The vicious girl from District 2 walked with an arrogant fashion into the tribute floor for Panem tributes. She was wearing the bland golden dress her useless designer assigned. The rest of the tributes and mentor followed in behind her -- Gale Hawthorne in the typical hideous coal miner's costume, Johanna Mason in a dark green halter top and wood-looking pants, and Commander Paylor in a very unflattering textile mixture of a dress. The stylists this year had done the tributes of Panem sorely wrong.
The mentor of the Panem tributes for the Quarter Quell was Haymitch Abernathy. He walked into the grand entrance of the floor, and the mood only got dimmer, or more tense.
"Alright, I'm heading to my room. You all have a blast out here." Haymitch called, reaching his hand out and slinging a bottle of scotch under his arm. Clove watched him with an emotionless countenance out of the corner of her eye. She was constantly analyzing. Watching. Observing.
The sound of Haymitch's footsteps were the only thing heard for several moments, and the sound of his door slamming shut and locking dropped the rest of them into silence. Gale walked past Clove and took a seat at the kitchen table. Johanna did the same, sitting across from him. Clove watched skeptically as the two exchanged a single second of eye contact. She instantly inferred that the two were officially aligned together, and were a team. The commander from District 8 walked to the table as well, leaving Clove on her own, standing.
That's fine, Clove thought stubbornly and arrogantly to herself, I don't need any of these people to survive.
Clove purposefully seated herself at the long dining table a few seats away from the other three, considerably and visually separating herself from the others. She was drawing a line in the sand.
I don't trust any of these people, so why should I make them think I do? This is the Hunger Games. There's no need to lie to myself, or to them, She thought, staring straight ahead at the wall.
The Capitol stylist walked forward, clapping her hands excitedly. "You all performed amazingly. Excellent job! Excellent!"
No one replied for several moments, and the stylist laughed awkwardly only to fill the silence. "What a . . . Fun bunch!" She added finally. Silence ensued further. No one had even glanced in the stylist's direction yet.
"Well . . . Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." The stylist left hurriedly, rushing away from the awkwardness -- probably to find people who would want to celebrate the Games with her.
Minutes of silence later, Johanna finally spoke. "He's from your district. You should have to go get him."
Clove realized Johanna was speaking to Gale regarding Haymitch. Gale only scoffed and replied, "Yeah, that's not going to work."
"You should at least try." Commander Paylor encouraged. Clove rolled her eyes.
"What's your problem, sweetie?" Johanna cooed down the table. Clove ignored the older woman's comments, although secret fumes of anger bloomed in Clove's chest at the taunts.
"If you're so pissed about it, then you go get Haymitch." Johanna bossed. Clove didn't budge an inch. She wasn't going to be bossed around by someone as insignificant as another tribute. They were all just targets to her, with red circles painted on their backs -- or chests, depending which way they were facing Clove come arena time.
"Fine. I'll go." Commander Paylor volunteered herself. She stood up, her chair squeaking against the tiles, and walked down the hallway. A bang sounded as she must have kicked the door in, and then a masculine shout of defiance.
"Get -- get outta my room, woman!"
Sounds of a scuffle in the hallway preceded Paylor dragging Haymitch back into the dining room. Haymitch's eyes were already rolling in their sockets from his drunken state, his shirt was stained from last night's drinks, and one of his grimy hands had a stubborn grip on the bottle of scotch that was now a quarter of the way drained. Even when he got into view he still struggled against Paylor, tugging himself away from her and pushing on her fingers that was securely latched onto one of his forearms.
Paylor dragged Haymitch to the table and threw him into a seat. Clove cringed slightly away from the stench that accompanied Haymitch — had he smelled like this for the entire tribute parade?!
Paylor stood behind Haymitch with her arms crossed. Haymitch glared sourly into the eyes of each of his tributes, and they all returned a look of equal loathing.
"Don't try to escape. I'd hate to have Gale help me keep control of you." Paylor threatened. Haymitch scoffed.
"You wanna know how to win these Games? C'mon. You know about as much as I do about them." Haymitch argued.
"But you won the Games once! Give us some pointers!" Gale exclaimed frustratedly.
