5.
The first day of training was one that many of them were not looking forward to.
All the tributes were lined up and the head trainer, Maximus, explained the rules of each station and how they could benefit them all in the Arena, whatever environment they may find themselves in.
Latia Burns from District 5, who kept her hair back in a braid that her stylists had put up for her since she had felt unable to do anything as of late, looked quite sickly, not unlike she had during the tribute parade, only now she looked far more pale. She also appeared to be going out of her way to ignore all the other tributes, including her own district partner who seemed to want to follow her everywhere and chat with her about everything. But she just rolled her eyes at him and focused on the nature survival stations over anything involving combat or weaponry. Things like edible plants, poisonous insects, fire-starting, knot-tying, shelter, hammock and fish hook making, and the like. She seemed to be laser focused on learning as much as she possibly could. It was the most alive and aware anyone had seen her look so far.
Her district partner, Wicker, however, seemed to be having a grand old time climbing across the rope course with what appeared to be graceful ease, earning an amused and impressed applause from the Careers. They seemed to see his messing around and having fun as some kind of show of strength.
Patch Tergesen, the little boy from District 8 was doing his best to ignore all the curious and even suspicious looks he was getting from the much older and bigger tributes and even the Gamemakers who were observing them all from a distance. Inga had sneered at him before moving on to the hand-to-hand combat station, and Patch was just happy to be rid of her. He spent the first few minutes wandering around, not quite sure where to start. Then the knife-throwing station caught his eye. He walked over and gently picked up a tiny knife and held it in his almost equally tiny palm. He didn't even have to try out the other stations to know that this was the one weapon that he would really be able to lift, let alone throw with any great amount of force.
For the next ten minutes he practiced throwing knives at a target, enduring the snickers in the background whenever he missed it altogether, and when he finally hit the target for the first time, he smiled proudly. Perhaps all those years spent training to become a seamster had left him abnormally capable of handling sharp, thin objects with a fine amount of grace. Hell, he'd learned he could sew a pretty decent stitch because of it, having tended to several of the factory workers who had gotten into nasty fights outside with each other as well as the Peacekeepers over the years. If only he had access to needle and thread in the Arena, it might actually do him some good as a just in case. Then again, if he was really in a bind, he could always undue the thread in whatever clothing he was wearing. Yes, yes that would work. But wait, what would be the purpose of stitching himself up, really…
The Careers were having the time of their lives on the gauntlets, racing each other to see who could get across first without getting whacked by one of the trainers. Apparently, it was a new addition as some of the Gamemakers seemed to think that training wasn't nearly challenging enough, especially if they were trying to prepare these children for such a deadly game of skill. The gauntlets, apparently, were the logical response to this problem.
After finally beating the rest of them in a race on her fourth try, Nona Elwes of District 2 decided to grab some water and take a break. Afterwards, she planned to take a turn at the sword station. She was really looking forward to that one. But as she fantasized about how good it would feel to knock one of the trainers on their ass by showing them what she could do, she looked over at the camouflage station and saw the one Career who hadn't participated in the race. In fact, she had actually broken away from them early on as they were all walking in. Alexandrite Tallis from District 1. Nona had wanted to try and convince her to stick with them, but Alexandrite's district partner, Grant had scoffed and insisted that they let her go.
"She'll just slow us down," he'd sneered. "She thinks she's too good for us—for all of this, anyway, so it doesn't matter." And then he'd gone back to climbing up the gauntlet.
Nona had been curious to hear more, but that was as much as he appeared to be willing to say and the others didn't really seem to care as much as she did. One less person to worry about being competition, they'd thought, most likely.
Well, now that she herself was straying from the group, Nona grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and wiped her face, wrapping it around her neck and walked up to Alexandrite who was keeping her long blonde hair off her face and back in a ponytail. She looked up from what she was doing to give Nona a suspicious look. Nona looked down at the somewhat sloppy job she was doing of, most likely, trying to paint her left hand the same burnt orange color of autumn leaves. Instead, it just came off looking like blood with drops and stripes of bright orange paint.
