Octavia's POV
One.
I take a deep breath and move my sword into the first position, gripping the hilt with two hands above my head so that it's slightly tilted down in front of my face.
An image of the mausoleum Snow was building with mine, Finnick, and Johanna's crypts reading 61-75. As quickly as the image comes into my mind, I shove it away; I need to focus.
Two.
I slowly and controllably move the sword diagonally across my body into a blocking position and try to focus on my stance.
Three.
I swiftly and sharply thrust the sword forward into a stabbing motion.
The image of Ares, my district partner from my Games, standing in front of me, covered in blood flashes before my eyes and I quickly blink it away. I take another deep breath and place my feet back into the starting stance of the exercise and start again. And again. And again. Repeating it until I can do it without receiving some sort of unwanted image being burned into my brain or my thoughts wandering.
With my head finally clear, I can move on to the trick that's been the focus of my attention lately. I load the arrow into the machine and once I hear the click that lets me know it's in place, I move in backwards and into the arrow's path. But I make sure to stand slightly to the right of where I know it will eject from, just in case I don't end up doing it quite right. If I'm going to die, I might as well do it while saving the life of someone I love. Not bleeding out unceremoniously on the academy floor that smells of sweat and feet.
I hear the arrow release, and instinctively, I move my left hand in a grasping motion through the air. Sure enough, I feel the smooth wooden shaft in my hand, letting me know that I caught the arrow. There's a slight burn on my hands from its speed, but it sits firmly in my hand nonetheless.
The sun starts to shine through the windows of the training academy and some of the older Victors, and the ones who feel like they are safe from going into the Games, start to file into the Academy. It's uncharacteristically empty for this time of year, something we can thank the new twist for because it's occupied the vast majority of our trainers in, well, their own training. I make a point of trying to finish my in-academy training before everyone else gets here, that way I can leave.
After not training for seven months, I had a lot of catching up to do in terms of my fitness. That meant a lot of dreaded runs through the forest. But ever since the announcement came three months ago, I became laser-focused on my training. Every waking moment of the day has been spent either training, preparing nutritious meals, or studying the other tributes' Games. Other than the time I carve out in the morning to go and visit Cato that is.
Once I reach my locker, I quickly change out of my workout clothes and into a light spring jacket. I'd been offered to watch back the tapes of the other Victors and do analysis with the rest of the Victors in the academy and as I leave, I notice them all huddled around the television with Brutus up at the front pointing at the screen. But something else catches my eye. The locks of sandy blonde hair in the frozen frame are unmistakable, even though it's incredibly blurry.
Finnick Odair.
I re-adjust my bag on my shoulder and decide to hang at the back of the room for a moment to listen in since they haven't noticed my presence. As much as I know I shouldn't, the lack of seeing Finnick has my feet cemented in place, almost mesmerized at the sight of him. The thought of re-watching his Games has always felt violating in some way, even though I watched them live when I was younger. Watching any of my friends' Games felt like an invasion of privacy, even though it was aired on national television.
"...Finnick Odair is the one to beat, should he be Reaped," says Brutus as he paces back and forth. Even while training to volunteer for the Games, his inherent instinct to teach hasn't left his body. He begins to write down bullet points on the dry-erase board next to the television. "His agility in the water, proficiency in close and ranged combat, young age, and sponsor popularity automatically puts him near the top of—if not at the top of—every list of the possible combinations of tributes. With that in mind, what are the weaknesses that we might have noticed during the video?"
The other Victors sit at desks that are comically small for their size as they scribble something down in their notebooks. Otto raises his hand and Brutus points to him and nods, giving him the floor. "He seemed to have an attachment to his district partner. He hesitated for a moment in the bloodbath when she was killed."
"Good," says Brutus as he pulls out a red marker to write that down under Finnick's weaknesses column. Hesitation/attachment. "Now, can we think of, in these upcoming Games, any potential persons who might fall under this category?"
I feel my stomach drop. I knew I shouldn't have been watching this.
"Nearly every one of the Victors from 4," says Enobaria. "Mags and Annie, but not the other one. I forget her name, but he doesn't like her."
"Excellent," says Brutus as he writes those names down on the board. "Anyone else?"
Otto raises his hand once again. "He and Johanna Mason are close. They're always at the bar together. Actually, speaking of the bar, maybe even Haymitch a little bit too."
Once again, Brutus writes the names on the board, putting a small question mark beside Haymitch's name.
"I'll say the one we're all thinking. Octavia," says Zenobia casually.
"Alright," says Brutus as he adds my name to the list. "Would anyone care to explain the significance of having these weaknesses in the Games?"