"Fine, you want a few tips? Give it your best effort! Try your best! You can do it!" Haymitch raises the bottle of scotch cheerfully in the air with a fake smile and began bringing it to his mouth.
Gale reached forward, snatched the scotch from the drunken idiot as soon as it touched his lips, and threw the bottle across the floor. The sound of glass breaking interrupted the tense silence in the room as the scotch undoubtedly spilled over the floor. Haymitch stared at Gale with strong appall mixed with a little bit of hatred.
"It's going to be like that unless you help us." Gale spoke in a commanding fashion.
Honestly, Clove didn't care whether Haymitch helped them or not. She knew she was smart and quite lethal with knives. He didn't have any information that she didn't already possess.
Haymitch growled under his breath, looking back and forth between the three tributes across from him — angered Gale, stubborn Johanna, and dismissive Clove.
After several moments of apparent indecision, Haymitch finally let out a gust of air and leaned backwards into his chair. "Fine, but one of you better win."
"Alright. I have questions. First, what do you think the arena will be like?" Gale asked immediately.
"I wouldn't imagine anything too crazy. The highlight of this Games is the tributes, obviously, and the citizens of Panem and the Capitol will be so busy figuring everyone out that they won't want any more distractions." Haymitch answered, his words slightly slurred. Johanna was staring at the ceiling, leaned back in her seat, but Gale was sitting avidly forward, sucking onto Haymitch's every word.
Clove was watching Haymitch with her arms crossed in her seat. She wouldn't be taking instruction from an operative alcoholic who drinks so much that three-quarters of a bottle of scotch barely affects him.
Clove would listen to what he had to say, in case he could provide useful information, but she was not interested in aligning with any of the Panem tributes. So why should they act amicable, or like she cares about any one of them in the slightest?
"Did any of the showcased tributes tonight stick out to you?" Paylor asked from where she stood behind Haymitch.
Haymitch pressed his lips together and cocked his head to the side. His blonde stringy hair fell into his eyes a little. "Just about everybody. Those Marvel guys, from the sounds of it, are pretty well trained . . . The Star Wars freaks are freaking me out a little bit . . . then, what else do we have? Wizards, buff half-wolf boys, and demi-gods. Who aren't you intimidated by? You guys are considered the strange ones of the pool just because you don't possess any specific power or skill."
Clove thought to herself, At least I'm not hopeless.
"I'd say we're pretty well trained." Paylor spoke for the rest of their minds -- Gale with arrows, Paylor in combat, and Johanna with axes. The Panem tributes did possess a certain set of skills in combat.
"Yeah, but none of you have ultra-strength, speed, or a superpower, so I'd consider you average compared to the rest of 'em." Haymitch shot back.
"Is there anyone you'd have us considering aligning with?" Gale questioned.
"Just depends on how the group training sessions go. If anyone that seems friendly or not likely to try and kill you first thing in the arena approaches you tomorrow, get the scope on them. If anyone is giving you the death glare or ignoring you altogether I'd advise staying away from them." Haymitch picked his fingernails as he spoke.
He then added, "Which, speaking of group training sessions, it's getting late and you guys have that tomorrow, so I suggest you all get a good night's rest so you can do your best to intimidate everyone! Not to mention I only have so long to find another bottle of liquor . . ." Haymitch shot an irritated glance in Gale's direction before standing up out of his seat.
Haymitch looked at Paylor and raised his hands in mock surrender. "You gonna let me go to my room this time, lady?"
Paylor didn't reply, just raised her chin slightly to project dominance. Haymitch laughed to himself and motioned to the Avox standing in the corner of the room. "Can I get a bottle of your best brandy delivered to my room? Thanks a bunch, hon."
Haymitch then walked back down the hallway.
I have no reason to be at this table anymore, Clove thought to herself. She was in no way aligning with either Paylor, Johanna, or the Hawthorne boy. She couldn't truly trust any of them. So Clove stood up and walked down the hallway to her own room.
She got changed and tucked herself into her covers, falling asleep quickly. Clove dreamt eagerly of the group training session that awaited her in the morning.
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