Sylvester
In the elevator Melonie and I don't talk. I've tried chatting to her a few times but she's made it clear that she doesn't want to talk back and it's like trying to make conversation with a wall, or an Avox. You can do it, but it leaves you exhausted and feeling stupid. Especially when it's Melonie, who is all spikes and angles and who I could easily imagine killing somebody with her bare hands. She's alright, I don't dislike her, but she's someone I want to avoid in the arena.
The elevator is a reasonable size and it's a good job too because as well as us two there's the pair from Neon and some of my new allies: Titan, Columbia, Cas and Thalia. Caitlin isn't around, which is good because she unnerves me. She has this way of looking at you as though she's breaking you down into words, as if you're a news story rather than a person, and whenever she shows emotion she always exaggerates it a little. As Capitol mannerisms go it's not much but it makes me uncomfortable.
At the first floor Titan and Columbia both try to step out at the same time, collide with each other and then step back as hurriedly as if they've been burned, each of them looking very pointedly in a different direction. The Neon boy, the ginger-haired one who doesn't stand still, wolf-whistles and earns himself two fiercely angry glares. He just shrugs them off with a smile and as soon as the door has slid closed he turns to the rest of us and raises an eyebrow.
"What do you reckon to that, then?"
"They've been like that all day," I tell him, glad that someone feels like talking. "It's just nerves."
Cas snorts and makes a gesture that sends the Neon boy into hysterics: he forms a fist with one hand and pokes the thumb of the other into it. Melonie snickers and even Thalia, quiet and serious, allows herself a small chuckle. The insinuation is obvious and embarrassing but I laugh along anyway.
"It's Titan, what else would you expect?" That's the Neon girl and her tone is dry and mildly disapproving. I haven't noticed her before; she must have been staying out of the way, though her hair is tumbling out of its neat knot and her forehead is beaded with exercise. She spots me looking at her. "Katri Rankine. Neon sector."
"Sylvester Rosenthal, Quartz," I reply, putting out my hand for her to shake and making sure that I don't grip hers too hard. "Don't I know your name from somewhere?"
This is just to get her talking. I know that I know her name. The Rankines are one of the big names in event organising - which is still as big an industry as it ever was - and they're the people who planned the last Health+ party. Mom and Dad spoke very highly of them.
"You probably know my parents," she says. "They get a lot of big gigs. My father is a bouncer."
"Pick up any tricks from him?"
"I wouldn't tell you even if I had."
"I'm Cal Halfpenny, if anybody's interested," her sector partner interrupts. Melonie glares at him but I find myself liking him; he doesn't seem too bothered about where he is and why. That's a problem for another day.
The day after tomorrow, to be precise.
The elevator pings to say that we've reached the second floor. Thalia shuffles past everybody until she reaches the door, giving Cas and I a small secret smile even though her eyes are nervous.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you."
The doors slide closed again. Melonie yawns and stretches out her arms, nearly taking out Katri in the process. It's a fake yawn, but the movement draws attention to her unusual height and the wiry strength in her body. I know that I'm stronger than most - thanks to my parents and the rest of Health+ - but I wouldn't like to take her on. She looks like she'd fight dirty.
At the third floor Cas skulks out, hands in his pockets and his best 'I don't care' look on his face. He doesn't bother saying goodbye. Probably just nervous. He's spent the whole day on the edge of the group, only really speaking when he's spoken to. It's hard to tell if he likes me or not. I think the others do. I'm used to people being intimidated by my bulk and not really listening to what I'm saying but when I speak they all look at my face and sometimes they laugh at my jokes. In any other situation I think we'd be friends.
Cal and I exchange small talk until the seventh floor, while the two girls try to psych each other out. Melonie appears to be winning; Katri might be neat and intelligent but she doesn't project her personality in the same way as the younger girl and Melonie's height alone is enough to be intimidating. I know who I'd put my money on, if Mom hadn't brought me up not to bet. One stupid bet could be everything you've worked towards, gone. It's not healthy.
Speaking of healthy, the smell of food hits me as soon as I step out of the elevator, giving the cheerful Cal a wave. Even Melonie smiles a little. Us Quartz kids know good food when we smell it. My mouth waters. Usually I have a protein shake in the middle of the afternoon just to keep me going and without that my stomach is grumbling.
Tia is waiting by the table for us. In the original Games the escorts were extensively trained and neatly turned out but the rebels don't care that much and she's wearing a pair of grubby jeans and a shirt so faded that only patches of the original color remain. I keep meaning to ask her how she got this job - she's nice but she wouldn't be my first choice - but it keeps slipping my mind.
