Pride.
"Because he could not afford to fail, he could not afford to trust." - Joseph J. Ellis.
Davin Carrick, District Eight Male.
Kennedy sits with her arms crossed, thumbs twiddling on-top the place mat in front of her. I watch, bemused, at the way her face continues to crease and twist with every second that ticks away from the clock above my head.
If Alton had have refused the offer of an alliance, Kennedy would have been a choice worth looking into. The girl has spunk, something that unfortunately seems to be lacking in my alliance. Woof continues to reprimand me consistently that I'm not taking it seriously enough, and Lawson only whispers merrily in Kennedy's ear, words I wish were spoken up louder.
Fun and games are all well and good, but not once would I ever call myself foolish. I know what the Hunger Games are, the message behind them, the brutality that shrouds the Arena like a dark blanket. Kennedy's fighting spirit will be missed; Celene, Alton and I aren't as well suited to the idea of combat. Shielding my face from harm was a clear example of that. I must be a coward in the eyes of anyone who happened to be watching that unfortunate scene.
"How are you Davin?" Woof's downtrodden voice sweeps the air as he walks from the corridor. He passes Lawson who greets him kindly and then returns focus straight back on me. Kennedy only stares up at him, her eyes two little beads above her steaming cup of hot chocolate. I clasp my hands together and grin broadly as Woof drops down to join the seat to my right.
"I'm ecstatic Woof, these eggs are delicious." I scoop around the messy pile of scrambled yellow and stab into a clump, bringing it to my lips. Woof's faint smile drops somewhat as I shove them down my throat, laughing whilst I swallow. I notice out the corner of my eye the way Kennedy's nose crumples up and Lawson staring at me blankly.
I bet I'm somewhat of an oddity amongst these guys. That's alright, though. I always was back in Eight.
"Yes. Er, the eggs have always been of high quality."
"All the way from District Ten, I knew Raelyn's eggs tasted good." I gulp down another mouthful, soaking in the silence around me. Woof awkwardly clears his throat and looks down at his own steaming plate, full to the top with meats and eggs and all things delicious. Lawson coughs and twists his head back in the direction of his dearest Kennedy, back to whispering words in her ear that she only takes in like an obedient little girl.
I don't know what it is with these folk, District Eight breeds a vast mixture of people. Flamboyant on one end of the spectrum, and I happen to be planted in with a group who don't understand the meaning of a proper laugh. I could use the whole, 'we're going to die in a few days' trick, but Kennedy only shrinks in even more at that and Lawson glares at me like I've kicked a puppy.
Whatever, their loss.
"Got any grand ol' advice for me Woof before I go downstairs and make a fool of myself?" I smack my lips together and wipe the back of my palm to remove the grease and other crumbs from breakfast. Woof blinks rapidly for a moment; apparently he loses focus a bit too much in my presence. I can't imagine why.
He clears his throat and nods his head, blinking again. "Y-Yeah, just, well, show them what you can do."
"What if I can't do anything?" I raise an eyebrow, unsettling him further. "I mean, not all of us are as kickass as Kennedy over here."
My head tilts in her direction and I wink at her when she sends a sideways look towards me. Lawson's smile lasts half a second then he's back to talking to her, trying to draw his own tribute away from me as best as he can. I know why and I don't hate him for it. Woof wants me to win, so Kennedy has to die. And Lawson wants me to die so his precious Kennedy can make it out alive.
It's all fair, all reasonable. I mean I'd rather not die, death wasn't really part of my agenda five days ago, but now it's here I suppose it would be good to see Kennedy return alive if I do happen to kick the bucket in a few days time. Good for my family, good my friends. District Eight will prosper.
"Everyone can do something Davin, even you." He intones sharply, firmer than he probably means it to be. When his face creases with an apology bursting from him, I don't play on it and act the fool. He says the word and I accept it, sipping at my juice.
It cools my tongue and the dryness in my throat. I can pretend to be nonchalant about it all, accept I'm a failure, but truthfully I am terrified. Only an idiot wouldn't be. These scores mean a lot, that's what we've always been told and assume when we watch them from home.
