Chapter 11
For the next day and a half, Rubis and I put in as much effort as we can to prepare for the games.
As promised to Haymitch, we both do our best to hide our immense strength by avoiding the weapons stations.
Rubis focuses most of his attention on the knot-tying station. I fulfil the role of display stand for his abundance of nooses.
By the end of the last day, I am covered from head to toe in loops of rope. I smile to myself, imagining that the rope is the robust arms of Rubis, wrapping me in a passionate embrace.
"What are we doing with all these?" I query.
My voice is muffled by the amount of rope covering my face.
"Nothing." Rubis replies, "It's an improvement for you though."
Through a gap in the coils of rope, I see Verona giving us a disgusted look. DJ gently turns her away from us.
With the next morning comes the day of the tests. We will be scored on our capability of whatever skill we choose to present.
I sit on a cold, steel bench, on the end beside Pinty. The game-makers will call us in one at a time, starting with the girl tribute from One. That means Pinty and I will be last.
"What are you gonna show them then, fam? How to repel people with your stench?"
Pinty wrinkles her nose at me, making her look even more rat-like.
I respond, "Haymitch said this is finally the opportunity to show off my strength. I'm going to show them how you really handle a sword."
Rubin pipes up from the other side of Pinty, "Haymitch said that to me. You were told specifically not to pick up a weapon, in case you manage to score a negative number."
"I won't score a negative number!" I protest, "If anything, they'll have to add a score of thirteen to judge me properly. Honestly, Haymitch has no faith in me. Thanks for pointing out his idiocy, Rubis. I know you've got my back."
From across the room, the Careers snigger.
Anita leans forward from beside Rubis to ask, "I'm guessing you two didn't manage to get the Careers to adopt you, then?"
"No." says Rubis.
"There's still time." I say.
"There in't." Says Pinty.
Just then, the name, " Sugar Maksuzata" resonates through a speaker in the ceiling.
Sugar stands and walks briskly through the doors to the Training Hall, her pink hair swaying behind her.
Shortly after the door closes, we hear impressed 'ooh's and 'ahh's from the game-makers.
Thinking quickly, I say loudly, "Wow! It sounds like she's setting the bar pretty high! I'm sure we'll surpass it without an issue though, right Rubis?"
"Sure." He says. Then he mutters, "One of us might."
"Don't be so hard on yourself."
I reach behind Pinty to pat him on the broad shoulder.
Salto smirks at me.
"You couldn't beat Sugar if she was tied up." He scoffs.
"Could too! You haven't seen what I'm capable of yet. You'll want me on your team before long. And by extension, Rubis, too."
Jess says, "Right. What are you gonna do that's so impressive?"
I look her dead in the eye and say slyly, "How about win your hearts?"
The four remaining Careers appear dumbfounded.
Salto's name is called.
As he stands to leave, he says to his friends, "Please do not let him persuade you to let him join us."
"Come on!" I say, with the utmost composure, "There must be something I can do!"
"Sure there is." Salto giggles. My heart leaps. "Get a higher score than Sugar."
Salto confidently enters the training hall.
"I can do that!"
"No you can't." says Rubis.
Izzie and Corvid are laughing from their bench. Minx is lying casually across their laps, for some reason. Then I see the furious look that Mace is giving her and realise they must have had another fight.
Minx says, "I'd laugh if he managed it somehow."
"Would you actually let him join you if he did?" Izzie asks the Careers.
"Yeah, why not? It's not gonna happen." Greg can hardly get the words out through laughing.
"Dude, you never know." Says Rob, "Good luck, Midnight. I believe in you, man."
Laughter erupts from the other tributes in the room.
"Then it's a deal." I say.
"… My God..." Rubis mutters.
The number of tributes in the room gradually lessens.
When Izzie's name is called, Minx says, "Good luck! And leave some for me!"
"Me too." Laughs Corvid.
"No promises." Izzie replies.
I try to imagine the skinny blonde goth tearing through game-makers with a blade. Somehow, I just can't picture it.
As name after name gets called, I do my best to think of what I can possibly do to impress the game-makers.
My face is screwed up in concentration.
"You look constipated." Rubis comments.
"What are you going to do, Rubis?" I ask.
