Chapter Nine
My chest constricts with anxiety, coiling around my heart like a snake. With each beat, the snake tightens its grip. Were it not for Wesley's hand firmly clasped in mine, I could swear I was plummeting through the air. Everything hinges on the score the Gamemakers assign me. Presently, I have four sponsors, but their support could vanish if I falter during my session. Fortunately, my district holds the fourth position in line, so I only need to outshine districts 1-3. It's a reassurance that being fourth means the Gamemakers will still pay attention, not fatigued by the multitude of tributes preceding me.
The elevator descends to ground level, at a speed that exacerbates my already anxious state. Althea deftly applies a rich, dark maroon lipstick while peering into a small hand-held mirror. Once satisfied with her appearance, she turns towards us, a warm smile gracing her overly made-up features.
"You are both destined for high scores, I just know it," she asserts, placing a reassuring hand on each of our shoulders. "I've witnessed your training, and I have complete faith in your abilities to excel in the arena. I would wish you both luck today, if you needed it," she adds with a stern look on her face. Throughout this tumultuous journey, Althea has been an oddly comforting presence. Her words are always supportive and encouraging, occasionally seeming disconnected from reality but nonetheless empathetic towards our plight.
"Thank you Althea, that means a lot to me," I express gratefully. She smiles in appreciation, looking us over once more before leading the way out of the elevator.
As we step out of the elevator, a jolt of shock courses through me. The presence of Peacekeepers seems overwhelming, their numbers nearly double the usual count, standing rigidly like silent sentinels. Althea offers a wary smile in their direction before pushing open the doors to our training area. They remain unmoved, quiet guardians gazing into the distance. As the doors part, the expanse of the room reveals even more Peacekeepers stationed inside. Each one is placed strategically at every station, their watchful eyes scanning the surroundings with an air of vigilance.
"Althea, what is going on?" Wesley's voice is a hushed whisper, his lips barely above her ear, ensuring our conversation goes unheard to listening ears.
"I assume it's because of what occurred between Amara and Zane," Althea replies, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're not taking any chances, this close to the arena." she adds, guiding us forward, where everyone else is circled around Atala.
"Why would they care what happens to us?" I scoff, earning a reproachful glance from Althea. Wesley purses his lips together, acknowledging the truth behind my inquiry.
"Just…look out for one another," Althea murmurs quietly, her gaze lingering on us, not wanting to say more on the subject. Her eyes silently caution me to tread carefully with my words. With a nod, she departs the room, leaving us to the guidance of Atala.
"This is your final opportunity to glean from the resources provided, use it wisely," Atala begins, her voice resonating with authority, commanding our attention. "Following lunch, the Gamemakers will assess each of you individually. It is your job to impress them, and not waste their time," she declares, dismissing us to our training.
"Are you nervous?" Lira's voice reaches me as we disperse from the group, Wesley already engrossed in practice at the slingshot station, periodically looking over his shoulder at me.
"Not particularly. And you?" I inquire, as we make our way to the hammock-making station. Lira stands tall, towering over me by at least four inches. I suddenly feel grateful that she is an ally.
"Of course not, I'm confident I'll get a good score. It's what we've trained for our whole lives, isn't it?" There's a hint of sarcasm in her tone, but her expression remains neutral. I search for any trace of disdain for the Capitol in her features, but find none. Her demeanor is a mask of composure, revealing nothing. It's difficult to discern her true sentiments or political stance, though I realize it may not matter in the end. Once we enter the arena, alliances will fray, survival will become paramount. Despite our initial solidarity, the dynamics will inevitably shift as tributes fall.
As we progress from one station to the next, Zane maintains a noticeable distance, yet his intense glare remains fixated on me throughout training. An uneasiness settles deep within the pit of my stomach, as he watches me. Though my comment may not have been the worst thing I could've said, in Zane's eyes, it's as if I have humiliated him in front of the entire nation. An obvious determination radiates from him, as if he is poised to enter the arena with an unyielding resolve to showcase his strength and prowess by eliminating me first.