A twelve means you're the best fighter imaginable, but I've never seen one of those. And a zero, which I've only seen one other time, means you're pretty much out of the race. I need a number that will help my alliance... Celene, Alton... I care for them, despite what it looks when I jump and hoot about the place, they're my friends.
"We used to play this game at home. I hated sport, again, adding to shit thrown my way. But it was fun, we fashioned these sticks into makeshift bats and used them to hit balls of rubbish over fences and on roofs. I can swing a bat, I guess. But anyone can do that."
I realise all eyes are on me. My heart feels tighter in my chest and there's an unwelcome sense of sadness making me shift uncomfortably in my chair. Woof's lips curve upwards slowly, kindly. I shake my head and shift my expression to the one everyone knows Davin Carrick to wear. I don't want to be sad, if I'm sad, then what's left?
"Bats are better than nothing. You can... kill, with a bat."
"I play with balls, not people." I snicker, pushing away from the table. The trio watch me walk round the dining room and stand at the elevator doors, pressing the button. I wipe my mouth once more and step in when the silver slides open.
"The early bird catches the worm. Might as well be the bird."
I hold the door for Kennedy who rushes over to join me, Lawson nodding in my direction. He may want me dead, but that doesn't mean he likes it. None of us like it, only a twisted person would.
But they all have to die. Little Kennedy who fights the world, Celene who paints and laughs, Alton who sulks but smiles when you break him. They all have to die for me to leave alive.
And that's not fair, none of this is.
Matteo Dallas, District Four Male.
Everything has to be perfect. Wyatt's chilled voice replays over and over, overtaking whatever the others whisper besides me. This morning nothing betrayed the illness we all know is killing him, but the same ailment he's determined to keep hidden ravages his body. Everything has to be perfect. More advice, more words I want to put into action but can never seem to find the right amount of skill needed.
He's the only person who really knows who I am, what part of Four I come from and the futility of raising a fight. He's the only one whose managed to keep me going, even when Megaera and Calliope continue to frighten me with what they can do. I'm not accustomed to fear, but it's there, a dark presence whenever they throw a blade.
What they can do, it's like art. What I can do with words, it doesn't come close to that in the Arena. I've become able with a spear to set it a rung somewhere marginally close to the centre, and dummies put up no restraint as the point tears through them willingly.
But in there, with Meg swinging a sword at the moment of betrayal. She'll kill me. I volunteered for a reason, whatever went through my mind feels as distant as it ever has been.
Tyndall, the boy from Three, stands up when his District partner twitches nervously past him. Megaera's excitement reaches fever pitch when the boy disappears, knowing she'll be next. I mimic the happiness the girl continues to exude, and slide along the polished wood of the bench. She relaxes into my arm when I sling it round a gentle shoulder, flowing hair tickling my chin.
"Someone's happy." I catch the roll of Saskia's eyes when Megaera breaks their conversation to twist her head in my direction. Calliope and Alistair left together after his session, but Saskia and Megaera have been attached by the hip ever since we got together and Megaera was named leader. I'm the only person she ignores Saskia for.
"Why wouldn't I be?" she trills cockily. I wish my feeling matched the empty words that leave my mouth, like her, I wish I really understood what it meant to feel arrogant.
"Imagine sitting down, waiting for the score and a sad little one pops up. Aren't you scared?" Her ice-blue eyes sparkle at that and her head falls back with mirth. Giggling, I notice Saskia's disappeared.
"Believe me Matteo," her hand clenches round my shoulder, drapes of blonde hair continuing to trace my bare skin, "I'm not getting a one."
Megaera pushes away at that, playfully, but forcefully as well. Tyndall leaves and averts gazing anywhere near our general direction in worry of Megaera's sinister little smiles. I've seen them and I doubt she's playing fake behind them.
She's so... bewildering. Smiling. Flirting. It's textbook for a manipulative career, a fake career. Yet she's got it nailed, because even though it's so false, her claws have sunk in and I can't free myself.
"See you later," she winks and saunters through the open doors and out of sight.
Left to my own devices, I have nothing to do except wallow over everything, think through plans and recite old advice handed down to me by better fighters.