"Yea," says Otto. "He would be preoccupied with other people's safety, and it would leave him open to an attack. But that doesn't necessarily mean you should attack or target those people." Brutus gives him a thoughtful nod, letting him know to continue. "There are two things I would consider. One, how capable the person is. If you have someone like an Octavia or a Johanna, they're not going down easy. So it could turn into a two versus one quickly. And two, if you were to go after someone less capable like Mags or Annie, sure she'd go down easy, but you run the risk of him having an emotional response to it and hunting specifically for you."
"I see what you're saying there," says Zenobia as she tilts her head side to side. "But choosing the right person to take out could mentally destabilize him. And since you just removed his support system, there'd be a slim chance of him being able to restabilize himself. The Finnick whose Games we just watched was always in control of the situation and kept things calm and even-keeled. He won because of it. You need to find something to throw him off that. Otherwise, he'll win again."
"So, then who would that be?" asks Brutus.
Venezia meekly raises her hand. "The main target would be Octavia or Mags. But you'd have to be careful. Like Zen said, you'd also have to make sure that you took out his support system. For example, if you killed Mags and left Octavia, she might be able to keep him focused and calm. But if it was Octavia and Annie, we all know Annie's not going to be much help so you'd be safe."
It feels too wrong to have the people I've spent a large majority of my life around talk about me so...clinically. To talk about Finnick and his weaknesses, his emotional stability, as if he's some man they've never met before. I know for a fact that he's laughed and shared drinks with most of the people in this room at one point or another.
My intrusive thoughts take over and I knock over the trash can near me to alert them to my presence. I want them to feel some guilt over this, even if it is just for a millisecond. Their heads whip around in instinct to see me standing at the back of their room. "You're right, you know," I call to them. "You kill any person on that list and you can best bet he'll make sure that it's the last thing you ever do. Well, maybe not so much Haymitch, but who knows. Maybe he'll be feeling sentimental that day."
The room goes silent as they all avoid eye contact with me. Good. I give myself a pleased smile and leave for the morning.
That smile stays on my face for my entire walk home. But as I walk through the threshold of my door, the smile quickly falls as I see the small trail of white rose petals leading to the office at the back of my house. A small creak in the wood coming from that direction lets me know that someone is in my office.
I put my bag down and slowly creep towards the room. A methodical tapping noise comes from the other side of the door. I push the door open, and I'm assaulted by the strong smell of tobacco. Instantly I know who it is that's entered my house.
"Plutarch, what are you..." I begin to ask, but he holds up a piece of paper with they're listening written across it in large letters. "...doing here?"
"The President has sent me here on business."
"Offical or unofficial?" I challenge.
"Somewhere in the middle," he smiles, offering me a seat across from him. The irony of him offering me a chair in my own office is not lost on me. "I'm sure you can guess why I'm here."
"Well, I'd assume it has something to do with the death arena you're about to send me back to," I retort. Plutarch's eyes widen; maybe for the first time since I've met him, I see real genuine fear in his eyes. Good. I'd like to make him a little uncomfortable. I'm not going to act purposefully obtuse; Snow might be even more concerned if I didn't say something. "Oh, please. You're going to send back as many of the 'problem' victors as you can. Cull us, so only the weak ones are left."
He begins to flip the notebook to the next page. "Well, we categorically deny that any of the reapings will be fixed. But I think you understand what you have to do, should you be reaped."
I allow my eyes to wander to the fireplace, my arms crossed over my chest. "I don't know if you remember this but in order to win the Hunger Games and live, you need to kill everyone else, so I think that part was a bit of a given."
To my surprise, when I look back, I see that the new page already has writing on it. Keep K safe & u, F, & J live.
My blood immediately runs cold. This offer sounds too good to be true. There's no such thing as too good and true when it comes to the Hunger Games. It's always a trick. What if this is some sort of ploy to get me to sacrifice myself for Katniss? They make me drag Katniss to the finals and then they don't follow through; I'd be an easy target for her to take out if I thought keeping Finnick and Johanna alive hinged on keeping her alive as well. And how the hell would they make sure we live? Would we 'die' in the Games, only to be brought back to life as soon as they retrieve us?
The fear and panic give way to something I haven't felt in a while. A certain instinct. Something I had hoped was gone for good. It wasn't like during the announcement. No. I could see the strings start to materialize in the air. Each one of them intricately woven. And if you pull on just the right one...
"Why don't we cut to the chase here," I say sharply. "I have a deal for you."
"Octavia—"
"—Oh, no, no. I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Snow. You're listening, aren't you?" I say to the expanse of the room. "I have a deal for you. Let me kill Katniss Everdeen right now. I'll 'sneak' onto a train bound for 12, break into her house, and kill her in the middle of the night. It'll be a warning. For anyone. For everyone. You can blame it all on me. Call it a mental breakdown; we can say I was getting revenge for my brother. And then you imprison me, execute me, whatever. I don't care. But if I do that, you call off the Games and make sure Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason are kept safe. Let them live a happy retirement from Capitol life."