Despite my confidence in my abilities to hold my own in the arena, I've come to realize that I have underestimated the potential of tributes from the lesser districts during training. Observing them, I've acknowledged my initial misconception about their lack of competitiveness. Though they may not possess the same proficiency with weapons, they exhibit other strengths worth noting.
Among them, the tributes from District 10 stand out—Lucas, a tall blonde-haired male, and June, a small twelve-year old girl—impressed me particularly with their adeptness at the shelter making station. Their resourcefulness suggests they could endure for a significant period if they manage to secure sustenance and water, surviving the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia.
The Cornucopia itself, a large golden horn-shaped structure at the arena's center, holds the key to survival, housing an array weapons, provisions, and equipment essential for sustenance. As the timer signals the commencement of the Games and the cannon echoes, the Career tributes typically swarm the Cornucopia, seizing the weapons and defending the stockpile of goods. This initial skirmish often claims a third of the tributes, setting a brutal tone for the days ahead. Subsequently, the relentless pursuit by the Career tributes and the grim specter of starvation and dehydration gradually whittle down the remaining competitors.
When it's lunch time, Wesley seeks me out, shadowing my steps as we navigate through the double doors. Inside the lunchroom, a formidable contingent of Peacekeepers line the walls, their presence an unsettling reminder of President Snow's authority. Clad in their glossy white armor, they resemble robots more than humans. It's a disconcerting thought that my mother is one of them, dedicating her life serving a regime that condones the slaughter of children.
The longer I linger in the Capitol and progress through this harrowing ordeal, the clearer the extent of our society's corruption becomes. They dress us in finery, provide every luxury we can imagine, and parade us around only to condemn us to death in the end. What becomes of our families, who are left behind? Their sorrow will last until their dying breaths, their hearts pierced by the chasm of our absence. All this suffering and loss, all for the whims of a wealthy elite exerting dominance over us.
Lost in my contemplations, I simmer with indignation, oblivious until I reach our designated table where Wesley and Zane stand in a tense confrontation. Two Peacekeepers loom nearby, hands resting on their batons, ready to intervene, should tensions escalate.
"I suggest you find another table," Wesleys asserts, his stare icy, as he locks eyes with Zane, who bristles with anger, his grip tightening on his tray.
"I disagree. I have every right to sit here, she does not," Zane responds, his blue eyes darting towards me, his face twisted into a scowl.
"No, I don't think you understand, you're not going to sit here," Wesley counters, his voice commanding and resolute, a stark difference from his usual demeanor. He stands his ground, shoulders squared, jaw set in determination. Zane surveys the scene, the Peacekeepers slowly moving towards them. Reluctantly, Zane retreats to another table, a smile playing on his lips. I find his scowl less unsettling than his grin.
Wesley settles into his seat beside me, a fleeting smile crossing his lips as our eyes meet. I fight against the urge to reach out and grasp his hand, diverting my attention to the salad before me, determined to maintain my composure for once. The rhythmic clinking of utensils fills the air until Inara joins us, occupying the other seat next to Wesley. With a graceful motion, she removes her hair tie, allowing her lustrous blonde locks to fall over her shoulders, her fingers delicately weaving through the strands. A seductive smile spreads across her face as she appraises Wesley sitting next to her.
"Quite impressive, standing up to Zane like that. I've never seen anyone do it," she remarks, her gaze trailing approvingly down Wesley's form.
"Someone had to," Wesley responds politely to her, returning his focus to his meal, evidently disinterested in prolonging the conversation. A sense of satisfaction washes over me with Wesley's indifference towards Inara's advances.
"I'd be willing to reconsider my allegiance to Zane if you and I could form an alliance…" Inara suggests, biting her lip flirtatiously. I roll my eyes, taking a sip of water, suppressing any hint of jealousy at Inara's overt flirting, knowing full well Wesley remains unaffected.
"I'm sorry, but I think our group is sufficient as is. You're better off sticking with Zane," Wesley advises her firmly, causing disappointment to flicker across Inara's features. Abruptly, she grabs her tray and slams it down on Zane's table, food splattering across the surface. Zane smirks, relishing in her rejection.