How much can a solid, well-toned voice do? Here and there, occasionally it gets me what I want. But in the darkest of nights, the horrors plaguing nightmares brought to life and knives hidden in shadows, what can I say that will stop death creeping up on me and smothering everything I am? They tell you in Four that fear is for the weak, but Wyatt told me the only time someone is brave is when they are truly scared. Which way is it? Either way doesn't help me, either way I'm still left feeling like I'm going to die.
When Megaera appears again, the confidence in those eyes of hers acts as nothing but a blow. Though I stand all the same, head high, poised and confident as it is expected. I didn't have much in Four, but I won't forsake the reputation we all have back there. The others won't see me quaking in fear for something that maybe, just maybe, I can evade.
The tiled floor echoes my footsteps down the walls and to the little hole in the wall where the Gamemakers sit, each and every one of them peeking up from their clipboards, books and platters. I announce my name with as much of Megaera's tone as I can. The spears, ranging from the size of a small branch to triple the length of my arm, line the racks set by targets.
If I have any hope of getting a score that won't ruin everything I'm working for, it's these spears. I take one that fits the best in my hand. Wyatt told me the spear should be a part of my arm, that with any throw it moves with my elbow, sifts through my fingers like droplets of water and kills whatever my eyes see.
I do just that and hoist my arm up, reeling backwards. Everything has to be perfect. Perfect, that's what I've always strived for. The spear leaves my fingers, the pole shudders in the air only a fraction of a second and then it digs deep into the second ring. The second!
The Gamemakers latch onto my joy and maybe if it was possible, I'd fight that off and act nonchalant like Calliope. But I don't. The next spear that leaves hits just above it, the next below and the next an inch to the left.
Never can I beat Megaera, because I've never had her training. The design of the Games is always in favour of people who are taught to kill with just a small amount of luck thrown in so the Game isn't totally bias. My home saves me from a reputation the non-careers have, but my skills won't reflect everything truly.
I don't know what the Gamemakers see in me. Wyatt told me about his district partner. The soft girl. Her ten was conjured up so the careers wouldn't be looked down upon. The Gamemakers were worried, Wyatt was steely in determination but merciful, and this girl was too gentle for the Hunger Games.
If they can give her something to make her stand out, will they do the same for me?
With each and every spear I throw, I try to tell myself I won't need their help. But reality is there, poking around, and I know I do.
I need the Gamemakers to help me. Where's the hope in that?
Celene Fontaine, District Five Female.
Davin sidles up to me clumsily and plummets down on the chair between Alton and I. "How're you feeling?" I ask, my own nerves spiraling around, sending my vision a hazy mess of panic. My stomach continues to torture the voice attempting to control the anxiety, nothing works though, even when Davin flashes a thumbs up and nudges Alton. I can't match him today.
The boy from Four left five or so minutes ago, the gentle thumping of my heart beats in unison with the clock ticking my time away. When he arrives: confident, trained, ready, everything we aren't, it'll be my turn. What do I even do in there?
The rules of training were explained to me, crisp and clear from that hulking mass of muscle who called himself the Head Trainer. But, the swords, the spears, the polished spiked points on every rack and shelf reminded me too much of what I'd seen on television. They reminded me what I was heading for, and I couldn't pick a single one up.
I would have given up if it wasn't for Davin's unwavering ability to make everything feel alright. Somehow he keeps me going, even when I feel like I'd rather dig a hole and settle there for the rest of my short life. Alton's like Julius, only Julius grew annoyed whenever I poked and prodded him, Alton only grins to brush me off quicker.
I miss my best friend. I hope he doesn't cry when I'm killed.
Davin digs an elbow into my side and I lurch upwards, crying weakly. What I try to mask as a cough, only makes Davin burst out giggling as Matteo strides out of the room, head held high and into the extended arms of his District partner who waited for him. She's so two-faced. One minute she's sprightly and giddy like Davin, then when no one is looking but one of us, her face twists and all I see is the desire to thrust a sword in my gut.
Kinnard told me that I'm going to die with that gloomy face of his, sucking the atmosphere dry. I've accepted that, but it doesn't make the looks any easier.
"I believe it's your turn," Alton mumbles. Davin wraps an arm round my shoulder and pushes his lips through my mess of blonde hair. His breath tickles and I giggle awkwardly with the warmth it gives me, conflicting with the coldness still circulating my veins. "Knock 'em dead." And then he pushes me upwards and I stumble along, past the empty chairs of the careers and the two from District Three.