"You can learn a lot more over there," Nona informed her kindly. Alexandrite just frowned, looked down and continued to focus on what she was doing.
"This stuff is important and all," Nona tried again. "But not as important as learning how to fight when the chips are down."
"Oh yeah?" Alexandrite grumbled, looking back up at her. "Will the chips be down when everyone else is dead and just the six of us are left standing?"
Nona blinked at her in surprise. The other girl just went right back to focusing on her body paint.
"What's your problem?" Nona demanded.
Alexandrite slowly looked up at her and gave her a look of disbelief. "What's my problem? I heard you all laughing over there. You're all acting like we're at camp and you guys are training for a race together and the winner gets some prize money or something. Do you fully understand what's going to happen in a matter of days?"
Nona glared at her and spat out, "Whatever. If you want to waste your time painting, go ahead. See how much good that does you in the end."
Nona walked away, leaving Alexandrite by herself once again. Or so she thought.
"Why aren't you with them?" asked a male voice that she didn't recognize. She looked up and saw an ebony skinned young man who appeared to be around her age. Based on the number stitched on the uniform on his left shoulder, he was from District 9. And from what she'd heard, he was one of the few, other than the rest of the Careers, who had volunteered.
"With who?" she asked defensively. "Them? The ones skipping around the gymnasium like its sports day at school?" She rolled her eyes. "And you? Aren't you one of the morons who actually asked for this to happen to you?"
He sighed. "Why does everyone keep saying that about me?"
"What else are they supposed to say?" Alexandrite asked in exasperation. "Are they supposed to be impressed? Say congratulations? You know what I would give to not be here right now?"
"Aren't all of you from One, Two and Four all raised practically from birth to believe that the games are the biggest honor?" he asked curiously. "Aren't you all supposed to stick together, or something?"
She looked back down and dabbed her paintbrush in a tiny blob of red paint, not meeting his eyes. "Would you leave me alone? Please? I've got enough problems…"
He seemed to realize that he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, so he walked away, leaving her by herself once again.
Emmer continued to walk around, taking everyone in. He noticed the girl from District 6, who had her dark brown hair held back in a bun, was practicing with a bow but was struggling to hit the target. Alba, he remembered her name was. He'd tried to learn the names of all the tributes the night before. To him it seemed easier than calling them 'Tribute Girl 11' or 'Tribute Boy 4'. Maizie had advised against it, insisting that it would probably be for the best if the other tributes were as dehumanized as possible by them. You know, considering they were all gonna try to kill each other in a few days.
Speaking of Maizie, she seemed content to just lean against the back wall, doing nothing, watching everyone as they trained. She looked bored and even a little disgusted. Emmer wondered why the trainers weren't forcing her to do anything, but he tried to put it out of his mind and focus on what he was doing. He had to get his lay of the land and observe everyone.
The scary, excessively hunger-panged looking tributes from Eleven (Rhi and Tulip) and Twelve (Alloy and Priya) were scattered all across the gymnasium and Emmer wondered if they were here by choice, as a form of punishment, or if their district decided that they would be their best chance at winning. In fact, the more Emmer thought about it, the more he let Maizie's words ring in his head, he wondered if there was someone better back home who would have taken his place had he not campaigned so hard for himself. Someone who actually had a chance, and he might have just ruined his entire district's chances—
He tried to shake off these feelings and watched as the District 8 girl (Inga), who was starting to give him the creeps with the nasty way she smiled when she thought no one was looking, was fighting with the girl from District 10 (Dove) in the wrestling station and based on the fact that several trainers had needed to break the two of them up, Inga was not fighting fair. He would have to stay as clear of her in the Arena as possible, that was for sure.
Emmer continued to walk around, taking his mental notes as he went. District 7 boy (Heron) was throwing spears and actually wasn't bad. District 6 boy (Wheeler) was doing his best to try and swing an ax but wasn't having much luck even getting it off the ground. The district 3s (Linux and Evony) were trying hand-to-hand combat together. One good thing, Emmer started to notice, was that with the exception of the district 8 boy (Patch), they were all around the same age of seventeen or eighteen. So, he supposed, the majority of them wouldn't have to bear the burden of an especially young child's death. Plus, there was the added benefit that they would all have a fairly equal chance.