"That's preposterous—" starts Plutarch. But he's cut off by the unmistakable sound of my telephone ringing.
A small smirk crosses my face. "I think you'd better get that."
With a huff, Plutarch picks up the phone. He begins to attempt to talk to Snow, but I hear a few muffled words come from the other side of the phone, which causes Plutarch to pause. "Of course, sir." He extends the phone to me. "It's for you."
Once again, I feel a smile of satisfaction grace my lips as I put my ear to the phone.
"Miss Jones. I very much appreciate your initiative. But unfortunately, doing so would elevate Miss Everdeen to a level of martyrdom that could have severe repercussions."
"Well, beggars can't be choosers."
Snow chuckles from the other side of the phone. "That would be correct." And there he's gone, turning my own words against me.
"I'll tell you what. I'll make it a two-for-one and take out the sister." I know there's no way Snow would actually go for that, and to be honest, I don't think I would be able to bring myself to kill the little Prim. Katniss killed Cato so she could go home to Primrose. So if Prim died, it would be like Cato lost for nothing. But freaking Plutarch out and seeing his eyes bulge out of his head make my outlandish statement worth it. And making Snow think I'm unhinged and desperate can't hurt either.
There's a pause on the other end of the phone, and I can almost hear his mouth twist into a smirk. "For the record, I really do hope it's you or Mr. Odair who wins. Should either of you be reaped, of course."
I hear the phone hang up from the other end and I place it back onto the stand on my desk. My eyes flit upwards to see Plutarch staring dagger at me, or maybe worse, analyzing me. He taps down to his paper pad where what's wrong with you? is scrawled and crossed out in a messy, hasty font. Below it reads do whatever you need to do to save her. I will cover for you. That is how you save them. And you.
I meet Plutatch's eyes once again and I see the wheels turning away in his head. It's not like I have much of a choice. I give a loud sigh, letting him know I've gotten what he's put down.
He claps his hands to his knees and stands up. "Octavia, pleasure speaking with you as always. I'll be happy to see you in the Capitol in whatever capacity that may be, mentor or tribute."
I know the emphasis he's added is meant to make it sound like a threat to those listening, but it nearly sends a chill up my spine. It makes me wonder how many people he's seriously threatened, and not where the person on the receiving end was in on it. I think back to some of my first meetings with him and as he walks out of my home, I make a mental log to remember at all times that Plutarch is not as harmless as some other victors, including myself, make it seem. Just like the rest of us, he's playing a game. But I need to make sure to remind myself from time to time that we're not playing alongside him. He's playing, and we're the pieces.
The next few weeks whizz by like a Capitol train, and I suddenly find myself to be on the eve of the reaping. I've been slowly but surely packing up all my belongings since there's no one to pass them along to. There technically would have been my father, but I think I'd rather everything be burned than have a single belonging of mine end up in his possession.
I label most of the big boxes like clothing, activity equipment, and books and address them to Enobaria's children. While I still feel the sting of her betrayal, the children wouldn't understand why someone they saw as their "aunt" didn't leave them anything. I then pack two smaller boxes of my sentimental pieces; a few of my grandmother's clothes, her old perfume, jewellery, and all of Cato's belongings, with the exception of his token from the Games.
I also add the small tokens and knickknacks I'd picked up from my adventures with Finnick in the Capitol like an old champagne cork and scrawl on top of the box in big letters, DELIVER TO DISTRICT 4: MAGS FLANAGAN/FINNICK ODAIR. I know realistically speaking, there's a very slim chance that they would ever deliver the box to 4 in the event of my death, but having sorted everything makes me feel at ease.
Morning comes around without me getting a wink of sleep, but I hop out of bed and head over to the Academy for the last time. I know I've said to myself many times it would be the last time I entered, but truly, for better or for worse, this would be the last time.
Brutus had won the competition for the men. It saddens me to know that I'll be competing against him soon. Even after everything, this is not how I wanted it to end. And also I'm terrified of being the opponent of the man who trained me.
I try to take it easy in my training session, having tapered off the difficulty of my workouts to ensure that my muscles wouldn't be sore or overworked for the Games. I even ask Brutus, much to his surprise, to shoot a bow and arrow at me so that I can practice catching arrows shot by something more erratic than a machine. On principle, Enobaria insists on being the one to do it to ensure that I don't get hurt—or rather, make sure I don't die because that would mean her chances of going into the arena would increase astronomically. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the way you look at it, my attempt at catching the arrow is successful.
At the end of my training, just as I'm on my way out, I'm stopped by Brutus. "Octavia," he says, a serious expression on his face. "If it's you and me there, we need to do whatever we feel is necessary to win."
My eyes look up to his and I see the apologetic look on his face. Because by 'we,' I know he really means 'him'. Once we're in there he's going to do everything he can to win. And maybe in his mind, telling me to do the same will make him feel less guilty. Either way, I'm unsettled to the core.