The anticipation builds as the Gamemakers summon tributes for their individual assessments, starting with Inara and Zane. Beside me, Lira sits, tearing apart a loaf of bread into miniscule fragments, a nervous energy about her.
"Feeling nervous?" I inquire, arching an eyebrow at the scattered crumbs. She chuckles lightly, brushing them back onto her plate.
"Not nervous, just eager to get it done," Lira replies with a smile, though the subtle concern in her eyes betrays her calm facade. It's a trait common among Career children—to harbor an insatiable desire for excellence, viewing anything less than perfection as a failure.
"You're going to do great," I offer reassurance as they call her name. Evander, seated nearby, extends his well wishes, his voice breaking the silence for the first time. His military-style haircut and golden-brown eyes exude a sense of stoic resolve as they rest upon the table.
As the tributes depart for their evaluations, the tension in the room intensifies, enveloping us in a veil of silence. Soon, it's my turn. Wesley leans in, the scent of his enticing cologne drifting over my shoulder.
"You've got this, killer" He murmurs in my ear, a playful wink accompanying his words. I meet his gaze with a shy smile before following Atala into the training area, my heart racing with anticipation.
As I stand before the daunting assembly of Gamemakers, my gaze falls upon a shattered sword lying on the floor, its blade snapped in two jagged pieces. A surge of curiosity grips me—did Evander or Lira possess the strength to snap the sword in half? The sight churns my stomach, imagining myself on the other end of that sword. The Gamemakers, with notepads in hand, fixate their attention on me, awaiting my performance. Seneca Crane signals for me to begin.
Grasping a spear, its weight a familiar comfort reminiscent of the one back home, I stifle the nerves that threaten to engulf me. The absence of practice during our training period amplifies my apprehension, especially under the scrutiny of twenty pairs of eyes. Closing my eyes with a deep breath, I shut out the imposing presence of the Gamemakers, transporting myself back home. The crashing waves, the warm breeze—all vivid memories flood my senses as I mentally prepare.
Raising the spear over my shoulder, I summon the essence of muscle memory, trusting in its guidance. With one fluid motion, I release the spear, eyes shut tight in concentration. The satisfying thud of impact shatters the silence, prompting me to cautiously open my eyes. There, embedded in the dead center of what would be the target's head, lies the spear—a testament to my skill. The approving nods of the Gamemakers affirm their assessment, though their deliberations remain shrouded in mystery.
With minutes to spare, I hastily transition to the knives, eager to showcase my agility on the gauntlets course all the while throwing knives. The obstacle sits off to the side of the room—a timed challenge of rising platforms amidst swinging clubs. Each leap, each throw, demands flawless execution.
With grace and agility, I navigate the perilous course, dodging clubs and hurling knives with precision. Forty seconds later, I stand victorious, chest heaving with exertion yet heart alight with triumph. The Gamemakers' inscrutable expressions reveal nothing, yet their piqued interest speaks for itself.
Seneca Crane rises from his seat, a figure of authority with his impeccably styled dark hair parted to perfection, gelled into place, while his beard boasts sharp, meticulously crafted edges. With a gesture of dismissal, he bids me farewell, expressing gratitude for my time.
As I leave the training area, a glance back at the targets reveals all the knives I threw landed in the center of each target. I smile widely to myself, confidence swelling within my chest.
I'm still smiling when I walk into our apartment, buoyed by the conviction that I've left a strong impression on the Gamemakers. Inside, Finnick sits on the couch, engrossed in the previously recorded events of everything that has aired for The Games thus far. As I move closer, I see our chariot ride is playing on the screen.
"How'd it go?" Finnick queries, his expression brimming with anticipation, expecting a favorable response. Though I'm tempted to tease him with tales of failure, my superstitions of jinxing the impending score announcement quells my jests.
"Spear headshot, and knives on target during the gauntlets course—all center mass," I brag, my voice thick with joy.
"Yes! That's what I'm talking about!" He cheers, leaping from the couch, his excitement palpable as he congratulates me with exuberance, wrapping me up in a celebratory hug before releasing me, a grin adorning his face.