Then there was him.
Emmer looked across the room, trying not to stare in awe at the district 10 boy (Marrow Clayton) who was, if it was even possible, somehow bigger in person. Emmer had been hearing whispers all over the gymnasium whenever he walked past. Some were impressed, many suspicious, a lot of them were mocking. Whispers of the nickname The Cavalry, always said with a snicker. Others kept saying things like, who is he talking to? Is he talking to himself?
He was their competition, and he had just done something very impulsive and memorable, something that not even Isley, with all of his alleged years of experience, had thought of. Because honestly, why would he? Who would think of something like that for their tribute to do? It was borderline insane. And yet, surprisingly effective.
Marrow, from the looks of it, seemed to be loathing the attention as he kept looking up and around the room with a very suspicious, almost sleep deprived expression. But he seemed to be trying to focus on the fire he was making at one of the stations, which he had made with great ease. He nodded, satisfied and threw some dirt from a pile nearby that was at the ready for an occasion such as this and moved on to the weight-lifting station. Emmer marveled at how he seemed to be able to pick nearly every single medicine ball up and toss it like it was nothing. And he wasn't the only one taking notice. Everyone in the gym was watching him. In fact, Emmer saw the district 2 girl (Nona) nudge the girl from District 4 (Sky) and point excitedly, encouraging her to watch, which she did with great interest.
The Careers were hunting for a new pack member, collecting strength, Emmer realized. More than likely as a way to make up for the fact they were essentially down a man if Alexandrite's distance from them was any indication.
Oh yeah, the competition looked pretty stiff. And he still wasn't quite sure what his strategy would be. That is, of course, other than hiding.
Perhaps he should get to work on the different stations…
He wasn't quite sure where to sit when lunchtime came around. The Careers, with the exception of Alexandrite, were all sitting together at a table, and they appeared to be joined by Inga from District 8. They all appeared to be chatting and exchanging jokes pretty easily. He overheard Inga joking about which weapon was easier to throw, period, or which one was likely to fall out of a person's back if you threw it at them, earning her a roar of appreciative laughter from around the table.
Alexandrite was sitting by herself, moving her chicken and vegetables around with her fork, looking lost and unsure, frequently looking up and glancing around the room, as if searching for some kind of clarity on something. And Marrow apparently hadn't wanted to join the Careers after all despite the enthusiastic and seemingly friendly offer that Emmer had watched Nona make to him on their behalf, because he was sitting at a table all alone, just staring at his sandwich, also looking lost and seemingly upset about something. From a distance he also appeared to be muttering a few inaudible words to himself.
As a matter of fact, everyone besides the Careers appeared to be sitting alone, most likely because half the tributes here were dangerous, violent criminals.
Latia, who was looking very pale and mistrustful, even more so than she had earlier, wasn't eating anything while Wicker was sitting across from her, casually eating what looked like a vegetable stew that was still steaming. Maizie was sitting alone stuffing her face full of food, just like she'd done on the train, completely indifferent to everyone and everything around her.
Patch seemed to be taking dainty bites of a tiny medallion shaped steak and just as tiny russet potatoes. In between bites he drank as much water as possible and coughed into a napkin that he quickly put back into his lap as he looked around the room, almost as if to check if anyone had seen him do it.
Emmer walked around the cafeteria, trying to size everybody up. As if what they were eating or how they were eating and who they were eating with would somehow tell him something, anything about what kind of threat they would pose to him when the time came. But if he was being honest with himself, he would say that he still didn't have a damned clue what he was going to do or how this was all going to end for him.
If anything, he felt smaller, more unbalanced, and more scared than ever.
…
Isley sat in the district 9 apartments and rewatched the tribute parade tapes for the fifth time in a row, and for the fifth time, scoffed in annoyance.
