And we run

I am the target

Today's schedule: training from nine A.M. to noon, and then judging by the Gamemakers.

The scores will be released tomorrow, also at noon, and at seven A.M. the next day, the Games will begin. 

It's all too soon, but I can't halt any of the moving parts that have worked perfectly for decades. I could throw myself into the mass of gears, hoping to clog them at least a little bit, and do nothing. 

So why try?

I know I'm being stared at all through training. I'm not doing much, just practicing my javelin throwing, just in case--but every time I glance around, I feel someone's gaze slipping away.

Who is it? One person, intent on my early death, or everyone in this room knowing I'm an easy target?

I walk over to Apollo, gaining a false sense of security with his welcoming smile. "Hey, Daphne!"

Is he really happy to see me?

"Hey," I play along, because what else would I do? He's my District partner, and I don't need anyone--maybe another one--against me. 

He's tying knots. Glancing down at the rope in his hand, I notice how bad his work is. 

He's lived in District Four most of his life. I had a pretty privileged life, I will admit that, but I still know how to tie a decent knot. Does being from the Capitol, born somewhere that you haven't visited since, really change a person that much?

For a normal person, no. For egotistic Apollo, yes. 

Though, if I were born somewhere like the Capitol, I'm sure I'd brag about it, too. 

***

I get a four. 

It's the only thing I can think about as I lay in bed, paralyzed from fear and hopelessness. 

Sure, going into the test I knew I wouldn't get that high of a score--I'm no good with any sort of weapons--but that small voice in the back of my head, the one with hope, told me I'd do amazing. 

It lied. I will not be the talk of the Capitol tonight. I will be overlooked, thrown away like an uneaten loaf of bread that's beginning to mold. 

I shut my eyes tight; pull my bedsheets up to my chin. The darkness on the back of my eyelids blots out the world. 

At seven tomorrow, the Games will begin. 

I will be woken up at five, readied by my prep team, and sent off into the arena to face my imminent death. 

Sleep evades me, but eventually, I find it, lurking in the corner of my headspace, a monster ready and willing to strike. 

And when I am finally consumed by the darkness that is exhaustion, it does. 

***

A voice sounds out from everywhere around me; loud and deep and female. It counts down from sixty, marking out the seconds to my death. 

Around me, tributes wearing the same outfits yet different expressions are glancing around at eat other, gauging the skill level of everyone. I feel several gazes land on me, bouncing away quickly. 

The countdown sounds off, and the landmines in the ground are disarmed. 

Every tribute in the arena charges towards me; even Apollo.

Many pick up weapons on their way, brandishing swords and knives and spears. 

Apollo is the first to reach me, Terra right behind him. Apollo's fist slams into my chin, sending me flying backwards. Terra has a knife.