"I'm going to use my charm and winning personality to persuade them to give us high scores."
"No, seriously; what's your plan?"
"That is my plan."
"Well, if that's your strategy, then that's what I'll do too."
"You should definitely not do that."
The speaker calls, " Rubis Thatcher" and he rises to leave.
Now only Pinty and I remain.
She is puffing on a vape, filling the air with sweet fumes.
"Where did you get that?" I ask.
"Bretta. Why? You want one cuz?"
"No." I say, trying to keep the disgust out of my tone, "Vaping is for straight people."
" Pinty Massacre-Lyncher."
Our conversation ends and Pinty strides into the Training Hall with her hands in her pockets.
The vape lies behind on the bench.
Once the door has closed, I pick it up and try to figure out how it works.
Seconds later, I'm coughing and spluttering, eyes watering.
My name is called while I'm still choking on cherry-scented vapour.
When I enter the hall, I'm shocked to see dummies in pieces, stuffing strewn across the floor, crashmats slashed with huge chunks carved from them…
What has Rubis done to the place before me? He really is a force to be reckoned with.
The head game-maker clears their throat from the spectators' balcony.
They have chin-length brown hair, glasses, and a smart-looking outfit, decorated with badges. In their hands is a clipboard and pen, poised to take notes. There is a small table beside them with another full stack of notes on it, and a bowl of snacks.
Upon closer inspection, the bowl appears to be filled with slices of avocado and… are those apple seeds?
I know the name of the head game-maker from previous Hunger Games – Minnesota Don'tcash.
They're shorter in real life than on TV.
Minnesota clears their throat again.
"Oh. Right."
My voice sounds a lot louder than I expected in the empty hall.
The game-makers milling around behind Minnesota pay me no attention. The other tributes must have bored them to death. It's my job to liven up their day.
I state, "I'm Midnight Abernathy. Abernathy isn't my real surname, though. Well, on paper-"
"Just your name is fine." Minnesota says.
They huffily pluck a few seeds from their bowl and begin chewing them. For the only game-maker still doing their job, they still sound beyond the point of fed up.
"Ok…" I start, "I suppose I'll start by… um…"
Minnesota says, "You don't need to tell us. Just get on with it and we'll watch."
I squint up at the balcony.
"But you're the only one watching."
Minnesota scowls.
They practically seethe, "I know."
For a moment, I think I've signed my death-warrant; talking back to the head game-maker.
Then they turn to address the other game-makers.
"Hey! Do I employ you to sit around and snack on roast potatoes and chicken? Especially you two, Jim and Nicky. For once in your lives would you just do your jobs?"
A tall man with sunglasses and a brown-haired woman turn at the sound of their names.
The woman says, "We're just here for the payroll; you can't expect us to care about the brats."
"Right, thanks for confirming that, Nicky. Now go and have yourself executed." Says Minnesota.
The game-maker emits a noise of protest before two peace-keepers enter and drag her away.
Minnesota smiles.
"Now, let's see what Midnight has to offer us. Who wants to see if that farmer from Eleven was onto something with his idea?
A few raise their hands noncommittally.
Minnesota adds, "And if you all don't watch, I'll have you killed and get a new team."
They wave a slice of avocado at their team, threateningly.
All twenty or so game-makers immediately crowd forward to watch me.
"I'm so glad I can trust you all to be enthusiastic." Minnesota says sarcastically, "Apologies for our lack of professionalism, Midnight. Now, you may begin."
They pop the slice of avocado into their mouth.
I say, "Before I do, you mentioned Rubis? What did he say about me?"
"He gave us some ideas on how to make our games more interesting, which I am always open to hearing. Nothing you need worry about, though."
I shrug, "Ok, I'm sure it was all positive."
Some of the game-makers chuckle.
The man named Jim is already glancing back at the banquet on the balcony behind him. He could not look less interested in me.
I scan the room for inspiration to wow the game-makers.
Axes embedded in the walls. Scorch marks dotting the equipment and – somehow – the ceiling.
In the centre of the room there is even a crater, maybe ten by ten feet, with paint splattered around it. It looks like someone blew up a craft store. Did one of them make a bomb from materials in this room?