I know they're all watching me, I know because I watched everyone else who stood up. My name officially leaves the speaker in a sharp crackle, the female voice sends a chill down my back which I hold at bay when I step through the open door. Immediately a wall of heat barges into me, catching me off guard.
The Gamemakers sit perched in their little hole, dug deep into the wall. Metal panels protect the underside and top side, though nothing but sheer air masks the opening between us and them. There's a distinct smell of roses wafting from something, mixed with the aura of sizzling meat on a spit. They feast whilst I prance as gracefully as I can to the centre, head high like a career and smiling at them.
Image never meant much to me outside of art, but here in the Capitol it means an awful lot to the people in high places. Since I'm not going to impress them much with my finesse with a blade, I should probably look as good as I can.
I cough to clear my throat, only five or six of the Gamemakers turn on their chairs away from their gluttony to watch my presentation.
"Celene Fontaine, District Five."
One of them, a great gargantuan of a man, nods with a smile curled on his lips.
Deep breathes, one, two, three, four. I repeat the process with each light footstep over towards the first weapon I've held. Once I fail, it's time to paint. But to give it a shot is better than to not attempt at all.
The knife, or what I'm guessing is a knife, is thin and pointed. It stretches in sleak silver for longer than I imagined an ordinary dagger to be. There are plenty of the less fancy, more common weapons spread around the rack but I turn it over, smiling, and bring it up with my hand wrapped tight.
The dummy is pristine, tethered to the rack, innocently swaying. And then I stab it, and the weapon shreds that facade and falls to tatters. Red cotton pours out from the gash, the knife sticks when I go to pull it out, sweat builds up and trickles down to my fingertips when I finally yank it out fully, stumbling backwards slightly.
Embarrassment creeps up my face, blurring my vision and warming every part of skin it can reach.
I hear a deep chuckle, a high-pitched laugh, and something that sounds remarkably like kissing. Whatever it is, I shuffle over to the canvas, discarding the blade on the training floor, scuffing the blue top. I blush again and pick up the pace. When I'm settled, I look and all eyes except a pair of distinct, cat-like yellow, have turned away.
I'm out of the running now, no one wants to see a painter make a mess.
Each time my finger dabs away into a different colour, a line adds to the picturesque view cast onto this sheet. I continue to add texture, shades of detail, everything I can to show them I am talented, just not in the way they want us to be. I can't be a killer, but I'll never stop being creative. On and on I go, the clock ticking somewhere in the recesses of my mind and my hands smelling of new fresh paint from the pots littered around.
When I'm called it's distant and I don't respond immediately. The second time catches and I stand up, looming over the scene: me and Julius, with Davin and Alton my new friends, back in Five. Where I was happy to paint in secret, happy to dance and run and joke around. Happy to be a teenager.
I look over at them once more, the thought repeating like a mantra round and round my head. They can take away my life, but they can't take away what I am. It makes me smile. It makes me happy.
Raelyn Houchens, District Ten Female.
A vent built into the wall by my head releases a nice, relaxing breeze. I lean back and smile in the chill. Kitty's hands are clasped together, tight, a frown on her face. Occasionally they unclench only for her to wipe her fringe from her forehead, then she's back to nervously awaiting her name to be called. Tick, tock. Over and over the incessant sound repeats itself, resounding in my skull, unsettling Kitty to the core.
I edge along the bench slowly and elbow her in the side. Kitty's eyes snap to attention but when they land on me, she sighs and tugs at the hem of her training shirt. "I'm fine," she states numbly.
"You don't look it." I reply, looking up at the sound of footsteps.
The girl from Nine awkwardly smiles at her District partner. He pats her gently on the back in a hug that's over before it begins, and then he's off down the hall past empty benches. Atarah Neve shifts into the elevator and I watch it burst upwards in a bout of speed. Ada left after hers, a gentle goodbye and that was all. I wish she'd have stayed.
Kitty prefers the presence of us both. Maybe it's Ada's calm demeanor as opposed to what I'm like. I guess it's nice to be surrounded by people who contrast but bring out the best in one another. Kitty's somewhere in the middle, she's effected the most by her emotions.
