Maybe having allies wouldn't be so bad, Clem thinks. She's been leaning into the metal table for so long that the edge of it is imprinted into her arms. The day has felt endless, but only five people have disappeared into their training sessions with the gamemakers. Having someone to talk to would make today so much less mind-numbing. There's nothing to do. The tributes are expected to sit at the lunch tables until their name is called. She puts her forehead on the table and watches the metal.
A woman in purple gamemaker's robes steps into the room and clears her throat. "Visia Tang. Come with me".
The ashen-skinned girl from Three, one of Thatcher's allies, follows the woman through a door. Clem rests her head on her arm and watches Thatcher's group. Her eyes are drawn to Eila. She's only just taller than the scrawny kids from Three, but her presence towers over any of her allies. She's taken charge of them. She speaks in a hushed voice, so it's hard to make out what she's saying, but it looks like she's instructing her allies about something. Thatcher isn't paying attention.
"Thames Reed. Come with me."
Clem's eyes snap open. Her eyes burn with sleep. The clock has barely moved, and Clem bites her arm to keep from groaning. Screw this, she thinks. What a waste of a day. She's done being bored. She approaches Thatcher's table, locking eyes with him. He raises an eyebrow. The boy from Seven notices her and nudges the boy from Six on the elbow.
"Any chance you've got free space?" Clem asks awkwardly.
The boy from Six squishes to his left. "For sure."
Thatcher watches Clem with narrow eyes. "I thought you didn't want allies?" He says.
She wants to slap him. "I never said I was here to join your group. I'm just bored as shit over there by myself."
"We're happy to have you," says Eila.
Slowly but surely, the tributes file into their sessions, never coming back out the way they came. Clem, Eila, and the boy from Six (she learns his name is Yash) pass the time playing games quietly and talking about their districts. It's cool to learn about Seven and Six; the Capitol is tight-lipped about life in the other districts. In Eleven, they only get details in the games when a tribute drops a little nugget.
Clem learns about the gang problem in Six. They run rampant everywhere, and barely anyone leaves their houses. The Peacekeepers don't care. There are drug dens all over the district, filled with hordes of citizens who are addicted to everything you could imagine. But especially Morphling. Yash calls it a pandemic. There's Morphling in Eleven, but you can only really get it if you have a lot of money. Florina's Ma keeps it in the coolroom. He's clean of substance, but there's a lot of weariness on his face. Whatever he has going on in District 6 is obviously a lot.
District 7 is a lot more relaxed. Eila describes the logging camps as 'a paid vacation'.
"Sure, the work is backbreaking," she says. "But you spend a few weeks with people you're friends with. You drink, bathe, dance. You don't stay overnight at the camps until you finish school. It was something I was looking forward to."
There are tons of taverns all over the District 7 villages. There's a big drinking culture, Clem supposes. Their alcohol sounds like it tastes a lot better than in Eleven.
Clem gets to reminisce on District 11. The orchards, the fields, the smell of rotting fruits in the summer. They seem genuinely interested, even Eila's district partner, who hasn't spoken a word to her. Thatcher looks a lot more content at the thought of Eleven.
"I appreciate your curiosity," Clem says. "It's nice to talk about home."
When the girl from District 4 leaves for her session, the room collectively deflates. It's so unnerving how they carry themselves, eyeing everyone as if they're leagues above everyone. Clem thinks they're stupid. One of them will probably win, though. They control the Cornucopia from the start of the games. She notices the murmur from the outer district kids turns into soft talking. They're more at ease now, she guesses.
Yash is the next one from their table to be called away. Thatcher gives him a thumbs up.
"Nervous?" Clem asks, noticing the anxious look on Eila's face.
"Yeah," Eila says. "I just don't like the whole 'gamemakers watching us' thing."
"The whole country's gonna be watching you tomorrow night," Thatcher says.
Eila's face pales, and Makari flicks him on the arm. "That was fuckin' helpful, you nimrod."
"What's the point of hosting the interviews, anyway?" Clem says. "Did they forget the whole 'no sponsors' thing? We shouldn't be sitting here for the training sessions either."
"Probably for the official tapes when it's all over. To fill out the runtime." Makari says.
Eila's quiet from then on. She begins to chew on her nails. The girl from Six is called into the gymnasium. Then Makari. Eila jumps when her name is called.
"Hey," Clem says, grabbing her hand. "It'll be okay. Remember, nothing matters now. Just do whatever."
Eila offers her a small smile. She follows the gamemaker into the gym.
"What's your angle?" Thatcher asks.
"Pardon?"
"You act all distant and cold, saying you don't want allies, but you've been very ally-ey today."
Clem rolls her eyes. "Is it a crime to be nice? I was bored over at that table alone."
"I'm just saying you should be more transparent about your intentions. After your conversation yesterday, Eila thinks you're going to change your mind last minute and join us in the arena."
"That's on her."
"You seriously want to go alone in the arena?"
"It's easier that way."
Thatcher shakes his head. "Whatever. I shouldn't stop you if you like being alone so much." He gets up and moves to another table.