"This is great," he groaned to himself as he thought out loud. "Two boring tributes, one a sanctimonious goody-two shoes, the other, literally one of the most obnoxious people I've ever met—and they're mine, of course. Because why not? Whatever. Okay, so those equestrians in Ten are gonna prove to be a problem real soon, especially the boy. Forget about the training scores and odds they're likely to get, come interview time Lucky's gonna make a meal of that spectacle at the tribute parade. Everyone's already talking about how they rode their horses—how has no one ever thought to do that before? Not even me…
"Speaking of which, Cadigan's tribute, that boy, everyone's curious about him. More than likely he's gonna have a pretty low score, but my chickens haven't hatched yet on that. He could wind up being something of a dark horse, and again, an interesting interview topic. Now there's a martyr for you. That girl, however, people back in Eight couldn't wait to get rid of her. That means she's probably gonna have a high score and she's gonna be ruthless in the Arena. Goddammit. Maizie's pretty fast so she might be able to outrun her for a long time. Emmer, however, I'm not so sure about.
"The Careers are always a problem. Except for that girl in One. God, I can't believe that family got away with what they were doing for as long as they did. So, that Tallis girl is going to be ill-prepared and have a low score, but she may be able to charm the audience in the interview. But as far as the Arena goes, non-threat. The problem is that she'll get people talking and pull focus.
"The boy from Five, he's charming. He's a rebel. People are suckers for rebels. He'll definitely pull the focus away from the Nines. They're not very friendly or charismatic, that's absolutely gonna be a problem—saints, what the hell was I thinking? That girl, what's her name? Latia Burns. Why is she here? Who did she piss off? I'll have to ask Molespinner about that, he makes it his business to know everybody's business, especially the tributes—Therma's definitely not gonna talk to me. She loathes us. All of us here.
"Seven, Three, Eleven, Twelve—some dangerous, some useless, some were genuinely seen as having a chance at winning. I'm not particularly worried, a majority of them either aren't that smart or that strong, or even interesting—easy enough to get around. Now, the tributes from Six—"
"Oh, is that why I'm here?"
Isley looked over at the red headed young woman in her mid-twenties, leaning back in her chair at the dining room table a few feet away, resting her elbow on the table, her fist underneath her chin, a glass of red wine that he'd had one of the avoxes bring her practically the moment she walked into their apartments. The victor of the Seventeenth Annual Hunger Games at eighteen years old, and now, much to her deep dismay, forced to be a mentor to all the tributes who came after her, Mercedes Silk.
"You want me to give you insight on how to kill my tributes?" Mercedes asked with a sly, amused smile.
"That's not why," Isley insisted, crossing his arms. "I've never been a mentor before. Not for the tributes anyway. I was hoping you could give me some insight into how I'm doing so far."
"You're asking me?" she asked, taking a generous sip from her glass. "Clearly I don't know jack shit about mentoring with my body count. As if I needed any more of a reason to be a hero to my district…"
She took another miserable sip of her wine and suddenly looked far away.
"Hey, enough of that," he insisted, gentle, but firm, trying to keep the concern that was rising up inside from distracting him and clouding his rationality. "You have enough to worry about, it's time to focus on the task at hand."
"For God's sake, I'm not one of your Gamemakers," she groaned. Then she shook her head and chuckled darkly. "I still can't believe you got stuck with this job. It's kind of absurdly funny when you think about it. Or ideally don't, knowing you."
"They want me to give District 9 the—and these are their words, not mine—the Cinderella treatment," he grumbled.
She raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "You're kidding. What am I saying, of course you're not kidding. That just sounds like some Capitol horse shit."
"'It needs your Midas touch'," Isley quoted in a nasally impersonation of President Glover. "And the entire time, that little prick secretary of hers was just giving me the smuggest smile—"
"You've gotta stop letting him get to you," Mercedes insisted.
"He has never forgiven me for doing the job better than him," Isley went on. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Now here he is, at the right hand of that harpy, whispering into her ear all about how soft I am, how much better off I would be somewhere else—that I didn't make it challenging enough? Me? You know me, when have I ever made anything easier for anyone?"
"Never," Mercedes admitted, nonchalantly.