I'm good at keeping those down, hidden, locked away. Kitty doesn't see my nerves, though they tug on my insides, fight their way out. I'm petrified because I don't want to let my friends down, I don't want to get them killed because I'm lackluster in everything I do.
"Not everyone can be like you Raelyn," Kitty jokes, elbowing me back. The tension dissipates and Kitty sways her legs back and forth, she fidgets, but any movement is better than nervously pulling on her hair. When Elijah comes out, it'll be my turn. My turn to step into the spotlight, something I never aim for but always drag around with every move, and demonstrate what I've learnt in the past three days.
Kitty, she can throw a spear. Ada, she's good with trinkets and her mind. Me? Smiling, acting, bringing the best out of people but remaining distant about my own disadvantages.
I see a one in my future, I'm not even joking now.
"We don't all have to be fighters," Kitty mumbles, perhaps reading my mind. That makes me uncomfortable; I don't like being read so cleanly by my faults. Kitty's eyes fixate on the open door and my heart leaps into my throat, thudding away, choking me.
A squeak leaves my lips and Kitty giggles, then frowns when I glance back. I try to smile and I think it works, it usually does. She relaxes and helps me up. I'm good at hiding emotion, but I can't control my awkward limbs. My knees jerk together and arms continue to rattle against my side.
"Good luck," Elijah says kindly, sweeping past me and Kitty. The gesture is appreciated, but my stomach refuses to listen. I feel Kitty's hands leave me as my head starts to pound, my vision sways as my legs carry me closer and closer to the door.
Confidence. Come on Raelyn, confidence! I continue to plaster the same smile on my face, the one that stretches from my left ear all the way to my right. That's all I know, who I am. The Gamemakers might be like some of the other tributes. They might like that, accept it. Maybe I can get a score based on the fact I'm not ready to lie down and die, that I'm happy...
What are the chances of that?
The weapon racks are intimidating. I pause for a single second on the spot once the doors slam shut behind me. Silver catches an overhanging light, reflecting a spark back at me. The Gamemakers are relatively preoccupied but certain eyes watch me all the way from the doors to the centre.
"Raelyn Houchens, I hope I don't disappoint," I curtsey politely and hop up on the spot.
The weapons no one really cares about, but ones that can still do damage, attract my attention from a metal basket near a few dummies ignored. A hammer, Ada's favourite weapon, peeks out of an open hole. I spot a cleaver and I go for that, my District Ten roots pouring through. I hate the idea of cutting and hurting and killing, but a cleaver is better than nothing.
I ignore their empty eyes transfixed on me and launch the blade into the dummy. The power behind the attack is staggering, I lurch forwards and lose balance as it sticks in the neck and doesn't come out. My hand jerks awkwardly and I tumble into the dummy, the handle knocking straight into my shoulder. A pain shoots up my spine and I wince, embarrassment creeping up my cheeks as well as the white hot stabbing in my arm.
A Gamemakers booms with laughter. The vibration continues to rattle my skull as I twist upwards awkwardly and position my feet in front of the next dummy. This time I go in gently and the cleaver slices through fabric. My stomach churns as I remember more and more about how people I knew talked about killing animals and how to do it. The worst thing is, I know how, the best places to cut.
The Gamemakers might like that. The fall has ruined everything but I can salvage something.
"If I cut here, the death will be quick." I slice the neck openly, red pouring out and tumbling to my feet. Then I point to places on the body that will bleed out. "If I cut here though, the death will be prolonged." I slit the fabric open and more red, the disturbing colour of blood, falls out.
I do the same presentation for the next few dummies. Somehow I don't collapse or throw up with the words piling from my mouth. I think about nice things, happy things as the worst kinds of memories continue to speak out to the Gamemakers. I'm good at this, distancing myself. It's all okay when I pretend otherwise.
The Gamemakers get their show and I save myself the mental torture of knowing what I might have to do... what could happen to me and people I care about, people who don't deserve what the Capitol is putting them through.
Even when I leave, I see the red cotton. That stark red, standing out against the tiles. Blood, I know what blood is, what it looks like. But I've never had to spill it, I never wanted to, I still don't.
