samhain, they make her forget.
The Careers will not, she reminds herself.
"I am going to explore the building." She announces, closing her book softly and standing. Haymitch is near-comatose with alcohol, but he grunts an affirmative, and Adrian leaves.
Her normal tricks of the (stealth) trade might be somewhat clumsy, in this new and healthy body. She must practice, because the Careers will be watching tomorrow, and she must show them why they best have her on their side. She must put away fuzzy, golden memories and overlapping voices, thinking about blood and ambrosia and smearing, gritty green on waxy skin blooming with purples and blues.
…
She learned how to walk silently years ago. Adrian finds it irritating, really, when she does not walk without sound. She also has a tendency to stick to the sidelines, to the shadowy corners, to the places where people aren't looking; it's easier, it's safer, and it's less of a waste of energy.
The sentinels are blocky holograms; there's a similar simulation for combat, across the training room, but Adrian knows to stay away from that. For now, she pads around on bare feet — it was laughable, the other Tributes' expressions, when they watched her prepare for her best station, questioning why she wouldn't like to wear the provided uniform's matching boots — and breathes evenly. She doesn't know how tuned the sentinel's hearing is — there are different settings, and she is on difficulty 89% — but it's often the nervous, little mistakes that have angry Seam bearing down on you.
Her eyes are sharp. She knows to avoid the squares that are just a sixteenth of an inch higher than the rest of the floor, ones that are barely lower, ones that are different. She sees the glint of wire across shadowy corridors, the outcropping that will hide her, the holes in the walls that she can use to climb up and out of sight.
Her ears are sharper. The holographic sentinels cannot make footfalls, but there is a simulation of breathing and footsteps. Once, hidden between two outcroppings that are supposed to be open crates, she can even hear a thud-thud-thud of a computerized heartbeat, when the sentinel leans next to her and only an inch of material separates them.
The course, the full course, will take an average Career about twenty minutes. Even then, they will be suspected — the sentinels start to glow orange when they suspect strongly, yellow when they are not sure, and red when they see you — at least four times. Adrian goes through with white holographs in ten minutes and forty-seven seconds, and returns to the brightly-lit training room to wide eyes and open mouths.
"A record," says a spare Trainer, an eyebrow raised, as Adrian listens to her time, "0% detection and a record time. They'll never see you coming, Twelve."
She nods to the Trainer, as praise is rare and dangerous, but her dark eyes twitch to the crowd.
Careers — twelve of them — and some other Tributes who proved their worth the day earlier, they watch her with faint smirks and cold eyes. She sees the boy, the 12, from District 1, the one with platinum hair and black eyes that are almost as dead as her own, and he dips his chin.
She's in.
Adrian walks to them, strides up silently, and the presumed leader — a sixteen-year-old from 2 — steps up to meet her.
"Welcome to the pack, little girl," he says, blue eyes glimmering with calculation — How can I use this new tool? How can she help me win? — and smile too wide, "As long as you don't pull a Peeta Mellark, you're one of us."
Adrian's expression cools. "Peeta Mellark ran blindly away, only to be saved by the idiocy of Seneca Crane."
Because, of course, there would only be one Victor, were the Game Makers last year not so stupid — two Victors, provided they were from the same District, honestly. It was a joke.
(Adrian Valencia doesn't care much for the soft baker, the one who coddles the spiteful Juniper Combe and appeases the ego of Livius Portshore. Adrian Valencia simply doesn't understand Peeta Mellark, doesn't understand why the steel that shone when he protected Katniss last year doesn't apply to anything else.)
"Peeta Mellark is a Victor." says one of the girls from Four, all siren-like beauty and viciousness.
"That changes nothing. I don't wish to emulate Mellark in any way."
The boy she is most familiar with, the 1, widens his eyes a little; it's a gesture copied by most of the Career pack. "You don't want to win?"
She lets a little smile cross her lips, the one that makes others usually back away. Not out of fear, but out of uneasiness. Little girls, apparently, don't make the expressions that Adrian Valencia does.
"The voted-in girl from Three is going to attempt this station again," Adrian says, watching as their eyes flicker to that dark-haired waif, some of the younger ones wincing — remembering the idiotic spectacle the girl made of herself yesterday, no doubt — "Shouldn't we move on?"