Clem's heart aches for her friends back home. Winnow's stoic affection; Flo's crooked smile and kindness; even Logan's genuinity. Of course, she doesn't want them here with her. She just wants to see them again. To have their support at her back. She swallows back her tears.
She stares at the roof until her name is called.
"Clementine Coumbassa, District 11. Come with me."
Clem catches the kids from Twelve in the eyes. They both could be related: dark skin and hair, intelligent gray eyes. The kids from District 12 mostly look like that. The male tribute's eyes are glued to the floor. He anxiously bounces his leg. Next to him, the girl scowls. When their eyes lock, her scowl turns into a look of pity. It takes Clem aback. To be pitied by this scrawny girl from the 'worst' district, who will probably be very dead a few days into the games. Her throat closes up, threatening to release the tears built up behind her eyes. She chokes them back down.
Walking into the training room is intimidating. Her footsteps echo off the walls, piercing the silence. The gamemakers are elevated, drinking and feasting in the little room above the stations. They don't acknowledge her when she walks in. She grits her teeth. She's being forced into this. To do the private session, which has no effect on what it's supposed to, and they have the audacity to ignore her.
There's a trainer waiting patiently at the sword station, the closest thing to a machete in this place. She saunters over, thinking of the Peacekeepers she took out in the riots. She didn't kill them, but if she needed to, she could've. She gives the nod to the trainer to begin.
She's vicious. The gamemakers will learn to pay attention to her. She drives the trainer backward, staying on the offensive. Obviously, the woman is going easy on her, but it's satisfying to work sweat from a trained professional. By the end of the sparring match, Clem's also dripping sweat onto the floor.
She spends the last few designated minutes rushing through the survival stations. Edible plants, edible bugs, snare-making, etc. She struggles a bit building a campfire, but she remembers Eila's advice.
Clem then waits awkwardly to be excused. When the Peacekeepers realize she's finished, one of them leads Clem out through a different exit from the way she came in. She wanders through a series of cold, gray hallways. Pipes run along the corners where the walls meet the roof. At the end of the maze, elevator doors sit ominously in the wall. The Peacekeeper watches until the doors are closed, and she zips out of the basement.
The adrenaline kicks in, and she circles the elevator until the doors open to the eleventh floor. There are only a couple of days until the arena, and her body is beginning to catch up to her brain. It doesn't know how to anticipate the impending doom. She feels as if walls are closing in on her. Not the elevator walls, but some sort of metaphorical ones for life. She always assumed she had a few more decades to slave away in the orchards, but the Quarter Quell has significantly closed the margin to death.
Chaff and Seeder are at the dining table when she enters the apartment. They both have their fingers wrapped around champagne. They don't speak. Clem looks around for Thatcher, but he must be in his room. The mentors must have been waiting for a while because their heads snap up keenly when the Clem glides into the room.
"How'd you go, kiddo?" Chaff asks. She winces. She does not need fatherly sweetness right now.
Clem shrugs. "I did fine. They weren't really paying attention to me; they were more interested in the table of food they had up there."
Seeder shakes her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. By the time they get to us, they've been sitting and watching terrified kids try to impress them for hours. They're quick to bore."
"That's not an excuse," Chaff says.
"I never said it was."
Back home, Florina would get defensive, and Logan would say something stupid, digging himself deeper into a hole. It would snowball into an actual argument. Seeder and Chaff aren't like that. Neither of them is bothered enough for pettiness. Probably from decades of working together and living in the Victors' Village.
"Don't be too upset, Clem," Chaff says. "They may not look like they're paying attention, but they are. We got high scores last year; they couldn't justify that unless they were doing their jobs."
Clem changes the subject. For some reason, she can't stand to listen to the mentors talk about the games staff. Their years of mentoring knowledge remind Clem that they'll be here next year, watching the next girl go to her death.
"Thatcher came back, right? How did he say he did?"
"You could ask him yourself at dinner," Seeder says. "He's in his room showering and changing for dinner, something you might consider doing as well."
Clem understands that it isn't a suggestion. The shower floor is cold, so she lets the hot water run for a couple of minutes, then sits on the floor, back against the wall. She's too tired to stand and too overwhelmed to care. She lets the water hit her face and stays like this for a long time, only taking her face out when she needs to breathe.
Seeder informs her through the door that the scores will be read in a few minutes. There's an empty spot next to Thatcher on the couch, and he puts his leg up the moment Clem walks into the living room. If looks could kill, Clem would be dead. She wedges herself between Chaff and Seeder.
The anthem plays over an image of the Capitol seal, and Ceasar Flickerman's face pops onto the screen. He's scared Clem a bit ever since she was a kid. She'd hide behind her father whenever they watched the interviews. Now that she's older, she likes to think he can handle it, but it's always a bit of a jumpscare to see him.
The Career pack naturally scores high. The girl from One earns a ten, and the other five earn nines. Everyone else earns an average of five. Eila and Makari both earn eight. The young girl from District 8 gets a pitiful score of two, the lowest of the year. Thatcher scrapes a five, and he tries hard to hide the disappointment on his face. Clem bites her lip. Oddly, she actually cares what score she gets. It's a pride thing.