How long will it last, though? How long until I have to... until I become something else?
Calliope Cartier, District One Female.
Shine's tousled head peers round the wall. Her brown hair is curled and messy, twirling round her pale skin and rose lips. Dorian barely bats an eyelid as she waltzes towards the living area, two thin black straps keeping her delicate bodice from falling. He whistles, a noise that grinds on my ears as she falls on the leather upholstery and curls her legs to her chest.
"Uh-uh," she wags a finger in the direction of the thirty year old. The gesture makes my stomach coil with disgust. I look away at the suggestive eyebrow he raises, eyes widening like a hurt child. He's thirty, she's barely eighteen years old. It's perverted.
Shine is like my mother, or Letta, the girl who only loved herself.
She looks in my general direction, then over at Alistair who tries so very hard not to look at her. I find it funny in Alistair, the way his eyes shift and red flushes through his cheeks. I let out a hidden laugh, muffled by my hands and the sound of the television, and lean back into the cream couch.
"Calliope, you should dress more like Shine." Dorian quips with his eyes lit up the same way. I frown at him but don't rise to the bait, rooting my eyes on the advertisement playing on the screen. Fireworks burst in colours of red and yellow, shades of green and blue and everything else as the live event continues into the night. I hear the bustle of Capitol life even from my place in this building, the metal walls do nothing to hold back the party life.
"She could pull it off, but why would we want to please you Dorian?"
Dorian shuffles in his seat and lets out a deep laugh. "If you're trying not to, you're doing a pretty bad job."
Alistair's face is a deep shade of scarlet, even when Shine covers herself up more with sparse cushions. This is what I hate about One, the superficiality. How everything is based around the single simplistic principle on what looks good, gets the attention. I despise jealousy, but I'm angry over that.
People who look whatever and work well deserve what they receive, not people like pampered Shine who barely lifted a finger except to butcher children. She did it for fun, for fame and glory. Dorian did it for women, a stupid idea, yet somehow it kept him alive.
The mentors we have are children. I'd do a better job, even Alistair whose attempts to help me have been appreciated, even if he's destined to die. I can only do so much to protect him, and I'm still trying to work out if I should... it's hard, caring for someone. He wouldn't hurt me, he's the only person I know who wouldn't.
But how long will it last before I have to hurt him, or someone else does?
"Come on Shine, don't be a spoil sport."
The screen is overcome with the interviewer's bright, wrinkle-free face. His hair is vivid green, voice crisp as he announces the beginning of the training scores. I blot out the sound of Dorian and hear Shine's giggling. It's overwhelmed quickly by silence as my face appears, clear and expressionless. How I like it.
A '10' appears, dripping red underneath my chin. I allow myself to break down a little and smile at the rest of them. Shine cheers, Dorian watches a cushion slip, and Alistair congratulates me with a thumbs-up. A ten, I can work with that.
Alistair's is impressive, better than I honestly imagined. An eight and he's off, cheering and clapping. Dorian's attention snaps towards his tribute for a second, to commemorate his accomplishment, but nothing gets between him and Shine. Not even someone he's supposed to protect.
I watch Saskia appear, a brief moment of anger flaring up. I despise them all, except for Alistair. If it wasn't for my own chances of survival, I'd leave the pack. All they do is lie and play their own childish games, imposing who can play the better fool and pretending that we can't see through it.
I understand manipulation, but I understand it when it's used correctly. I've never seen such blatant examples shoved in my face.
She receives a nine. Good, she won't like the fact I beat her.
Lochlan only gets a seven, but for someone who prides himself on not being the career we are, that's good enough. Perhaps a problem in the long run.
"Calli' will get that traitor good, won't you?" Shine winks. I don't bother rising to a reply. She's proud of me, believes I can win. I plan to, but pride is wasted when it comes from a girl like her. It's not the fact I'm even older than her, it's who she is, the badge she wears, what she concerns herself with.
The girl from Three messes up with a four, and Lochlan's ally receives an average enough five.
I hear the word bloodbaths come from Dorian, but that I barely have time to reflect on when she appears on screen. Megaera Cassian. Maybe the biggest competitor or the biggest fool. I haven't deciphered which she falls under.