Wesley materializes in the doorway, an arched eyebrow raised. Finnick crosses his arms across his chest, patiently waiting for Wesley to share his experience with the Gamemakers.
"Crossbow, mace, a brief wrestling stint—I aced it," Wesley shares, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. Finnick applauds, echoing his confidence in our inevitable success. Tonight, our scores will broadcast live, an event eagerly looked forward to by all of Panem.
"I knew you'd do well," I praise Wesley, our hands finding each other. Finnick's gaze flicks to our entwined hands, his expression shifting to one of contemplation.
"I won't be telling you anything you both don't already know, but I wouldn't be a good mentor if I didn't bring it up," he begins, turning to look at us. His expression is serious, almost pained. "This only ends one of two ways…either one of you doesn't make it, or you both don't make it. Can you live with that?"
Wesley's hand tightens in mine. His eyes flit down to mine, his mouth a firm line. Hearing Finnick say it out loud, makes our predicament all the more real. If Wesley dies, I may as well go with him, because the person I am will no longer exist.
"Any measure of time I am fortunate to have with Amara is well worth the possible pain I might go through." Wesley says before turning to his bedroom. Finnick migrates to the bar, his eyes never leaving me. He pours a glass of an amber liquid, and instead of drinking it himself, he hands it to me. I take it gratefully.
"Thanks," I whisper, taking a large sip of the liquor, the liquid burning all the way to my stomach, spreading a warmth within me.
"Should I have said something sooner? Would it have made a difference?" Finnick asks me, pouring himself a drink. I ponder his question for a moment. I wasn't looking for love or anything serious when Wesley and I pursued this relationship, I was only seeking relief from the pain Kai caused me to feel when he left me. Wesley exceeded my expectations, being a man worth far more than a fling.
"I'm not sure. I wasn't planning on feeling about him the way I do." I answer him truthfully. He nods, as if he understands the feeling firsthand.
"That's usually how it happens." he says, taking a seat on the couch. I follow suit, and down the last of my drink, my mind is already fuzzy.
"You sound like you speak from experience," I venture tentatively, more inquisitive than assertive. His sea-green eyes meet mine, and he offers a subtle nod.
"I was in a similar situation. Back home, I fell for a girl, only to be chosen for the Games. She waited, but upon my return, my family was gone, and I was no longer the person she remembered," he recounts, collecting our empty glasses and replenishing them at the bar. Seated once more, he continues, "Initially, I blamed the loss of my family, but the truth runs deeper. It was as if I was stuck in survival mode. Every noise was someone trying to kill me—I couldn't sleep, and she couldn't either, because she was afraid of me," he admits, downing another drink. "I then gave up on the prospect of love, for I was better off before I fell in love with her."
"That doesn't sound like a healthy way to go through life. There hasn't been anyone since?" I ask, the disbelief evident in my tone. He narrows his eyes at me."The Capitol isn't exactly discreet with your relationships…I just figured…" I trail off, sensing his growing annoyance.
"Those aren't relationships that are worth anything," he interjects sharply, though he refrains from elaboration. Sensing his reluctance, I opt not to press further, wary of causing offense this close to entering the arena. I finish my second drink, feeling weightless.
"Wesley is worth it. Even though I know I will be destroyed if anything happens to him, at least I had the chance to love him," I say, refilling my glass. Finnick eyes me carefully, and then confiscates the decanter to fill up his own glass.
"I don't know how you can live like that," he remarks, drinking more.
"You're telling me, if this girl you had fallen for was reaped along with you, you wouldn't spend every second with her while you could?" I challenge him, a smile spreading across my face without my permission. I'm definitely too intoxicated to be having this conversation.
"Alright, you've made your point." Finnick concedes, prompting my laughter to bubble forth, my smile spreading even wider.
"You are such a lightweight," Finnick comments, snatching the glass from my grasp. I make a feeble attempt to reclaim it, but he holds it out of reach. As I move to stand, Finnick rises as well, keeping the glass tantalizingly high.
"Finnick…" I warn, my tone betraying my seriousness at having my drink confiscated for the second time so far. He smirks, placing his own glass on the table—a clear challenge. I take the bait. With a mischievous glint, I leap onto the table, launching myself onto Finnick's back. My feet find purchase on his hips, as I rip the glass out of his hand, spilling its contents all over us.