I take one last trip to Cato's grave to clear my head. The birds chirp in an oddly peaceful way for a forest that surrounds the cemetery of fallen tributes. I give the patchy grass growing out of the pile of dirt a pat and leave an arrangement of fresh flowers next to the dried-up ones. "This is for you," I tell him.
When I go home, I put on one of the outfits that I'd been able to take home from the Capitol and fit myself with a few small pieces of jewellery. I put on two gold arm cuffs to accentuate my biceps and finish the look off with the braided bracelet that Cato had as his token last year which is the item that I'm bringing in with me to the arena.
I stop by Victor's cemetery on my way to the town square, and in contrast to the one I'd visited earlier in the morning, it's hustling and bustling. Several rows of fresh flowers are on the few graves, and I give a sentimental last touch to my grandmother Sadie's grave. She'd know how to handle this situation. She would know how to do the right thing. And she wouldn't be nearly as afraid as I am.
This year, the crowd in the town square isn't separated into little seas of children divided neatly by age, but a huge mingle of people. Some even try to push towards the front of the stage to get a better view. The same, somewhat eery chant they did on the night of the announcement roars through the crowd. "Victor victory!"
We all slowly trickle in and gather backstage, yet not a single one of us dares to speak. Even though the other districts have an even smaller number, it feels like each person here is their own little island. On their own. They also seemed to have pulled my father out of whatever hole in the wall he's been hiding in for the past two years. I hear some of the producers squabbling about what to do with him, and they resolve it by putting him at the end of the line on the far side so that they can cut him out of the shots as they please.
We're called out to the stage one by one to warm up the crowd before the broadcast to the rest of the nation starts. The usual video plays, but this time it's a modified version. "...On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each district." Fallon takes this as her cue and makes her way up to the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games!" she says to the crowd, which roars into chants and applause. It's not hard for me to notice that the usual pep in her voice is gone. Apparently, even these Games are somewhat in bad taste according to Fallon. Somewhat.
"I shall spare you all the anticipation, ladies first." Fallon struts over to the bowl and begins to shake her hand around the bowl, mixing up the slips of paper. I see the four other women tense as she shuffles, nervously glancing around to see which of us would be the victim of the 'random' pull.
She finally settles on one and pulls it out before dawdling off to the microphone stand. For the flash of a moment, my brain pesters me with thoughts of, but it still might not be your name, right? You could be wrong.
Fallon opens the folded slip and I hear her gasp. The crowd begins to murmur in anticipation, as for a few seconds, she's the only one who knows who has been picked. "Octavia Jones."
And there it is.
The Games have begun. I throw my chin up and give the crowd a wave knowing the camera will capture every lip quirk or flit of the eye from here on out. The crowd begins to chant my name. "Oct-avia! Oct-avia!"
Fallon has to settle them before asking. "Are there any volunteers?" As expected, no one steps forward. There's a murmur of disappointment that washes over the crowd at the sight of no volunteers or scrap for the spot from their beloved vicious women from 2. But it quickly picks up again when Fallon announces I'm locked in. I'm going back to the Hunger Games.
Brutus' name isn't reaped from the bowl, but he steps forward to volunteer, and the crowd erupts even louder than it did for me. We always have loved our volunteers here in 2. As he makes his way to the front of the stage and beside me, he takes my hand and thrusts it into the air with his.
The cheers, whoops, hollers, and chants meld into a sea of noise. I pretend to revel in it, keeping my chin upturned and eyes fierce, putting on the career persona. Only this time, after taking it off and putting it on so many times, I can feel the cracks of the mask. But I need to glue it together one last time if I want any hope in the world of pulling this off. Or die trying.
Personalities collide and secrets are revealed. Who else will be reaped? Find out next chapter!
During my hiatus, I have been working on a secret project (along with having my first real-life writing projects come to life) over the past few months. Before I said I was planning on doing it after I was done, but I've become increasingly dissatisfied with the quality of the first chapters/ Act I. I wrote those chapters when I was 15-16 years old and I look back on some of the writing and cringe a bit. It's gotten to the point where I feel like I can't promote the story on my Tumblr or AO3 because those readers will have to start with the beginning—the beginning that in my eyes is not up to par with my current standards. Act I's quality also played a massive part in my writer's block for Act III, as I felt like continuing with the story while constantly dreading going back to the beginning was stopping me from writing.
All this to say, I've secretly been re-writing Act I which is exciting! I've gotten a large chunk of it done already which has cleared a lot of my writer's block when it came to Act III and has me feeling so much more confident in this story. With that in mind, if any of you have any ideas for edits, I'm all ears as most of it hasn't been posted yet. You can also find a few of the rewritten chapters on AO3 under the same title.
Now for the thing that tickles my pickle and I've missed the most, the chapterly memes: