The Song Of The Night

The Song Of The Night
BY: Gathering Twilight
> > S U M M A R Y < <
Melodie Rosewind is an eleven-year-old girl living in District 12, daughter of Primrose Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne. She has watched many Hunger Games come and go, along with the brutal deaths of eighteen District 12 kids. Her district has not seen a triumph in the cruel Games since her mother Primrose's sister Katniss won all those years ago. Then the 100th Hunger Games rolls around and the fourth Quarter Quell is announced. Seeing as it is a Double Quarter Quell, President Snow decides that there will be not one, but TWO dangerous twists added into the game. One is that each district must produce four children, and the other is that all kids from the age of 10 to 20 must have their names put in an extra four times, in addition to however many times they are already in there. When the dreaded reaping arrives, Melodie believes that the odds are definitely in her favor . . . until her name is drawn. Nobody volunteers for her, quite obviously since she is an only child and her parents are forbidden to enter, and she is going to have to spend her twelfth birthday trapped in an arena where danger haunts her at every turn. Will she survive, or will her inevitable death just add to the number of lost tributes from District 12?
> > N O T E < <
I know that there were no books after "Mockingjay" but this is my fanfiction and I can do what I wish with it. So for this story, life is going on as normal in the districts. Katniss and the others never rebelled (nobody did), and the Capitol is still in control, meaning that the Hunger Games are still alive and as bloody as ever. Sorry for having to make it this way. I hope that despite this, you'll still enjoy the book . . . which begins . . . now!<tabber>
|-|Chapter 1=
CHAPTER 1:
Home Sweet Home
"Hey, Rosewind!"
I hear an all too familiar voice coming from behind me, calling my name, and the corners of my lips turn upwards slightly in a small smile. I turn, feeling my cheeks flare, not just because of the cold air nipping at my pale skin, but because "he" was right there. And by "he", I meant Tanner Angora.
Tanner is thirteen, two years above me, but with our tight, everlasting friendship, it sometimes seem as if we are twins. He doesn't live on Victor's Road; a privilege that I get to claim only because my mother, Primrose Everdeen, was the sister of Katniss Everdeen, winner of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Speaking of the Games . . .
The 100th year anniversary for the Hunger Games is coming up fast, and I have to suppress a shiver as I realize what kind of vicious twists President Snow will be adding into the games this time, as part of the Quarter Quell that occurs every twenty-five years. I hardly get time to think about the endless possibilities before Tanner's voice rings in my ears again. "Hey? You okay?"
I shake myself back to the present, away from the horrors awaiting me in the future. "Yes . . . I'm alright," I tell him quietly. "Just . . . thinking a bit." I hate lying to him, but Tanner's father was killed in the Games, and even the faintest mention of the cruel Capitol irritates him.
Tanner pauses for a moment and surveys me with that dark Seam gaze of his. He knows that I'm not telling the truth, at least not the full truth. "Mm," he says after a long hesitation. "Where were ya heading off to, anyway?"
I brush a strand of my long, sleek light brown hair out of my eyes, a bit self-consciously. "Just to collect some herbs for my mother," I tell him, and shift my feet uncomfortably. "She needs dandelion for a new patient of hers that came in with his arms all covered in bee stings. Can you spare some time to join me?"
Tanner blinks. "I wish," he says, his tone betraying obvious regret, "but my mother told me that we are going to watch the recaps of all of the previous Hunger Games, because there is a high chance that I am going to be chosen -- for my age, at least." His gaze darkens a bit as he silently counts the number of times that his name has gone into the reaping ball.
I count, too. "Seventeen," I say after a moment. Being the oldest of three children, with his mother buried in depression, he has assumed a fatherly role for his family. Last year, at the age of twelve, his name went in eight times. This year, he said that he's putting in nine more, twice because he has to, and seven times for tesserae.
Tesserae. I hate that word. Each year, before the reaping, all kids between the ages of twelve to eighteen can add their name extra times to the ball to receive tesserae, a meager supply of grains and oil. Then, on reaping day, one male and one female name is drawn from each of the twelve Districts, condemning all but one of them to a certain painful death. The victor -- the last one alive -- goes back home, where their District will be showered in gifts of food and items like lace and medicine, while the rest of us battle starvation.
My District, District 12, hasn't won in twenty-six years, not since my mother Primrose Everdeen's sister, Katniss Everdeen, won the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Speaking of which . . .
"I should probably head back, as well," I tell Tanner as I jerk myself back to the present. "President Snow is announcing the Quarter Quell tonight. My aunt and uncle are coming over soon. I don't want to keep them waiting."
Tanner nods. "Alright," he says, hooking a strand of his slick black hair behind his ear. "Farewell, then." He gives me a playful nudge with his strong shoulder, then strides off in the direction of the Seam, where the families of the coal miners lived.
I watch Tanner's receding back until it disappears from sight, and I let out a faint sigh as I turn in the direction of my own house, located on Victor's Road due to my being Katniss's kin. I take off my worn leather boots, leave them on the front mat, then open the door and walk inside.
I am surprised to see that Katniss and Peeta Mellark are already there, sitting on the living room sofa together. I narrow my deep hazel eyes a bit at the sight of him. I know I should like my uncle, but how can I? My father and my aunt would've been a great couple, but because of the "star-crossed lovers of District 12" act that Haymitch Abernathy planned, all hopes of Gale Hawthorne marrying Katniss were all but gone.
So when Peeta greets me cheerily, I have to bite my lip to stop myself from giving him a sharp retort, and say flatly, "Good evening to you, too, uncle. If you excuse me . . ." I inclined my head slightly towards my halfway open bedroom door, indicating that I had to change. Then I quickly walk off before they can reply.
The moment I slip into my room, I close the door and slump against it, heaving a heavy sigh. Forcing myself to stand up, I go to my drawers and rummage for something suitable to wear. After a bit, I find my reaping dress. My mother was saving it for next year, but I don't see why I can't use it now, seeing as it fits quite well and all.
So I strip off my clothes until I'm standing in my undergarments and quickly pull on the dress over my head. It's very soft, made of a beautiful shade of sky-blue silk, rimmed with creamy white. I find my comb and brush my long, light brown hair until it falls in a straight line down my back. Then I do it up in a tidy braid, secured with a turquoise ribbon tied into a neat bow.
I take a deep breath, then open my door and walk out into the hallway, then to the living room. My mother's face breaks into a warm smile, while Katniss jumps up and hugs me, whispering into my ear, "You look gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous."
This was it; that one precious moment in your life that you want to live in forever, one that's over way too fast. This was my definition of "home sweet home".
|-|Chapter 2=
CHAPTER 2:
Tension Mounting
Before I know it, the precious moment has slipped away from me as easily as water between my fingers, and then I'm wedged between my mother and Katniss on the living room sofa. The television is ablaze with the bright lights of the Capitol celebrating the 100th Annual Hunger Games, and I bite my lip a bit as I recall the cruelty of each and every resident of that dreaded place. They make the bloodbath of innocent children seem like a festivity, and they force all of the Districts too do the same. The family that has just lost their daughter or son -- most likely forever -- is not spared from these activities.
The wildly cheering audience quiets as a tall figure strides out onto the platform, dressed in a sleek, deep purple suit with white cuffs and that strikingly perfect white rose that he always wears pinned to the side. If the appearance wasn't enough to give him away, his face was. Wrinkled to the point beyond the abilities of the surgical treatment of the Capitol, but with that same resemblance; slightly tanned skin and a gray beard slowly beginning to be tinged with white, the puffy lips that my aunt so vividly described before I had even set eyes upon him, the dark blue-gray eyes that made me shudder every time I so much as glanced at him. President Snow.
Katniss's entire body had gone stiff the moment that the treacherous president of Panem had set foot onto the stage, and the veins on my father's hands were bulging as he gripped the edge of the sofa. There was an air of tension and anger in the air, one that nobody dared put words to -- not in front of me, at least, for fear of "spoiling my childhood", as my mother had always so eloquently said.
Now, Snow was standing at the gleaming golden-bronze colored podium, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt and gazing out impassively at the silent crowd, which was so deathly still that you could've heard a pin drop from the back of the throng with ease. 
"My dear, dear citizens of Panem," Snow says in his average, drawling voice that has not changed a bit since the first Games that I have watched. "It is that time again, the time that you have all been waiting for -- the 100th Annual Hunger Games!"
I'm sure that nobody except for the vicious Capitol people, who have never had to risk their life by putting their name into the reaping ball, is looking forward to this gruesome event, but I have sense enough not to say this aloud.
