The next days of training go by like a gust of wind. Eli and I explore everything there is to offer. Despite the need to seem weak, we are good at almost every skill we run into. Edible plants tests get perfect scores in the blink of an eye. Our climbing methods are quick and get us easily compared to squirrels. Eli masters attacks and defenses with a fishing spear. I find that I am strong enough to bench-press my own weight. More tributes seem to shy away from us as we walk past, and it almost seems worth the effort.
If we didn't have stalkers, that is.
Three stations into the second day of training, I begin to notice that the tribute that we want the least on our backs is following us. Closely. He has been at the last few stations with us, and while he does not participate much in the training, he seems to have been monitoring everyone. But today, mostly us. Exclusively, us.
I can tell that though Eli doesn't look over at Cornelius, he has always known that he was there. Eventually, I begin to get annoyed that he isn't trying to help me come up with a plan for getting him off our backs. Because if we've been trying to lie low for the last days of training, there is probably a problem if we've caught the sudden attention of the most powerful of the Careers. A big problem.
But Eli nonetheless never responds. And I begin to catch on. Because Eli always seems to have a plan. And I begin to get the idea that if I stay silent, maybe- just maybe- we'll prevent some mishaps in the arena.
. . .
After all morning training, the tributes are herded into a cafeteria. The room is not part of the training rooms, but it has the same structure- high ceiling of jagged rock, with synthetic lighting. Unfortunately, even with the long oak tables and various food carts filled with our steaming lunches, the cafeteria nonetheless has the same atmosphere as the training rooms. More reminders of who is probably going to die in the arena.
I'm sure I'm not the only tribute to pick up on this, though. The Careers, who are first in the cafeteria, push past everyone and mark out one table for themselves before grabbing their meals. No one outside their group dares sit near them. They undoubtedly intend to elevate everyone's anxiety, after all. Leave it to the Gamemakers to help them do this. And it seems to be working on several of the tributes.
Though I'm not sure I want to risk the Careers' attention, I don't want to seem weak. So while many eyes stay fixated on their pork and mushrooms, I allow myself a general sweep of the activity. I start with Eli, who is sitting across from me; to Eli's right, in the general direction of the Careers; and then move on to the tributes from Nine, who are animatedly chatting away. The others might actually be afraid of us, too; because everyone is at least two tables away. My eyes travel from one corner of the room to the other. Other than the pair from Nine, almost everyone is silent.
That's when I feel it. A sudden prickle at the side of my neck. I lightly finger it, trying to rub it away. When it doesn't budge, I feel my fingers tugging at the collar of my shirt, trying to cover the spot on my neck. Then I feel more of the strange feeling join it. The prickling is at the side of my face this time. I raise my head from my meal. Are people staring at me?
I turn my head to my left. Eli's right. Cold dread fills me when my eyes meet the Careers', and my stomach turns to ice. Oh no. Oh no no no oh no oh no. Cornelius suddenly gets up from the table. His giant shoes thump as they make contact with the floor. I vaguely realize that he is walking toward our table. No. NO. What did I do?! Behind my emotionless expression, I feel like I may lose my lunch.
The table rocks as Cornelius sits down. Eli looks up in alarm, and his eyes widen. He quickly recovers his sure composure, but he shoots me a look that says: What the heck is going on?! But I don't know. At all.
I know what to do even less when Cornelius opens his mouth to speak. The fact that he, a Career, is saying anything to me at all is just confusing. But the question he asks seems to be even more so.
Because after he finishes, I get the feeling that he just asked me if I wanted to join the Careers.
My mouth goes dry. The food in my mouth turns to sawdust. There's a vague metallic taste in my mouth, and I doubt that it's the pork. "What did you say?" I manage.
"I said," Cornelius says, his voice deep and rumbling, like thunder, "we want you to join us." His sentence holds no emotion, just like the rest of him, but that must just be on the surface. I've watched his reaping. I sense something sinister about the whole thing- the fact that he was the Career sent over here; the fact that the second time, it wasn't a question, but a command. Suddenly, I feel extremely offended.
"Is that a joke?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to reach out with my hands and shove them back down from where they came from, but I refrain. Even so, when I hear the nervous laugh of the girl from Four, I know I've made a big mistake.
Cornelius slowly stands up, and I can't help but think about how much bigger he seems than when he wasn't just stood up. "No, it is not." The words are slow and deliberate, punctuate to the point of suffocating.
I am afraid. Very afraid. I think he knows this. But I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear revealed, where everyone can see it.