"I want to give children a fighting chance and properly prepare them for the ultimate test, and I'm soft because of it? Pop quizzes, the worst invention known to man—"
Mercedes wrinkled her nose at him. "Well…"
"But what do I do?" Isley continued, determined to say his peace. "I give them a practice exam, like any good teacher, and I give everyone a fighting chance. It was never just a battle of wills or axes or who can be the biggest neanderthal with my games, it was about—"
He looked over at Mercedes, who continued to nurse her wine and frowned. He cleared his throat and calmed himself down, trying to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I get it," she assured him. "And I would have liked a series of riddles and puzzles for my games, but I guess you came a year too late. You were right, everybody did love them, but it took way too long to kill everybody off. Attention spans are short, you need to remember. That and it wasn't nearly bloody enough."
He let out a small sigh. "And the worst part is that they have the nerve to replace me with a goddamn simpleton who will do whatever Snowball says."
"What was that you were saying about focusing on the task at hand?" Mercedes reminded him. "Don't you have two tributes who just a minute ago you were saying don't really have a chance at all? Which, as the senior party mentor here, I have to tell you that's not really something you're supposed to say out loud. It tends to make it so."
Isley sighed again. "One thing I can say is she'll definitely outlive him—she's ruthless and fast enough. But she's snotty and she won't listen—"
"Why would she listen?" Mercedes asked in disbelief. "Why would she listen to anything you say? You, some Capitol pig—as far as she's concerned—who's just here to fatten her up for the kill—"
"I'm confused, am I the pig or the farmer in this scenario?" Isley asked irreverently.
Mercedes ignored him and continued. "It doesn't matter how pretty you are in the interview or what your score is or how charming or interesting you are. This isn't a zoo. This is life or death. All that matters is who is willing to do what needs to be done when the clock is about to run out."
Again, that far away, somewhat ill look was back, and she robotically took another long sip of her wine. "And if she does win, what are her options? Go back to an entire district of people who put her here in the first place? Win them food and supplies when they were so ready to watch her die horribly? All this, every minute of it, is an insult to her. It's an insult to all of them. So, for you to sit there and bitch and whine about how you're the victim because you're stuck with two unappealing victors…"
He studied Mercedes' face carefully as she gave him a dark look. Keeping his arms crossed, but allowing his expression to soften, he asked, "What are yours in for? The tributes?"
Mercedes chortled a little. "The girl, Alba, set a train car on fire and there turned out to be a Peacekeeper still inside. She claimed she didn't know he was in there, but I don't know. Who cares, really? She blames her bitch of a stepmother for putting her here. Claims she campaigned to have her reaped by telling everyone what a strong fighter she is and that she's mad, so either way this could be a win-win for everybody. Which, not untrue from what I've seen. She's a pretty tough number, she might actually have a shot. And the boy, Wheeler, apparently liked to steal other people's pets and let's just say, do things to them, so…"
Isley made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turned back to the TV, watching the paused image of Maizie and Emmer in the chariot; Emmer trying his best to smile and be charming while Maizie was just glaring as harshly as she could.
"She stole rations," Isley said. "She made the people short on their quotas and the Capitol would punish them by taking away their power or water supply for a little while. She also, interestingly enough, didn't want to work for her supper in addition to stealing more than her fair share."
"A person's fair share is whatever the Capitol says it is," Mercedes deadpanned. "And the word 'fair' is usually not one that comes to mind whenever I see those kinds of rations."
Isley ran his hands over his face and continued to groan. He turned to her, feeling drained. "What are we gonna do?"
Mercedes sighed. "I don't know. You're used to having twenty-four lives in your hands, I'm only used to having two. But then again, I'm used to this feeling. It's different for you, isn't it? It's up close, it's personal. They have voices and personalities and opinions rather than just names and stats and scripts written by their mentors and stylists to read off of. Yeah, happy Hunger Games indeed."
Isley heard her swallow the last of her wine and he just continued to frown as he looked at his tributes on the screen, wondering, despite desperately trying not to, if these two would end up finding themselves in the same position that Mercedes and her district partner had been in when they were in the Arena all those years ago.
The thought made him shiver.