Snow goes through the history of the Districts and explains in brutal detail the failed uprising of the Districts, and the obliteration of 13. He recites this little speech of his every year, so that I could probably say it from memory. Then he announces, "As I am sure all of you know, every twenty-five years, we hold a Quarter Quell, which means we add a twist into the Hunger Games. But, with further discussion with my council, we have decided that since is the fourth Quarter Quell, two twists will be added -- for your entertainment, of course."
My blood runs cold. Two? My thoughts whirl. I had not been alive when the last Quarter Quell had been held for the 75th Games, but my parents could not stress enough how awful it had been. Now, the already lethal threats were doubled in some way, shape, or form, and mere words could not express how lucky I felt just then, seeing as I was only eleven and had one more year to go before my name was entered for the first time.
And oh, how very, very wrong I was.
|-|Chapter 3=
CHAPTER 3:
The Quarter Quell
The house erupts in chaos; angry shouts and wails of protest, the sounds so loud that I could hardly make out what Snow was saying. It was strange how here, fury was about as evident as the fact that the Hunger Games were about to take place, and yet on screen, the president still continued as calmly as ever.
"We are going to revisit the twist of the 50th Hunger Games, wherein we kindly asked that each District please produce twice the average amount of children," Snow says with a nasty grin towards the crowd, "and once more, forty-eight tributes will be going into the arena this year."
The room went silent as everyone, myself included, tried to make sense of what they had just heard. It couldn't be real, right? I clung on desperately to that one hope, like a tiny flame flickering in the middle of a snowstorm, with one frantic thought occupying my whole mind; Soon, Snow is going to laugh and say it was all a hilarious joke . . . any moment now . . .
But it never happens. The ruthless president gives an evil smile as he cracks his knuckles loudly, clearly pleased with the reactions that the Capitol citizens gave him; cheers of obvious delight that each District would soon lose not two, but four innocent teens. Then, a tall, muscular Peacekeeper dressed in the stereotypical white suit strides towards him, with a shining glass bowl held delicately in his gloved hands.
"The Quells, sir," the man states flatly as he places the bowl gently on the podium. He gives a respectful bow, turns heel, and walks off the stage.
Snow doesn't hesitate; clearly eager to see how the Games are going to be intensified this year. He plunges one hand into the bowl, which is filled with envelopes, and pulls out one, the paper yellowed with age. Even at the distance that the camera was mounted, it was easy to see the loopy red letters scrawled across it, reading, 100.
The last joyous chants from the audience are silenced as the president slowly opens the envelope and pulls out a sheet of crisp white paper. He clears his throat, drawing out the suspense -- rather instinctively it seemed --, then read slowly. Coldness resonated in every syllable as he said, "In addition to our first Quell, any District person from the ages of 10 to 20 will be required to have their name added to the reaping ball an additional four times."
Amid the jumble of confusion, fear, anger, and sadness that represents my brain at the moment, I am able to discern one thought, and one thought alone: My name is going into the reaping ball!
|-|Chapter 4=
CHAPTER 4:
Preparations
<Font color="white">Two days have passed since that horrible night in front of the television, when Snow had announced the two Quarter Quells, when my life was changed forever. Now, it is the morning of the dreaded reaping, which is held in the town square in front of the Justice Building, in the late afternoon. I'm sitting at the kitchen counter, my thin, pale fingers instinctively knotting a short length of rope, then undoing it, only to tie it a different way a few seconds later.
My mother comes into the room, her face drained of anything except for weariness, a forced smile played across her lips. She walks across to me and rests a gentle hand, as light as a cloud, on my shoulder. "Come on, Melodie," she says softly in my ear. "Looks like your reaping dress will be used this year after all!" She's clearly making an attempt to be humorous, for my sake, but I can only hint at the kind of pressure that she's under.
I slide off the chair and gaze up at my mother's bright brown eyes. Not bright anymore. The catastrophic events of the past few days have seemed to be taking its toll, leaving her gaze fearful, but apart from that, remarkably expressionless. "It's okay, you know, Mom," I murmur to her as I follow her into my bedroom. "I'll be four slips in a thousand. The odds are definitely in my favor, don't you worry."
How can she not worry? I'm her daughter, not even twelve years old yet, about to take her chances with being thrown into an arena with forty-seven other kids that are willing to slit my throat or send an arrow into my brain, just to get home to their district. And my mother's not stupid, either. She knows. She knows the horrors of reaping day, the desperate finger-crossing that you won't be chosen, the relief when you aren't. But she was. She was chosen.
