The resolution to last chapter's cliffhangers is finally here!
Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part V. Miranda, Emerald's mentor, won the 169th Games. During training, she formed a close bond with the girl from District One, and eventually they abandoned the Career pack and set out on their own. Unfortunately, the Gamemakers rigged it so that they would be the last two left, and after a long, painful battle, Miranda ran her ally through with a sword.
…..
Fromme Lin, Victor of the 182nd Games, District Three Mentor
The girl doesn't know how to fight. It's clear from the way she moves—jumpy, fearful, barely missing the jabs of the spear. Not like I didn't know that before. Her strength's in her braininess, setting traps, that kind of thing. Wouldn't be able to last a day in the backstreets of the town.
It's nerves getting her through now, pure and simple. Fight or flight response, adrenaline rush, gut instinct, desperation to survive—whatever you want to call it, it kicks in and helps the middling tributes through the first minutes of a battle, when they actually have a chance to escape. After that—well, you're either skilled with a weapon or you're gone. Boom. A corpse to be looted, a face in the sky, a name in the log books. It's that simple.
Six keeps jabbing. Thalia tries to dart away, but she has to keep dodging the spear. She stumbles back, tries for an escape that way. He follows her.
It could've so easily been the girl from One. Turn left or turn right—one leading to the pathetic ex-Career wandering in the woods, the other to our tributes' alliance. Sheer matter of luck that Link was far out, too, fetching water. Everything seems to conspire against them. But that's how the Games are played.
He's running back now—more like walking as fast he can, what with the leg—hearing his partner's screams, unsheathing his sword, preparing for the fight. Sentimental idiot. The sensible thing would've been to get as far away from the fight as possible. But he's going by the honor code or whatever, and so he's heading back to the camp.
The timing of it all was awful, story-wise. She had just came back to consciousness after Link had watched over her for hours on end, concern growing more and more until it got to a point where the Capitol could easily blow it up and proclaim it a romance. And now at least one of them's likely to die within the hour. I suppose the Gamemakers would call it tragic. I call it screwed-up.
Thalia's fast, but Six's fast too, and soon they've met up with each other again. They're interspersing it with footage of Link trying to find her. He gets to the camp, realizes they've gone, and tries to follow the sound of his district partner's screams.
Six lunges. Thalia drops to the ground and the spear goes into a tree. He moves over to tug it out, but his foot catches one of the traps the girl's set and he's yanked up into the air, dangling from a leg. She breathes a sigh of relief.
Over the years, I've managed to build up a resistance to the urge to yell at the scream: No! Don't do that! Get out of there! You're not safe yet! It's too late to send a note into the arena, 'cause the Six boy's still got his strength, and he pulls the spear out of the tree anyway and stabs downward into Thalia below. Cannon.
It's the moment every mentor has to face. I've done it at least four or five times before, but not even life on the streets can really prepare you for it. I try to put up my guard, but I know my eyes have gone hollow. Scott next to me notices, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I brush him off with a string of swears. I may need his pity, but that doesn't mean I want it.
Link barges in after hearing the cannon, just a moment too late, though there really wasn't anything he could do. Six is trying to swing up so he can cut himself loose with the tip of his spear, but Link beats him to it, severing the rope with one swing of his sword. Before the Six boy can get up, he stabs down into him, face tranquil and yet furious at the same time. Cannon.
From the back of the room showing the live broadcast, I can hear the muffled voices of the commentators having a field day with this, once again bringing up the cliché "star-crossed lovers" tripe. It's sick. All of this is sick. I slam my coffee cup down onto the table and rise, glaring down everybody who makes eye contact with me before proceeding to storm out of the room.
"Fromme!" Scott calls after me, holding up the manila envelope filled with all my dead tribute's "genius" papers that had been sitting on my desk. "You forgot-"
"I didn't forget anything," I hiss. "You keep them. Keep them all."
And then I leave, slamming the door and leaving it all behind me.