"Sit yourselves down, okay?" she says. "And get eating. You need to keep your strength up."
I laugh. It would take a lot to reduce my strength significantly; my muscle tone has been built up perfectly over the years. But she has a point. Mom always says that in the days you don't train you go backwards so you don't just lose a day of hard work, you lose the one before it as well. And I wouldn't like to let Mom down. So I throw myself into my seat, throwing my arms out for balance when it wobbles. The chairs must have been designed in Graphene because they're the sort of chairs that are attempting to be art as well, one smooth curve of plastic in a whole rainbow of colors. Melonie lowers herself onto one gracefully and tugs a strand of luminous pink hair into place. I've never colored my hair and it remains the same dark brown I was born with. Health has always been more important than looks in my family.
With this in mind, I help myself to some steaming vegetables and a slab of meat, unable to stop myself from noticing that the vegetables are wilting a little and the beef has been overdone. This would never have happened before the rebellion. But now there's all sorts of little differences. Certain fabrics are often out of stock because they're being sent around the other districts before they get sent to us. Electrical goods are in short supply so we have to fix what we've already got. Not all the chemicals we need in Quartz are available so we have to go without. Slowly, steadily, we are slipping towards poverty.
But that's a concern for the distant future, for my children and grandchildren assuming that I get to have any. It was always part of the plan, to find a nice girl and settle down, to pass down the family name and the family business. I never had any reason to believe this wouldn't be possible and even here in the Tribute Tower I'm struggling to believe it. The very idea of deliberately hurting someone makes me feel queasy. Suddenly I can't eat.
I have to eat. I can imagine Dad's disapproving frown hovering over my shoulder. What's this, my boy? Not hungry? Have you not been training hard enough? What, you want to waste away? A lad your size needs a good balanced diet and that means actually eating, so get that down you. Starving is not healthy, you understand?
I shove a chunk of beef into my mouth and chew it. It tastes of cotton wool. Even taking a sip of fruit juice - horrible for the teeth - doesn't help and in the end I have to gulp three times before I can swallow it. I chase it with a huge gulp of water and slam the glass onto the table with more force than I'd intended. The crockery rattles.
"Everything alright, Sylvester?" Tia asks. She's still standing, Avox-style, fiddling with her badge. I can't quite work out how old she is but she can't be more than twenty five, though her voice and expressions are those of someone older. Melonie glances at her and continues wolfing down a selection of cakes, the sort that are stuffed with sugars and fats. Tia watches her, looking vaguely ill.
"Aren't you going to sit down and eat?"
I kick out the chair opposite me, where she sat yesterday, but she shakes her head. "No thank you. I'm not hungry."
"You need some meat on your bones."
She frowns at me, head tilted, confused. Melonie almost chokes on her mouthful and stares at me. I know that look. I've said something wrong.
"What I mean is, you just look like..." I stutter, but both women have me fixed in oddly similar looks and I can see that any protest will just fall on deaf ears. "I'm sorry. It's the sort of thing my parents would have said."
Tia's face goes white and she rushes from the room, a hand clamped to her mouth. Nice one, Sylvester. You upset the escort. I'm not sure how; she's not Capitol so she can't have been that offended by the comment about her weight and I don't know how my parents would ever have upset her. I stand up to go and talk to her and apologise for whatever gross mistake I've made.
"Are you stupid?"
Melonie is pointing a fork in my direction, her angular face verging on her usual snarl. I haven't done anything, said anything, that might offend her. I've been specifically trying not to. But she sounds as though I've just insulted her to her face.
"Huh?"
"Making friends," she sneers. "I saw you doing it in training as well. All laughing and joking and happy, as if you'll all be best buddies forever instead of trying to kill each other. They'll just stab you in the back, you know."
"No they won't. Columbia made sure that we all know that we're stronger the more of us there are." She repeated it several times as well, just to make sure we'd got the point. Although she was quieter today. For a moment I wonder if Cas was actually right, but...it doesn't matter. It's nothing to do with me.
"You'll trust them after two days?"
"I don't see why not; they trust me. You could join us if you want, I'm sure they wouldn't mind. Strength in numbers..."
She sighs and rolls her eyes, each movement carefully dramatic. "Whatever. It's your funeral."
