Chapter Six
I roll over in bed, my eyes squinting against the intrusive morning light streaming through the window. Glancing at the clock, I realize breakfast starts in a half hour. As I rouse myself to a sitting position, a pulsating ache reverberates through my head.
Engaging with the window controls, I fumble until I locate the correct button to draw the shades closed. The room plunges into darkness, cocooning me as though a colossal shadow has drifted over me. I stumble into the bathroom, breathing through my nose to keep the growing nausea at bay.
I strip my jumpsuit off, and step carefully into the empty bathtub. The marble, icy to the touch, provides a soothing coolness against my skin. I lean my temple against the smooth edge, sighing as the cold eases my headache slightly. I sift through the day before, trying to piece together last night's dinner sequence, but my recollection is fragmented. I remember Wesley tucking me in, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment. I think briefly that I could just stay in this tub and skip breakfast so I don't have to see Wesley, but my rumbling stomach protests vehemently.
I scrub my body with a bristled brush, reaching for the nearest soap within arms reach to postpone standing. As I sit up, a wave of nausea washes over me and I sense the acidic contents of my stomach threatening to resurface. Summoning the strength to stand, I step onto the padded surface outside the bathtub. From the ceiling, a beacon of hot air shoots down over me, drying my body. Turning my attention to my wet hair, I press more controls that blow dry, and untangle my hair for me. My long dark tresses silkily flow down my back, stopping above the curve of my bottom.
In spite of my best efforts, the sides of my mouth water, my stomach churning. I make it to the toilet just in time, to heave violently into the porcelain bowl. When there is absolutely nothing left in my stomach, I am able to pull myself together. I reach for one of the white silk robes stacked neatly on the shelf, and slide my arms into it, wrapping it tightly around myself.
After a thorough teeth-brushing I venture back into my bedroom. The darkness initially obscures my vision, but as my eyes adjust, I make out Althea standing at the foot of my bed in front of a silver cart that has been wheeled in. She delicately lifts a glass of faint peach-colored liquid.
"I figured you'd be sick as a dog today," Althea comments, giving me an empathizing look. Her navy hair is styled elegantly in an updo, screaming sophistication. Though her makeup is relatively subdued, it still adheres to the Capitol's standards. Before me, she stands poised in a black blazer paired with a matching skirt. Hints of royal blue ruffles peek out from her undershirt, adding a touch of color to her outfit.
"Drink this, it will settle your stomach," she orders, placing the glass in my hands, giving a warm smile. Taking a small sip, I immediately sense tingling on my tongue. Alarmed, I glance at her, but she gestures for me to finish the entire glass. Convinced that I can't possibly feel worse, I drain the glass, and a warm soothing sensation fills my stomach. The nausea dissipates as if it were never there. In the twisted and backward world of the Capitol, I can't deny the appreciation I have for their advanced medical remedies.
"I had an Avox bring you breakfast, so you can focus on feeling better. Training starts in an hour, but Finnick wants to meet with you and Wesley in forty-five minutes," Althea says, grabbing a set of folded clothes that were on my dresser and places them on the bed, a gesture of consideration and care.
"Should you need anything, just push this button and an Avox will respond," she says, indicating a discreet white button on the touch screen near the door. She gracefully closes the door softly behind her, leaving me to dine and dress in peace.
I uncover the meal on the cart, revealing a bowl of vibrantly blue pureed fruit topped with delicate coconut shavings and an assortment of berries. It sits invitingly next to a glass of orange juice and sparkling water. The bright colors are nearly distracting, a vivid contrast to the heavy thoughts in my mind.
I grab the bowl, the freezing cold glass numbing my fingers, and I crawl under the blankets, shoving a spoonful of the puree in my mouth. A sweet and nutty flavor explodes across my palate, with a slightly tart finish.
Tasting all the decadent food since being here, makes me think of Clymene, and how I wish she could taste all of these dishes. I am curious to know what she thought of my outfit last night. I imagine her having words to say about how tight it was. I lift up my hand, examining the rich color of the amethyst, and smile knowing I have this small piece of her with me. I'll be allowed to bring the ring in with me in the arena, once it passes inspection. Every tribute is permitted to bring one token from their district into the arena, after the Gamemakers make sure there's no secret weapon or advantage hidden within.
As the time approaches to meet Finnick, I swiftly change into the provided uniform, sliding into the black stretchy pants that grant ease of movement. The accompanying gray tank top paired with an athletic jacket made from the same black spandex material as the pants, completes the ensemble. Gray sneakers, thoughtfully placed near the dresser, slip onto my feet, and I am ready.
A once-over in the mirror reveals the snug fit of the attire, failing to conceal the extent of my exercise regime. The jacket hugs my shoulders, biceps, and breasts, while the pants accentuate my shapely legs. I acknowledge my physique—not as imposing or muscular as the District 1 and 2 females, who look as if they wrestle tigers in their off time. I possess a small frame with lean muscle, and though I may not be the strongest, I am nowhere near the state of the other females, who come into the Games practically starving.
I step into the living room, and spot Wesley comfortably settled on the couch, clad in black shorts that stop above his knee. His sleeveless, tight gray shirt seems tailored to showcase his physique in all the right places.
He plays with his leather bracelet, his gaze fixed on the outside world through the glass windows. I timidly sit on the arm of the couch across from him. I am unsure of how to act around him, his rejection still fresh in my mind. I am grateful that nothing transpired between us, considering I was pretty intoxicated. It sheds light on Wesley's good nature, to refuse me in that state. My ego is still bruised, though.
His eyes lift from his absentminded stare, and the moment he notices me, a radiant warmth transforms his face. "Good morning, how are you feeling?" he inquires, his glacial blue eyes subtly tracing the contours of my figure. A flush of warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I find myself fidgeting with a loose string at the end of my sleeve.
"I'm fine. Althea brought me something earlier," I answer him, my eyes dropping, shame coloring my cheeks. It's safe to say I will not be indulging in wine for the rest of my time here.
"Xenzymiphen, most likely," he muses, his gaze unwavering, "Was it a peach liquid?" he inquires further. I nod in confirmation. I silently wonder how much knowledge Wesley has about Capitol medicines. Most likely a fair amount, being the son of a doctor.
"Yeah, it made my tongue tingle," I say, making a face at the memory. He smiles wide, showcasing his set of perfectly straight teeth. I search his face for a flaw, anything about him that isn't perfect and I can't find one. His personality upholds the same results as well, after examination. There has to be something I'm missing, no one can be this genuine.
"That can happen," he explains, his head nodding ever so slightly. Our exchange is interrupted, Finnick who joins us looking refreshed, his appearance striking the right balance between dressed up and effortlessly composed.
"Are you guys ready for your first day of training?" he asks, clapping his hands together once. We remain silent, an unspoken lingering tension in the air. Our lack of enthusiasm proves to be the wrong response.
"Alright, you guys need some motivation, I see," he declares, a stern look on his face. He orders us to get in a push-up position, the seriousness in his face evident. I'm overcome with a sense of deja vu. In school, physical exercise was our 'punishment' for lack of focus, or when our classmates would get rowdy.
Finnick lowers himself to the floor alongside us, and we start the push-ups. My shoulders and triceps soon ignite with the familiar burn of physical strain. In the midst of our motivational lesson, my eyes keep drifting over to Wesley. His triceps flex with each controlled movement, blood coursing through his defined muscles.
After what feels like an eternity, we all stand up, slightly out of breath, but undeniably motivated, now. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead.
"Now that we are focused, do you want to be coached separately or together?" Finnick questions us, wiping his temple with the back of his hand.
"Together," Wesley answers decisively, gesturing towards me. "If it's alright with you." I ponder this for a moment, weighing the pros and cons mentally. Wesley has seen me train before, there are no skills I possess that he doesn't know about already, it wouldn't make too much of a difference if we were to be coached together or separately.