I stand, aware of almost everyone's eyes on me. He is not nearly as tall as Cedar, I can see now; but he is nevertheless over a foot and a half taller than me and three times my size. Somehow I know that there's no going back now. Not with what I've started. I look Cornelius in the eye and glare. "You think I would ever ally with you? You think I would ever ally with Careers?"
"Cass-" Eli warns, but I cut him off.
"Careers killed my best friend's girlfriend," I snarl. "They killed the friends and siblings of so many people I know. If you ever thought it was a good idea to try and intimidate me into allying with you, it's never going to work."
Every eye at the Career table is wide, bewildered. They are probably so used to being feared that they don't know what to do with someone who isn't seemingly afraid of them. But Cornelius just stands there in front of me, raising an eyebrow. He stands there looking thoughtful for a moment, then his eyes turn hard as he bends down and growls in my ear, "You will pay in the arena. We're gonna get you first." Then he turns and stalks away, back to where he came from.
For the rest of lunch, I can only taste metal, knowing I now have no chance of survival.
. . .
"Cassia." I barely turn my head as Ash, leaning against the mahogany-paneled walls of my quarters, tries to lecture me about a certain little talk I had today that caused a big problem. We have been here for thirty minutes. I still find it somewhat funny that though the arena clearly changed Ash for the worse, he is still not able to lecture people. The only thing that keeps me from pointing this out, though, is that it obviously frustrates him. How else is he going to get through to his tributes if nothing else works? I wonder if Ash is feeling much deja vu right now, seeing as to the tributes he's had to try and train in the past.
Ash rubs his temples, a nervous habit I recognize from when we were still good friends. From when the Hunger Games had not really affected us personally, and we were still spared from most of the personal horrors that they inflicted. So he hadn't lost this part of his old self, either. Somehow that comforts me enough to think that maybe- just maybe- there is still hope.
"Cassia!" Ash's voice registers to me as hard and loud, and I duck, avoiding a slap that never comes; a punch that never lands. His hand grabs my shoulder before I can dart away, and I feel my hand curl into a fist, my arm releasing like a bowstring-
Suddenly, I'm aware of myself sitting on the floor, with no hand on my shoulder; but with a terrible realization when I lift my curled fist, covered in blood. Even more terrible when I notice a figure slumped against the wall, blood gushing from behind the hands covering his face.
Oh no. Oh no. Ash? No, no, no. What was I thinking?! What was I doing?! Stupid stupid stupid. . . My mind buzzes with an onslaught of thoughts as I creep over to Ash, not quite sure what to do. I recall the summary of my skills that I gave to Cedar. My mind replays it, one certain part now mockery of what I just did.
"I can win a fistfight," I had said. I can win a fistfight. I look at my fist, still stained dark red; then at Ash, blood pooling around him on the expensive carpet. I can win a fistfight, all right. And not even in the right way.
"Ash?" My voice is so quiet, but the eerie silence of my quarters makes it seem so loud in comparison. Foreign. I don't belong here, I think. I lightly rest my hand on Ash's shoulder. "Ash?" I never belonged here. Something muffled from behind his hands. I speak tentatively. "You're gonna have to move your hands, I can't hear you very well-"
"Get a towel," Ash grunts. From what he has allowed me to see from behind his hands, his face is an absolute mess.
Darn you, Cassia, I think angrily. Not that I'm surprised, though. Or disturbed, for that matter. I've seen enough injuries from fistfights. Most of them from Eli's or mine. This one's no different.
"Get a towel," Ash repeats, his voice thick with blood. "Soak it in water, give it to me." I nod, understanding, though I already know what to do. "Go." I obey, rushing to the bathroom and back. I hand a fluffy towel to Ash, and he hurriedly presses it to his face. Red blossoms across its pure white surface. I stare at it, willing it to go away.
Eventually, I hear a sound I don't expect to hear at that moment. I am bewildered by it. Why is Ash laughing? I turn, and find him smiling through the towel, though it quickly turns to a grimace. "Boy, do you pack a punch," he says. A cough. Blood sprays his knees. "I would use that in the arena, if I were you." I feel that I would have smiled at that another time, but definitely not this one.
Ash chuckles about this while I mop up as much blood out of the carpet as I can. And think about how much trouble I am going to be in soon enough. Eventually, we are going to need to call in an Avox to clean up what we can't. And also send Ash off for medical treatment.