"Clementine Coumbassa with a score of… eight."
Her muscles relax, and she sinks into the couch in relief. It's not Thresh's ten from last year, but it's nothing to scoff at. It's one of the top scores. Chaff clasps her on the shoulder.
She's thankful for the impressive score. The Career pack will think twice before taking her on, giving her some power in the arena. Logan's probably dancing around his living room, cheering for her from the mayoral residence. She hopes Florina and Winnow and Pa are proud too.
The pair from Twelve end the night with a couple of disappointing fours. Maybe that girl should worry about herself next time. She doesn't realize how hungry she is until she gets to the table. Her mouth waters the moment at the sight of the dishes splayed across the surface. She doesn't wait for permission to dig in. Despite the scores having no weight past the betting in the Capitol, Clem is relieved it's over. She finds herself smiling more at Chaff's corny jokes, enjoying the food more, even offering butter to Thatcher.
"I was halfway through the upstairs window when she caught me!" Chaff roars. "Ass hanging in the evening air, mooning the moon!"
Clem bursts out laughing at the image.
"The young lady was scared half to death when I stomped up to his bedroom." Seeder chuckles. "We don't have keys to other houses in the Victors' Village, so I almost had to kick the door down to get in."
"How on earth did you get to the upstairs window with one arm?" Clem giggles.
"There's an apple tree right next to my house."
"That doesn't explain how you got up the tree?"
"I'm very strong, Clementine. Never underestimate the strength of a one-handed man; this right hand can do everything."
Clem scrunches up her nose.
"Not like that! Get your mind out of the gutter."
Chaff has a deep, bellowing laugh that fills the room. It reminds her of the Uncles in the village, sitting on their porches, babbling on about names no one recognizes. It makes her feel fuzzy and warm.
Clem forgoes dessert. She was never a huge fan of strawberries, anyway. Chaff and Seeder turn in around eight. Chaff gives Clem a one-armed hug. "I'm proud of you kid."
She pretends it's her dad.
It's just her and Thatcher now. She doesn't know why she even stayed if she didn't have dessert. As she passes him on the way to her quarters, he inches away. She turns immediately.
"What is your problem, kid!"
"I don't trust you, and I'm going to make sure none of the anti-career pack do either. Watch your back in the arena; I don't care that Eila's got a soft spot for you. If we see you in the arena, we won't be friendly."
Clem frowns and turns to him. She can't take any of that sentence seriously. "You call yourselves that?"
"What?"
"The 'Anti-Career Pack', She can't resist rolling her eyes. "That's a good way to get killed, Thatcher."
"The name is accurate! We're taking them out ASAP. It's unfair, Clem. It's unfair that none of us stand a chance this year because they'll hoard all the supplies."
"How is different from any other year? And this whole thing is unfair. What's fair about the Capitol sending us into an arena for something our great-grandparents did?"
For some reason, now is the moment she realizes how naive Thatcher is. Only a fool thinks they can take the Careers on directly. The games are mandatory to watch; their whole lives, they've seen how the pack stalks through the arena, killing everyone until they're the only tributes left.
"You cannot look me in the eyes and tell me you could beat one of them in direct combat." She says.
"You're an asshole, you know that."
"I'm an asshole because I told you you can't kill a trained killer?"
"You're an asshole because you don't think I have a chance. Why can't you let me think I have a shot at surviving this." His eyes shine with tears.
"Because picking a fight with the pack is exactly how you die. I don't think you have 'no shot', but seeking out the pack won't give you the advantage you think it will. If you somehow kill one and escape, you could spend the rest of the games with an injury or with the surviving members of the pack hunting you down."
He looks at her angrily as if it's her fault his stupid idea isn't going to work. "Why are you still here? Leave me the fuck alone, it's what you think is best."
Clem throws her hands up. "That's what this is about, Thatcher? I can't even remember the last time someone from Eleven had allies in the games besides Rue. And you now, too, I guess. It's just not how we do things."
"Yeah, well," Thatcher says. "It's a little different this year, Isn't it? Apparently, even the Gamemakers don't think I have what it takes."
Clem scoffs. "Who cares what they think? A high training score don't matter if you're facing down a tsunami or an army of spiders. That boy won a few years ago, and he only got a three."
"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Thatcher says. He looks down. "I just wanted you to have my back in there."
"Allies means more people stabbing you in the back," She says. "You think that you'll have the advantage with your group, but you're going to have to scrounge resources for five other people. And you think the Careers won't notice a huge group?"
Thatcher's quiet for a while.
"You're absolutely sure you want to go in alone?" He asks finally.
She nods, and he nods back.
"Fair enough." He points his head to the lounge and television. "Want to watch the Capitol programs with me?"
Clem doesn't trust him, he freaks her out a little if she's honest, and she can't risk any attachment to him. He's going to die, and the less she cares about him, the easier it is to reckon with that.
"Not really," She turns away. "Good night, Thatcher."