"It doesn't matter to me," I agree. Finnick sits on the couch and Wesley and I take seats beside each other facing Finnick on the opposite couch, awaiting instruction.
"You both have been trained fairly well; held to a higher standard than the other districts, with your weapons training and discipline" Finnick begins, looking between us. "You already know how to fish, and sterilize water. I would make a habit of brushing up on the edible plant and insect stations," Finnick advises, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together.
"I want you two to look out for each other in there, the other tributes will be looking to tear you apart, studying everything you do or don't do," Finnick warns us, "And if anyone tries to anything, I want to know about it," he says, his face hard. Tributes aren't allowed to fight with each other, practice or not, before the arena. I don't doubt that rule has been broken before, trying anything to gain the upperhand. They send us into the arena in whatever condition we find ourselves in when the time comes, so if you can injure your competition in training, it will make it easier to wipe them out in the arena.
"Save your best performances for your individual training sessions. Focus on forming alliances," he tells us, his lips lifting in a soft smile. "I'm not worried about your abilities to fight back, and stay alive. You both have immense potential to win, remember that." I sneak a quick glance at Wesley who is straight faced. We do have equal potential, which is the problem. What if it comes down to the two of us? I shift uncomfortably in my seat, allowing these disturbing thoughts to float away like a cloud.
We meet Althea by the elevator as it's time to go below the ground floor to the training rooms. Two Capitol aides pin a small square of cloth to Wesley's and my backs, bearing the number '4' in black paint. Among the first to arrive, we share the space with District 1, 2, and 3.
Zane, the male from District 1, eyes Wesley intently, sizing him up with a scowl while we wait for the others to arrive. Though not as tall as Wesley, Zane sports a robust physical stature, with broad shoulders and calf muscles to be rivaled with. His fellow female tribute, Inara, stands taller than me, blonde hair braided close to her scalp, giving her the air of a warrior. She is dressed in minimal clothing—shorts ending at her upper thigh, and a tight, low cut t-shirt. She looks Wesley up and down, as if she were undressing him with her eyes. I grind my teeth together in annoyance, Wesley noticing my frustration, looks down at me with silent concern. I shake my head, waving off his concern.
The other districts make it soon after, in which Atala, our instructor, calls us forward in a circle. Athletic and free of makeup, she begins detailing the schedule. We are free to move between stations, each manned by an instructor specializing in that specific skill. A reminder follows: no engaging with other tributes in combative exercises or training; designated instructors are provided for that purpose.
We disperse when Atala dismisses us and the tributes from District 1 and 2 make a beeline for the weapons stations. The other tributes look around, appearing lost and intimidated. I survey my surroundings, noting that my primary competition comes from the other Careers, with one exception—the male from District 7.
In a fluid motion, he seizes an axe and begins practicing swings at the dummies set up nearby. The axe looks heavy, but he wields it with no effort, as if it were a mere feather, rather than a hefty tool used to chop down trees, or in this context, people's heads. Tying his shoulder-length red hair into a bun, his eyes momentarily lock onto mine. A sinister smile plays on his lips, and he licks them quickly, a gesture that sends a chill down my spine as his hazel eyes roam over my figure.
"Let's go to the plant station," Wesley says, his voice tight. He glares at the axe-wielder as he tugs me gently by my elbow, steering me away from the unsettling lumberjack, and we find ourselves standing before a massive screen displaying hundreds of different plants and herbs.
"Woah…" I breathe, overwhelmed by the amount of information in front of me. As my eyes dart across the diverse flora, Wesley seems to effortlessly identify numerous plants, his familiarity stemming from years of gathering them for his father's clinic.
"You have to be careful, some plants may look harmless, but they are toxic," Wesley informs me, his eyes focused on the screen as he pulls up an image of a tall flowering stalk with grassy leaves and clusters of white to greenish flowers. "This is death camas; it contains neurotoxic alkaloids. If you see this, leave it alone," he instructs me, looking at me pointedly, making sure I'm paying careful attention.