"What stations have you done, besides this?" asks the leader.
"Basic scavenging and wilderness survival."
"Likely an urban arena," suggests a girl from 4, tall and bronze-skinned and wide-hipped.
"Weapons, 12?"
"Nails and teeth." Adrian replies, "A shiv, when I can get one."
One of the younger 4's smiles, sharklike. "I think we'll be good friends, 12."
The leader, the 2, nods approvingly at everyone's sedate, confident conversation. He gathers them in his wake, passing the other Tributes without taking his eyes off his own; they're a formation, an 'in-crowd', deadly and mismatched and the biggest threat in the room. Adrian, despite her knowing better, feels a measure of relaxed relief settle over her shoulders. The Games are all tests and challenges, but this one — which she has passed — marks a few hours or rest, a few hours' chance to fade into the background like she prefers.
Following is so easy, after all, and she follows the Career pack now.
When she glances up, by chance, Samhain meets her eyes. He turns away immediately, but Adrian knows she had seen a glimmer of disappointment. (There is no reason for Samhain to be disappointed, really. They both knew this was what was to be.) It unsettles her, slightly, but she walks away.
(She is not here to make friends.)
(I want to kill, said the little girl obsessed with death.)
…
It's an auspicious number, thirteen.
(Some of the superstitious believe that is why District 13 was destroyed already. Adrian doesn't quite care about such things, since the destruction of District 13 doesn't decide whether she eats or not.)
Samhain wasn't wrong, when he said that it would be the voted-in against the twelve-year-olds. It's smart, to kill the weaker, less prepared Tributes. But this is isn't what happens in the Career pack. The point of hunting down the twelve-year-olds — or anyone, for that matter — is to prey on Tributes less experienced than oneself. But the twelve-year-olds of the Career Districts aren't less experienced than the average Tribute. They're vicious, driven, and have been looking forward to the Reaping since the moment they were indoctrinated in the old Career Honor Codes.
("Glory to your District. The Games are Glory. Win for your District. Glory is Triumph.")
(And such things.)
So, yes. Four from 1, four from 2, four from 4, and one from 12. Thirteen Tributes for the Careers, sharp-eyed and hungry for blood.
The leader — Verus Greyer — is an eighteen-year-old from District 2. He's built like a Greek statue, hard muscles corded underneath golden skin, observant eyes, a steady voice that is heavy with command. He's quiet and solemn and calculating; Adrian is rather leery of the prospect of fighting him later, since she's sure he'll be watching her, teaching himself how to counter her stealth so she can't slit his throat.
His counterpart is a whiny, rather boastful little thing, Amamia Heathrow. The twelve-year-olds — Briony Slatekin and Arion Ballard — are quiet, withdrawn, dark-haired and pale-skinned and pretty, nervous but projecting confidence. Adrian writes them off as non-threats, the way they seem to be trying to fill in for shoes much too big for them. Amamia Heathrow mothers them, and they depend on her, which can be exploited easily.
The District 1 Tributes are easier to write off as well. Jasper Sarvus is built for strength, pure aggression rolling off his thick shoulders. He reminds Adrian of a minotaur, bull-like face and sleek body, rather stupid, but extremely dangerous. A follower. His counterpart is Sapphira Cognac, just barely eighteen, tall and model-like and stone-faced; but not out of intelligence or wariness, but from overconfidence in her own skills. Their twelve-year-olds are Carnelian Aquius and, a bully and coward from what Adrian notices, and Georgette Halycon, a reedy thing with a specialty in long-range, but no stealth whatsoever.
District 4 is much more dangerous. The twelve-year-old girl who commented on Adrian's preference for shivs is wiry and lanky, honey-skinned and eyed, sharp teeth set into a dangerous face; she's on the verge of puberty, this Lucerne Carroway. Her partner, Caspian Adarian, was small — looked almost ten, really — but one of the strongest swimmers, the best stealther after Adrian. Their older Tributes are Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald, dark tan and built like runners, experts at trident-combat and knife-work, and one of the best pair-trained for years (due to the scarcity of finding Tributes who trust each other enough to work together).
It's an… eclectic group. But at the same time, it's not at all.