I could do that; how hard could it be? Then I realise that the person would have definitely used all the needed materials. What a shame.
"I don't mean to rush you," says Minnesota, "but can you get on with it?"
I spot a row of targets, full of arrows – at least five in each bull's-eye. That must have been Jess.
I pick up the bow that she left behind. This is the one weapon that I have had practice with.
There is a vast selection of arrows with all sorts of tips and extensions. I imagine some would explode, catch fire, split into multiple projectiles… Which to choose…?
I unsheathe an arrow with a blunt end, that I hope is an exploding arrow. The crater in the middle of the room will be nothing compared to when I obliterate these targets.
I notch the arrow and pull back the string in my fist.
Twang!
"Ow!"
The string grazes my straightened arm. I can already see my skin start to burn red.
The arrow whizzes through the air and – I don't believe it! – nearly hits a target!
Not the target I was aiming for, but the game-makers don't know that.
Rather than explode tremendously, the arrow bounces off the wall and clatters to the ground.
I glance sheepishly up at the game-makers.
Minnesota has their head in their hands.
Jim says to them, "Wow. Rubis was right. He really is shit ."
"That may not matter…" Minnesota mutters, "It's his personality we're after, remember?"
"An entertaining personality is hardly worth anything if he dies in the bloodbath."
"Die in the bloodbath?" I exclaim, "I will be the cause of the bloodbath! That was a blunt training arrow. Rest assured, when I get in the arena, the others will tremble before me!"
"Blunt or not, it would help if you hit the target you were aiming for." Minnesota huffs.
A specific target? How much do they want from me?
Defiance surges up within me.
If I want to win these Hunger Games, it all starts here.
I will not allow these privileged, apathetic toe-rags to see anything but my best. They will have no choice but to give me a high score.
Higher than the mean Goths.
Higher than nut-case Minx.
Higher than Sugar, with her stupid knives that could shred me to ribbons in a heartbeat.
Determination races like fire across every nerve in my body.
I'll show them I don't need a real arrow to do damage. I'm just as lethal with a blunt, rubber practice arrow.
I select one with the largest, most rounded tip.
The arrow clicks into place. The string draws back.
This time, I pull the string until I can almost hear fibres snapping. Then I let go.
The arrow whistles as it shoots towards the targets.
It hits the wall and bounces. It flies back past me faster than I can turn my head to follow it.
It continues right to the wall, floor, ceiling, then the balcony.
Its path is complete with one final ricochet upwards.
A deafening howl fills the hall as the arrow finds its final resting place in game-maker Jim's groin.
Jim topples over the rail of the balcony with a thud.
When his tortured shriek ends, there is nothing but shocked silence.
In a tiny voice I offer, "At least it was just a practice arr-"
The arrow explodes.
Our eyes collectively follow Jim's charred head as it is propelled out of the fiery debris. It lands by my feet among shards of his sunglasses.
"Wow." Says Minnesota, "You have impressed me; I'll give you that."
"Yes!" I pump the air with my fist, "I mean, of course I did."
I puff out my chest.
"This could certainly make things interesting…" Minnesota falls into deep thought.
After a while, they say, "Yes… I think Rubis may have been onto something. Thank you, Midnight. You have shown us enough. You are dismissed."
I just can't help myself.
I ask, "So… What score are you thinking for me? Twelve, right?"
My options are slim. Nobody ever gets twelve out of twelve, but I have to get higher than the careers. I have to beat Sugar!
Plus, I don't think anybody has ever killed a game-maker in the test before.
Minnesota says, "Well, although you did dispose of my most counter-productive game-maker, your skill is still unfathomably abysmal. If we wanted to judge you with the utmost accuracy, we would have to expand into the negatives."
"Why is everyone saying that?!"
"Have you seen yourself?" says another game-maker.
"But I killed… what was his name? Jim? Surely that makes me worthy of a high score? I did you a favour!"
Minnesota smiles bemusedly.
"I could easily have had Jim executed along with Nicky. You merely provided some unexpected entertainment for us, for which I am grateful. Now, you are dismissed."
Minnesota begins crunching on a handful of apple seeds and it's clear I'm pushing my luck by staying.
My shoulders slump and I drag my feet to the exit.