It's just the Games, I'm sure. I bet that when she's back at home surrounded by friends she's actually really friendly and cheerful but the stress of being here is getting to us all. Stress is unhealthy. I'm trying not to feel it. And because I can't stand the idea that I've upset someone, I go through and follow Tia.
She's not in my room and she's not in Melonie's. I even go and poke the messy lump of bedclothes where my sector partner hasn't bothered to make her own bed this morning, but she's not in them. For a moment I'm puzzled, until I spot a small door branching off the corridor with the bathroom. The bathroom door is open so she can't be having a shower or anything; half the shower settings don't work anyway. I knock and the other door and when a voice shouts something through I go in.
It must be the escort's room. If anything it's fancier than mine, with a wardrobe (empty) and a screen (turned off) and all the other luxuries you'd associate with a room that someone would be staying in for a while. Tia is sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into space, her face still white.
It's a strange face. It looks okay on the surface but then when you actually, really look at her you can see that it looks hollow, as if some of the light inside it has gone out. As if she's just going through the motions. Her hair has been scraped back into a style like Melonie's but she must have done it herself because thin red strands are coming loose. She's totally still apart from her fingers, which are twirling her District Five badge around and around.
"You're supposed to be helping us to practice for the interviews and the assessments," I say, to remind her that she has a job to do. She doesn't react.
I look around, not sure what I'm looking for. Something that will get her to show that she can hear me. At the moment she looks like a shell. I've seen that look before. Tributes get it sometimes, especially towards the end of the Games. It's the look that says that they've been to their limits and back and now they're just waiting to see what the Games throws at them, and what that is is usually a Career, starving and armed with something sharp. And it says that they won't care.
Tia wasn't a tribute. I'd know if she was. But she has that exact same expression, and my insides twist in sympathy. Even though it isn't fair that she's supposed to be helping us and she isn't.
Uncertain what to say or do, I back out of the door, feeling like I've seen something that I shouldn't have. It's like the feeling of walking in on my parents arguing and, wanting to take both of their sides at once and unable to do so, just standing and watching as they yell at each other. Wanting to do something to help, but not knowing what.
And if this was the Games, would I have been able to kill her?
***
In my dreams - and I know I'm dreaming because I'm both inside myself and watching myself from a distance - I trek across old arenas, snow and sand and grass and mud and rocks. Above me, huge stands tower into the sky, filled with people of the Capitol cheering me on. Columbia and Titan and Caitlin and Cas are in there, and so are Cal and Katri and Melonie, clapping and whooping for me. Cal whistles, his ginger hair vivid among the rest of the blurred color. Betting boards that I can't quite focus on declare the odds of my fellow competitors. My odds are good. I am the favorite. My hands are clean of blood and all the fighting is happening elsewhere.
Or so I think.
I hear the crowd yelling for me to look around before I see the shadow behind me and I spin around, unarmed. I can punch, I've boxed a lot because it's good for your stamina and muscle tone, but as soon as I see my opponent I know that punching will be no good. Taller than me, they seem to suck in all the light around them and bend it so they look bigger, but the eyes are wide and those of a child, a friend, an innocent. My fists drop to my side.
"Aren't you going to hurt me, Sylvester?"
No.
"Come on, can't you hurt me? I hurt other people. I tore the little girl in half."
The crowd scream for me to do something but those eyes have me pinned down. Big, scared eyes. Pleading for mercy while the voice says otherwise. All the strength has been sapped from my body.
"She screamed when I tore her in half. Don't you want to hear me scream?"
No.
"Don't you want to make me feel pain?"
No.
"I could make you feel pain. I could reach in and tear out your organs one by one and leave your heart for last and squeeze it until you died. Don't you want to hurt me now?"
I can't.
"A good boy. I bet your mother thinks you're a good boy, doesn't she? I hurt her, Sylvester. She cried."
Rage flares up inside me, racing through my arms and curling my hands, and I'm lashing out, punching at the shadow until it screams and fades and I'm left kneeling and panting with the effort, both being myself and watching myself. And a cannon goes off. I've done it. I've won. And I look up to see the hovercraft coming to collect me only it isn't there, there's just a face in the sky. Tia's face. Empty, hollow. And as I watch, shaking and crying, the features shift. The hair gets shorter and turns dark brown and fuzzy. The face strengthens, the jaw stretching so that it is square, the forehead large and heavy, the eyebrows thickening. The eyes stay the same. It is my face. My face, alive but dead inside.
And I wake up crying on the day before I go into the arena.