"Don't let them ignore you."
Effie's advice echoes around my head as it has for the last hour and forty minutes.
"Twelve- male," a crisp female voice intones. Awren rises, giving me the ghost of a smile. I try to look encouragingly at him, but I'm pretty sure I just look sad. Awren's reaction to the unofficial announcement of the Quell twist had been uncharacteristically violent.
Although I missed the action while I was showing off in the training room, I returned to the penthouse to find that most of the decorations had been smashed in rage. Both Effie and Awren's father had been immobilized by Awren's news. Their disbelief played across their faces like a reel of film, and when I entered the scene I found Awren about to take a swing at our chandelier.
"Awren," I had said. "Destroying this room won't get back at the Capitol. Go to your father now."
He had looked up at me with wild, tear-streaked eyes. I watched the fury break within him, as he dissolved into a weepy pile. Unwilling to risk the return of my own vulnerability, I stepped coolly over my partner tribute. I faced Effie. "What needs to be done?"
"Oh Prim," she had sobbed. "Prim you sweet, sweet girl. Don't let them do this to you."
Guilt bubbles within me as I recall my response. I was so emotionless and cold, and all I would say was, "Effie, what do I need to do?" My mentor cried and cried, but finally her tears relented.
"Go do well in training. Make an impression, and win sponsors. Prim, don't let them ignore you. Go represent your district."
Awren leaves through the sliding steel doors. The hum of the light strips is the only sound, and I am all alone. 10 minutes, I think. 10 minutes to plan. Effie said to do my best, and I know we're scored from 1-12. No one has ever gotten a 12, and most tributes end up scoring a 4 or 5. Getting a 7 is respectable, but the Career tributes always pull 8s, 9s and 10s. Sponsors will pay attention to you if you get higher than an 8, but there's still no guaranteeing any help in the Games.
Now that my qualms regarding shooting have been settled, I feel like I have a defense. I'm no archer, but I feel confident saying I can shoot at least a 6. As long as the target stays a canvas humanoid, I can do this. In the Games is another story. There's no way. I can't shoot a person.
"Twelve- female." Time's up. My internal strategy meeting comes to an end, and I rise from the cool steel bench. Here goes nothing.
Walking through the doors, I see the training room just like it has been. It seems like an eternity has passed since I got off that train, and yet the time has gone by so fast. The confidence I had placed in my plans sinks heavy to the bottom of my stomach and I clasp my hands to keep them from shaking.
"Primrose Everdeen." I look up, and a committee of old, white-bearded men sit around a buffet table overlooking the training room. One of the men has risen, and addresses me now. "You have ten minutes to demonstrate your skill before the committee. Begin."
My head nods of its own accord, and I find myself walking towards the archery range. On my neck, I can feel the pressure of a couple dozen critical eyes. I reach for the bow, and I stop feeling. It's pure instinct as I string an arrow onto my bow. At the last second before I fire, I turn and give the committee a smirk. Who are these withered men who think they can hold themselves over me? I should fire this arrow right at them!
But I don't. I return my focus to the canvas figure, and train my arrow straight for its head. Inhale...
Fwhip
The arrow thunks straight through the dummy's skull. Adrenaline is rushing through my body as I release another arrow, and another, and another. Head, heart, head, heart. Each time my arrow smacks the perfect center of the targeted area.
I have always been a very accurate shot.
After I strike down a few more practice dummies, I replace the bow and exit the training room. I walk past the committee with my head held high. As I walk through the doors to the training room, I flip my hair back over my shoulder.
Who says I have to go down without a fight?
All five of us are clustered around the largest television I have ever seen. It spans across an entire wall of the penthouse living room, and when the picture comes up everyone except Effie jumps a little. Awren gapes as Cesar Flickerman's larger-than-life portrait makes itself comfortable on the screen.
"Panem!" he booms. "Today, your tributes demonstrated their amazing skill before a panel of experts and have earned the following scores." He grins at the camera, eager to begin the excitement.
The first tribute's face flashes onto the screen. It's the boy from 1, glaring around the room beneath his charming brown curls. The number 9 flashes below his head, and I shiver. I hope someone else kills him fast in the arena.
The rest of the tributes fly by. All of the careers have scored 9s and 10s, and Daz surprised everyone by pulling an 8 for himself. The girl from 3 earned a 7, but her partner only took a 3. The two from 10 ranked with the careers with a pair of 9s. Jace scores a respectable 7 with her plant identification skills, and Quin gets a 4 which makes me feel smug.
And then Awren's face is floating on the screen. A 3 appears beneath him, and everyone in the room sighs. Awren stands up and leaves wordlessly, and his father follows.
They don't see my face, or the 9 that materializes beneath it.
Effie shrieks. "Primrose! You did it!" Even my mother turns to me and smiles. I could almost mistake the look in her eyes for pride.
Hey guys, I'm back! School is *finally* over, and now hopefully I will be back to regular updates with longer chapters (especially once the Games start). So excited that I have time to work on this again, and thank you for not abandoning this fic! ~Fancyclopedia