Every single one of them is combat-oriented, as is the case with Careers, but it seems they have some subtle differences. The last Games must have made the Career Districts nervous, if they have changed the training of so many.
Verus Greyer is not as strong as some of his fellows must have been, but he is sharper and finds ease in taking a leadership role, dividing subordinates and using them as needed. Amamia Heathrow is nurturing and protective, outside of her own self-interest and confidence. Georgette Halycon has intermediate training in foraging, and uses projectile weapons. Caspian Adarian is an amateur scout. Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald are a combination pair.
They are trying to make better versions of the Girl-on-Fire and her star-crossed lover.
Adrian doesn't know whether to be amused or irritated with the pack she chose.
"Is it so surprising?" Haymitch asks, later, after he has laughed — long and hard — about how a 12 has become a true member of a Career pack, "People love Katniss and Peeta. That's why they survived, in the end. The Districts are trying to find out why."
"Accidental public ascension isn't a formula." Adrian replies, brow raised.
"Fuckin' kid and your big words. Yeah, the Districts know they can't just make Katniss copies left and right. But they want to know what it was about Katniss and Peeta that got two Tributes out. That got them Victory. Was it the cooperation aspect? If it was-"
Her eyes narrow. "Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald will win."
Haymitch nods. "Was it the weapons used? Then-"
"Georgette Halycon or Jasper Sarvus."
"The way Katniss nursed Peeta back to health, the way she sacrificed herself for a kid?"
"Amamia Heathrow."
"You're getting it. This Games is a damn test to see what's 'in'." Haymitch snorts in disgust, "Every single Career was chosen for a reason. And I'm betting you anything that they were told to let in a Tribute from 12. Why?"
"Because if it happens that the District is 'in', then they will know this, too." Adrian replies, "They just chose the most competent 12 they could. That I specialize in stealth was simply a bonus."
"There you go."
He takes a shot, and Adrian wrinkles her nose. He is half drenched in missed shots of vodka and tequila.
(It has become something of a… ritual, she supposes. Go about her day. Report to Katniss, who will think on it for a few hours. Those hours, she reports to Haymitch, who has given up on the arrogant, bad-tempered Portshore. She sits with him for a while, speaks of surviving and killing and politics. He is drunk and she is pretending to try to read.)
(Yesterday, she would eat with Samhain. Silently, but companionably. After the look of betrayal he gave her, for no reason at all, she doesn't think this will happen tonight.)
"One last bit of advice, kid."
She is about to leave for dinner, listening to Peeta Mellark's small talk and Effie Trinket's tittering away. Katniss will likely let her seek refuge at her side. Adrian did not mean to alienate herself from her fellows, but it — as always — has simply, naturally happened. Haymitch will, of course, be late to dinner.
(He must set a precedence of intoxication before he shows himself in semi-public, Adrian thinks.)
"Don't get attached. To any of them."
Adrian nods. "I know."
Haymitch grimaces. "You've watched the past Games. You know how the pack works."
She does. They run together, hunt everyone else down as best they can, and then tear each other to pieces once there's nothing left. Sometimes before, if there is a traitor — which is rare — or the pack is incompatible, threatening betrayal more than offering mutually-assured protection.
"All it takes is a knife in the night." Adrian says blandly.
"Just make sure you time it right. The way you are, you have to be the first to strike out, or you have to slip away and kill them on your own time. Both have their drawbacks. It's easier to do the first, but you risk more. It's harder to do the second, but you'll be safer. Make sure you know what you wanna do."
She blinks slowly, signaling her understanding, then nods. "I will be sure."
Haymitch makes a grunt of irritation. "Last day of training, then the interviews. You ready?"
"Am I ever not?"
"Fuck if I know, kid. You're a damn closed book. And even when I get a 'lil read on you, it's jumbled as shit."
That is good. It keeps her safe. Keeps her less predictable.
"I'll see you at dinner, Haymitch Abernathy."
"Go on, brat. Go stab the fucking brat for me if you can. And the whiny brat, too."
She huffs. "That's what the Games are for."
Haymitch Abernathy laughs, wheezing and rough, and Adrian resists the urge to sigh. Such an odd person, she's come to like. (Such an odd life, she's come to like.)
(It'd probably be over within a few weeks. She thinks she'll actually miss this nightly ritual.)