"You're a psycho!" Finnick exclaims, steadying himself, to prevent our tumble. I cling tightly, as the room begins to spin.
"Stop taking my drinks from me, then!" I retort, my voice rising. Wesley emerges from his room, observing the absurd spectacle before him.
"Do I even want to know?" he asks, eyeing us incredulously. Finnick deftly maneuvers, securing my legs and gently depositing me onto the couch, straightening his disheveled attire.
"We might need an intervention, because this is not normal," Finnick suggests, shooting me a look.
"You're not normal," I interject. Finnick swings his head to look back at Wesley.
"Yeah." is all Wesley says, as he lifts me effortlessly over his shoulders, and brings me to my room. He places me on my bed, and starts the shower. I stare up at the white ceiling, feeling as though I'm on a boat that is swaying in the ocean. Wesley comes back to collect me, and help me into the shower.
"Shower sex? Just what I was thinking," I mutter, wrapping my arms around his neck, and leaning in for a kiss. He gently disentangles himself from me and begins to undress me. I attempt to lift his shirt, but he intercepts my hands, guiding me into the hot stream of water.
"No sex for you until you're sober," Wesley declares, a hint of amusement in his tone. I pout in response, eliciting a chuckle from him.
Once I am dressed and presentable, Wesley takes my hand, and we make our way to dinner, already underway. Seated at the table, Althea and our stylists launch into a barrage of questions about our individual training sessions. Althea delves into the specifics, eager for every detail, from the demeanor of the Gamemakers to the duration of their evaluations and our own assessments of our performances. By the end of our interrogation, she exudes confidence, convinced that we will outshine the other tributes.
After dinner, we all gather around the television, my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. Wesley settles beside me on the couch, his arm draping across my shoulders, offering the comfort I seek. The Panem seal flashes on the screen, followed by the announcers adorned in the latest Capitol fashions introducing themselves before unveiling the scores.
Inara's picture appears, her score displayed below—a solid eight. Zane follows with a disappointing three. My mouth hangs open in shock. Wesley grins widely, while Finnick wears a satisfied smile, nodding in approval. Zane's dwindling sponsor support becomes eventual with such a dismal score.
Lira secures a nine, and Evander an impressive ten. I presume Evander's performance involved breaking the blade of the sword, then. The District Three tributes both score a respectable seven, leading us to Wesley and I. My face appears on the screen, the anticipation dragging as I await my score. Cheers erupt before it registers—I've earned a ten.
"Yes! I knew you'd kill it!" Wesley cheers, pulling me into him and kissing the side of my head.
"Well done!" Silvarius adds, beaming with pride.
Wesley's picture replaces mine, his score a remarkable eleven. Eleven! I wonder what earned him such a high score, was it his crossbow shooting, mace-wielding, or his hand to hand combat?
"I've got a pair of true warriors this year," Finnick smiles at us, swelling my chest with pride. Anaria clasps Wesley's shoulder, her smile revealing her fangs, the light glinting off the shiny gold.
As the program progresses, the other tributes average in the six to eight range. Jaime, the lumberjack from District Seven, scores a ten. I picture him swinging his axe athletically, the large blade embedding itself in the targets.
Zane has by far gotten the lowest score out of everyone. I smirk at the thought of his inevitable tantrum. However, my amusement fades as I realize his thirst for vengeance will drive him, fueled by his rage like a rabid dog unleashed. I must eliminate him swiftly; he won't rest until I'm dead.
After the program concludes, our stylists depart, leaving us with final congratulations before Althea and Finnick retire to their rooms. Wesley surprises me by lifting me up, a squeal escaping my lips. He carries me to his bed and promptly removes his shirt, revealing his chiseled physique.
"Allow me to properly congratulate you," he whispers huskily, his lips finding mine and trailing down my body. He looks up at me, his ice blue eyes swirling with lust. We savor each moment together, knowing our time is fleeting. The horrors of the arena await, and while we can never fully prepare mentally, we find solace in facing them together.