The ten that follows her pretty face unsettles my stomach. The anger isn't welcome, nor the jealousy, but it's there and I hold back from letting it warm my face. Megaera is a problem too big to ignore.
Alistair exchanges a worried glance when all Matteo can conjure up is a seven. Lowest of the pack. The momentary relief is washed away by Megaera's ten. No matter what anyone else gets, that'll be there hanging over me like death. I'm worried.
The blonde girl from District Five pops onto the screen. Caesar's voice is laced with laughter, but that's held back for the '2' that is announced as it fazes underneath her smiling face. She won't be smiling after that. Matteo's impartiality is a skill I wish more people had, but there's no way he can count her as a possible threat anymore. A possible victor. It's better to remain vigilant, but I know when to hold back and count people out the game.
Her District partner receives a five, better than the girl's. Alistair remains focused entirely on each score, memorizing them he said before we sat down. I'm doing my best too. District Six is better. A six for both the girl and boy is memorable, especially since the girl is with Lochlan. Their other ally with a five, it doesn't make me feel so good. Saskia won't count it as anything to worry about, but I know Matteo will pester us with possibilities of future problems they'll present. I agree now, their alliance is a problem, even if we already knew that to begin with.
"Bunch of amateurs," Dorian sneers.
He doesn't get it, not even Shine who continues to hold up the pretense that she's above Dorian, when all she does is encourage his behaviour.
If I win... whenI win, I'll be a better example for those who volunteer. I understand the pressure of being a trainee, what you go through, the consequences if you don't live up to other people's expectations.
That's why I don't put up with what anyone says, why I guard myself from it all. Adding it up, it all equals to my survival, and that's what I'm not willing to lose.
Shine somehow beat the odds, and Dorian, he won a Games when careers were still only beginning to crop up. Luck was their saviour. My ten proves what I can do, what I have.
Alistair comes to sit with me when District Seven appears. He's the problem though, perhaps the one thing that will kill me. Not Megaera or Saskia or Matteo. Alistair. His innocence, it doesn't belong in a place like this.
Ward Bingham, District Six Male.
"Well done both of you, a six is great for such talented little kids from, well… Six!" Giselle applauds us both, her nails curl over my shoulder and she pats it assuringly. Giddy with excitement, she pirouettes and falls in a tangle of feathers and frill. Denley rolls his eyes but he's just as happy, if not happier. Morgan only holds onto Tatum's hand, milky eyes gazing somewhere over the television set and into the ink-black night sky, drifting into a dream.
Tatum glances over at me and we lock eye contact. Briefly, I let a smile grace my features but return to staring completely at the television set. A six is good, more than I expected for a show I'd already deemed mediocre the second I entered the training facility. I never said a single word, only walked over to the weapons, the items I knew the Gamemakers preferred to what I'd practiced with, and attacked.
It felt empowering yet… frightening, to have a length of silver in my hand that could do so much damage. I'd never experienced that before, even when Cynder ran around like he was dancing, striking left, right and centre at the dummies, I only watched. I always watch, even Cynder has his motives, and I intend to learn them. He gained a five, under me, and I'd never even understood the art of weaponry. Never practiced it.
Beginner's luck, my mind told myself when my stoic face filled the white void and a bloody six overtook the centre. But now, all I can feel is a warmth in my gut, a little voice nagging at my mind, the sensation of… hope. I haven't felt it before. Denley told me I was talented but that to get my head in the clouds was a mistake, if I rooted to my chances realistically I could use that fear to my advantage. Hope gets in the way of fear, and that kills. But now, now I feel it and I'm not sure what to do with it exactly.
Cherish it? Expel it and remain rigid and quiet? I wonder what Tatum would do, like me, she doesn't express herself to anyone. I've always acknowledged what was inside my head over anything else, physically I was imposing enough to maintain my independence, but never to hurt anyone. Now that a six has been tagged to my name, the halfway mark, only a single stroke under two tributes from career Districts, maybe the one advantage I had isn't the only one.
Maybe I can kill.
Caesar Sr's voice announces behind the fading advertisement that District Seven is next. I perk up and wait patiently for the numbers. Scores mean a lot, they tell strategies and talents. Tributes I have scratching at my mind, hiding something, I can use a number to reassure myself or theorize another plan centred around them. Then those who aren't so eager to hide and want to prove themselves, a number will tell me how much they have to really show off. And finally, the weaker tributes, the slaughtered, not the killers. I can weed them out as well.