He taps the screen persistently and a picture of tiny, bright green stalk-like vegetation shooting out of the sand appears. I recognize this one as marsh samphire; it grows on the beach back home.
"I know this one," I smile, as I run my finger over the screen, yearning to feel the sand beneath my feet. Wesley glances at me, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He finds another picture of a plant from back home, beach peas. The beautifully vibrant purple flowers sit atop the pods that hold the delicious peas inside them. Feeling a wave of homesickness, I brush my hand discreetly along Wesleys'. He sighs, and quickly swipes the screen, the images of the plants from home vanishing.
"I miss it too," he whispers, his words meant for my ears only. "However, would I be completely insane in saying that I'm glad I'm here with you?" Wesley looks over to me, his eyes studying my face.
"If that makes you insane, then so am I," I respond with a half-hearted smile. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, both of us painfully aware of the inevitable outcome awaiting us. Either we'll both perish, or one of us will, leaving the other utterly alone and heartbroken—worse off than before.
Wesley continues his informative discourse, detailing toxic plants that thrive in some areas of Panem. The instructor at this station glides over to us, listening to Wesley's lecture, clearly impressed with his knowledge on the subject. I learn that water hemlock is a great poison, as is belladonna. I make a mental note, thinking these plants could be useful if they find a place in the arena, an environment shrouded in mystery until we step into it. The Gamemakers redesign the arena every year, creating a new and terrifying landscape with unknown perils waiting for us. This way, no one has an advantage over another, and every year the Hunger Games will be new and exciting.
As he speaks, I study Wesley's face, only tearing my eyes away to view the images of plants he pulls up on the screen. Sharing this information seems to bring him satisfaction, his eyes alight with interest and passion. I feel secure in knowing I will have Wesley by my side in the arena, able to accurately identify any foliage that is edible or that can be used for medicinal purposes.
We rotate to different stations, Wesley heading to the fire starting station, as I take a brave step toward the knife-throwing station. I admire the steel knives, and hold the cool, balanced metal, flipping the knives in a circular motion in my hands, getting a feel for the weight.
These knives are pristine, sharper and lighter than the outdated ones I have to practice with at home. I walk over to the targets, immediately sending two of the blades soaring through the air. It took me a while to become proficient in throwing two knives at once, one after another, but my determination proves successful as both of them stick into the small red bullseye on the target. I grab more, and practice throwing them from the belt that is made specifically to hold the knives against you. I never miss the target, and when the instructor goes to remove them, he has to pull forcefully to get them out of the targets. When I put the extra knives back, I see the Careers have been watching me, an expression of approval on their faces, except for Inara who wears a mask of irritation.
Lunchtime rolls around quickly, a banquet table laden with various foods spread out for us to help ourselves. As I gather a plate of food, my eyes search for Wesley who is being directed to the large table occupied by the Careers. Inara pulls a chair out beside her, signaling for him to take a seat. Obliging her, he settles in and she smiles, triumphant.
Making my way over to the table, I find my place across from Wesley, next to the District 2 female. She sits with her arms resting on the table, eating her bowl of stew. Her fair skin appears even more pallid against the backdrop of her raven hair, cropped just above her collarbones in a sharp, blunt edge. Her brown eyes scrutinize me, evaluating every detail of my appearance.
"I'm Lira," she introduces herself, extending a hand. I grasp it firmly, feeling the rough calluses on her palm.
"I'm Amara," I say, nodding in respect, secretly hoping that befriending her will deter any nocturnal throat-slitting intentions.
"Not much of a competition this year, is there?" she remarks gesturing with a sharp nod toward the other tables occupied by underfed and inexperienced tributes. It's a shame how the system stacks the odds against the less fortunate districts, deeming it almost impossible for them to win. I set my eyes on the table with the tributes from District 9 through 12. They shovel the food into their mouths, some using their hands, their scrawny frames hunched over the table.
Lira watches them in disgust, while my heart quietly breaks for them. I can't fathom not having enough food, or enduring a lower quality of life than what I am accustomed to in District 4. The injustice almost seems as if it's stamped on their foreheads with each bone you can see through their skin. My mind drifts to their families back home, wondering about the anguish they must feel knowing that people like me exist—individuals who have training and excel in survival, all while being properly nourished. People who, year after year, slaughter their children who never had a chance to begin with. Suddenly, my appetite wanes.
"What's it like living in District 4?" Lira asks me, having finished her meal, unlike me, who left much untouched.
"It's beautiful. The ocean is crawling with life," I share, describing the long beach with its sparkling turquoise water where, if lucky, one might spot a dolphin or two leaping into the air. I recount how the warm sun bathes the tropical scenery in its rays, and when snorkeling the sunlight pierces the water's surface, illuminating the vibrant colors of the coral. "Actually it's much like looking at the people of the Capitol, their fashions so vivid they resemble pieces of coral walking around," I joke, earning a small chuckle from Lira.
"District 2 lacks color. The mountains can be pretty," Lira remarks with a touch of bitterness, her expression conveying discontent at the lackluster nature of her district. I am familiar with District 2, thanks to my mother's training there. She's described how cold it gets, the snow that blankets the landscape. I've never experienced snow firsthand, but my mother has shared pictures from her time there. Dressed in the white Peacekeeper uniform, she practically blended into the snowy backdrop, with only her black goggles, and the gun in her hand standing out. I keep this knowledge to myself, aware disclosing it wouldn't bode well for my mother. At this point, there's little they can do to me that would be worse than the fate I currently face. During the lull in our conversation, I eavesdrop on Inara's transparent attempts to impress Wesley.
"What's your training like in District 4? It's obviously paid off, ten-fold…." she practically purrs, her eyes lingering on him.
"Well, you know, just the basic concepts of combat, I'm sure you're familiar," he responds casually, but I catch a fleeting glance in my direction. Inara nods her head eagerly, carrying on about the incredible opportunity we have, being chosen for the Games. Her comments take on a more flirtatious tone. She continues in her alluring remarks until the end of lunch, seemingly oblivious to Wesley's disinterest.
I end the training day at the slingshot station, Zane following behind me, making little effort to conceal the critical stare I feel burning into the back of my head. My attention shifts to the blonde-haired instructor, demonstrating the art of loading and aiming the slingshot.
"Like this?" I question, sending a plastic sphere arcing over a barricade, and into a target. The ball explodes on contact, spraying blue paint against the white surface. I don't hit the center of the target, my shots landing low.
"Exactly!" The woman congratulates me anyway, encouraging me. She hands over more ammo as I practice. I keep a watchful eye on Zane who stands behind me, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. When I finish, Zane smirks at me, blocking my way.
"Nice job, 'Mara," he says flatly. "I can call you that, right?" he questions, his eyes sweeping over me.
"Doesn't really matter to me," I respond, trying to walk around him, but he slides into my path, closer now.
"You handle yourself pretty well. If it were up to me, it would be just you and I in that arena," Zane says, trailing a single finger down the side of my arm. The suggestive meaning behind his comment is unmistakable. Glancing back, I see the instructor is busy with organizing boxes of ammo, completely unaware of the harassment taking place before her.
"That wouldn't make for a very entertaining show, now would it? You'd be dead in the first ten minutes," I retort sweetly, forcing a fake smile. Zane laughs, nodding his head.
"Oh it would be very entertaining, I assure you," he quips, winking at me. His blue eyes linger on my chest, as he sizes me up.
"Well I guess it's a good thing things are not up to you," I say through gritted teeth, boldly knocking him aside as I push my way past him. He stares after me, as I join the group gathered around Atala, awaiting dismissal. Wesley smiles at me as I take my place beside him. Glancing back, I see Zane glowering at me, a fierce look on his face. If there was any uncertainty about joining the Career alliance before, I am now decidedly put off by the idea, and I don't care what Finnick or Wesley have to say about it.