Carpet. Blood. Mess. Punching your own mentor in the face. Boy, are you in trouble, my mind cackles at me.
Shut up, I tell it, and for now, it does. For now. The taunting will most likely come back later. Even though I could consider my brain my advantage in the arena, it certainly has its drawbacks. Right now, I don't think it was ever on my side.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps. Not clicking, from the heels on Gem's shoes. Or, for that matter, heavy, like Cedar's. I can recognize my brother's footsteps anywhere. But not the feeling of how much I really don't want him to be here right now.
"This is a bad time-" I warn, not even looking up, but I know there's not really anything stopping Eli. When his head pops out from around the corner, his eyes widen and his eyebrows snap up. "What's going on here?" his expression seems to say, as he takes in the scene with his eyes. But he doesn't ask any questions, and that suits me just fine.
"We need more towels," I say, and Eli nods and disappears around the corner. He comes back with an armload of both soaked and dry towels, and we continue mopping up what we can.
After a few minutes, I send Eli off to take the towels to the bathroom; and after some mental indecision, to send for an Avox to lead Ash off for treatment. After Eli is gone, I turn back to my mentor.
Before I can speak, Ash shakes his head and sits up. Blood trickles from a nostril, but the bleeding seems to have subsided; mostly, anyway.
I feel so guilty that I find it hard to get a word out. Yet somehow I manage to. Without focusing on the swollen portion of his face, it's possible to not attack myself over this. "Ash. . ." One glance, and I just find the words spilling out. "Nnnn. . . I'm sorry. . . just over the fact that I tried to break your face just now. . . ugh. . . and you were in the middle of something-"
Ash stops me mid-sentence. "Hey. You're good. We'll have this conversation another day, all right? And it's not like I've never broken my nose before." We both chuckle half-heartedly at this. "And I've had a lot worse." It's that moment when I notice a scar on his neck that I've never noticed before. It's white and jagged and very long; almost as if someone had let a knife rip its way slowly down. It's strange that I hadn't seen it until now. Something that the surgeons may have missed, perhaps- or maybe even left as a reminder. . .
I remember the showings on television of Ash's Games and shiver. No, that was not a pleasant year. I had nightmares for weeks after he was crowned victor. I can only imagine how many times more he's had to revisit his Games in sleep.
The Avox's arrival is a welcome distraction. Now given something else to do for once besides think, I help Ash to his feet so that he can get cleaned up. The Avox, a short man with a downcast face, stays at Ash's side as they move down the hallway towards the entrance. Because Ash is slower than he would have been, had I not punched him, I am the first to reach the door and the first to open it for the two. Finally, I feel I am doing something right for once, here in this strange place of glitter and riches and corruption.
But then, of course, I always seem to ruin things when I think like that. This time is no different.
As the pair pass the door, I only realize that my foot had been jutting out when the Avox trips. As he falls, his hands instinctively grab hold of me for support. When Ash helps him up, the Avox's eyes widen to moons. His thin brown hands pull back sharply, and for a moment, there is complete silence.
His eyes and mine mirror each other for that one moment as we stare at each other in horror. His own horror at touching me. My eyes widening because this man, this Avox- he doesn't look so much older than me.
He pulls away and continues staring at me, his mouth hanging open. Then he turns away, and disappears down the hall with Ash as fast as he appeared.
. . .
I lie awake that night, restless. The Avox's face is the subject of every thought that flickers in my subconscious, every whisper of my mind. I can't shake him, and it irritates me because I don't know why. I get up and fill a glass with water in my kitchenette, and settle back under the covers, hoping I will be able to find sleep. But the glass is empty before I know it, and after a few more glasses of water, I give up trying to avoid the thoughts invading my brain. I fill a pitcher with water and start another glass. I shiver under the blankets, and I stare at the wall, which is now its original marble. An hour ago, I felt that if I had to look at my beautiful redwood forest anymore, I would scream. With home comes comfort, but also more questions.
His face appears in my mind again. Where does he come from? Why was he so frightened? I break out in sweat with every question, but the newest arrival makes me want to bury myself in a hole.
What had he done that was so terrible that he is now an Avox at my age?
Avoxes were criminals, prisoners of war. He definitely hadn't seemed the type, but what could he have done to be punished so severely? What was so terrible that he had to lose his tongue? The ability to have a voice?
As my eyes close, the walls sing me a silent lullaby, filled with a peace so severe, it brims with questions. And answers so frightening, that even the people aware of them keep them dead and buried.
- - - - - - - - - -
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