Denley told me to use what I had in my arsenal and that's what I intend to do.
The girl receives a three, cast under her miserable frown. I haven't seen her once the past two days. She's been hiding, and that's her talent. Hiding can be useful, but when a fight is sent your way, there's only so much a hideaway can get you.
The boy receives a four. Mediocre enough, not totally disappointing. Giselle's voice blares behind me, broadcasting her emotions like a news reporter. I ignore her relay of her happiness and watch the District Eight girl fizzle into existence. Her five is expected but respectable as well.
Her alliance is one to watch out for. The District Nine male is intimidating, his appearance false to his personality. His smiles stop people from worrying, but that's foolish. With a sword in his hand and danger presented to people he calls a friend, he stands a chance of making it far.
Kennedy's partner receives a four, nothing shocking. District Nine is next. The girl with blonde hair framing her face, a delicate smile lighting up the screen, receives a standard five. Impressive for someone so timid, she matched her fiery acquaintance.
"You should watch out for this group," Denley whispers in my ear when Elijah gains a six. I nod and let my gaze linger on him for a moment. "I plan to." Then District Ten appears and Giselle's squawking finally grinds to a halt.
Raelyn, the girl who everyone knows, the girl we either love or hate, gets a four. I've spent my time watching her alliance as well, working out scenarios and key components that could add up to a possible threat. Ada is intelligent, her four was less impressive though. She isn't a manipulator, hiding isn't her game. Raelyn appeared talentless except for her overwhelming capability to annoy people. Then Kitty, she's proficient with a spear, but I'll have to wait for her.
Eight and Nine pose a greater threat than her alliance. That I'm assured of.
Her sombre District partner, completely fixated on the opposite end of the spectrum compared to her expressive personality, receives a five. The highest in his alliance, but I see no spark there either. Cynder discarded them the moment the male from Eight shouted at a trainer. For once, I couldn't hep but agree with his limited opinion.
I shuffle forwards at the next face. The girl from Eleven, hazel hair curled round her chin, a smile smaller than Atarah's, yet welcoming. She gets a three and I know it's not true. I know she's a girl to watch out for. Cynder refused to acknowledge it, even when we made a list of those who can fight and those who can't. She was on the latter list for him, but for me, I know who she is and what she can do.
Cynder can let his guard down, but I'll always sleep with one eye open whilst she's still alive.
Sloan receives a six. Denley mumbles something at this, he doesn't like it when people gain above a five from people outside our own District. The careers aside, a higher number of talented enemies means a slimmer chance of making it out alive.
Kitty beats her alliance with a five, solidifying her place as the fighter amongst her mismatched group. Then the final face, little Raven, scores a four.
I try to remain impartial enough, to open my mind to a whole range of outcomes. But I can't see one where Raven Stillman provides a challenge, that he'll make it out the bloodbath alive.
It leaves a hollow feeling in my stomach. I've accepted the need to kill, but I'm still having to channel something into my mind that will soothe it when it comes to being so cold and apathetic in relation to kids being slaughtered.
I'm distant but not vile, not uncaring. We all have a part to play in this Game though, the players and the pawns. I aim to be a player, and the six only helps to strengthen my position. The Hunger Games are random and luck mixed in with bias and strength. All of it I can't hope to control, but on some level, I can do something to better my chances.
Hope, that's important. But I won't let it get in the way.
I don't usually just outright beg for reviews (well, not all the time ;D) but when a chapter gets one, it kind of puts me off a bit. That's why this chapter was this late. If you have the time, just a simple comment would give me something to go on, I'm not expecting an essay or anything xD
Anyway that aside, I have a new collaborative SYOT up. Submissions seem to be going slow but hopefully with this little advert I'll get more. Go check the prologue and my profile out for all the details, I hope to see many of you submitting :)
Favourite of these six and why?
Which tribute as of this early moment, aside from the careers, do you see making it far?
Training scores will be up on the blog. Remember to check out my new SYOT, the authors I'm writing with are great. Next up: Interviews!