It was the undeniable bravery of my aunt, Katniss, who spared her sister from having to enter that awful arena. She volunteered for my mother and took her place in the Games instead. And she won! She and Peeta Mellark won, being the first victors from District 12 in almost a quarter century! Yep. That's Katniss Everdeen for you. A girl who would jump to defend the ones that she loved in a millisecond. The Flaming Mockingjay who stole the entire show for the 74th Annual Hunger Games.
But what if my name gets drawn? Surely nobody will volunteer for me. Katniss and Peeta, and my mother and father are all forbidden to, and I'm an only child. It's not like I have friends that would die to protect me, either . . . except for Tanner.
Tanner! I suddenly remember. His name is going in twenty-one times total! What if he's chosen? He probably won't be, I assure myself, but one tiny part of me whispers back, But what if?
"Melodie!" My mother's sharp voice jerks me back to the present. I blink once, forcing my anxiety for Tanner away, and realize that I'm less than an inch away from walking straight into the wall. I spin around, my cheeks flaring with embarrassment, and scramble into my room, easing the door gently closed behind me.
My mother picks up the silky sky-blue reaping dress, which had been laid delicately across my bed, and holds it out to me. I instinctively take off my clothes and slip my thin body into the velvety dress, which feels as soft as a pillow against my skin. I give a little twirl, and the creamy, white-rimmed skirt flies out around me, making a whooshing sound.
When the room stops spinning so drastically, I turn to face my mother, expecting some sort of delight or affection. Instead of that, I see blatant fear in her eyes. Because if I get chosen, both me and this dress probably won't be coming back. But it isn't the dress she's worried about. It's me.
|-|Chapter 5=
CHAPTER 5:
Fingers Crossed
<Font color="white">"Keep your fingers crossed for me!"
Those are the last words that I say to my mother and father before a group of Peacekeepers march up and whisk me away. They walk me over to the roped in area where all of the ten to twenty year olds are milling about, rather pointlessly. Nobody has many words to say, for the looks on all of their faces tells it all. They're scared. Not only for themselves, but for what will happen to their families -- the poor coal miners in the Seam -- if they die. If they don't make it back alive.
I squeeze my way past a group of nervous-looking ten-year-olds, a few of them seeming to be on the verge of tears, and find myself standing among the fifth graders, most of whom I do not recognize at all. But there's one face that I would have a hard time forgetting. Harmony Stinger.
Other than Tanner, Harmony is my best friend. By "best friend", I mean that we're close enough to spend time together in the forest with no one except for the wild creatures of the woods to watch us, but not close to the point where we're tripping over ourselves just to please one another. In other words, Harmony wouldn't die for me, and I wouldn't die for her, either. Which means that silence is the obvious first choice to start our latest conversation since, in District 12, the word "tribute" may as well be a synonym for "death", or "corpse".
I take a deep breath and reach out, gently taking one of Harmony's hands in both of my own. "If I get chosen, promise me--" I stop because the tears forming in my eyes seem to have made their way to my throat, choking me and making it hard to speak, but I finally manage to continue weakly, promise me that you won't forget me. Please."
Emotion-wise, Harmony isn't doing much better than I am. Her gaze is shiny with withheld tears, and her voice sounds slightly strangled as she replies softly, "Even if you didn't tell me this, I wouldn't forget you in a million years. I--" She was about to say more, but the arrival of somebody on the stage silences her and, by instinct, we both turn to get a better look at that person.
That "somebody" is none other than Effie Trinket. In previous reapings, I would often see her wearing numerous different vibrant colors -- all of which burned my eyes with their brightness --, but now she seems to have chosen one solid shade. Black. The neon pink wig that rested on her head last year is replaced by a poofy black one, and her pale face is altered drastically, as always. Dramatic black eyeshadow is applied all around her eyes, while her cheeks seem to be tinged with a dark gray. Her entire outfit -- which never seems to vary in anything other than color -- is almost completely black with a few shades of extremely dark gray to even the spectrum out.
I gag at how unsightly she is, with the far-too-thick layers of makeup on her face and her fake hair, luxuries that next to nobody in District 12 can afford. In a way, she's mocking us with her expensive appearance, when even a mouthful of bread for dinner is a struggle for us. Or maybe not for me, at least, but for the coal miners who risk their lives everyday by going deep down into the earth, into caves where fatal accidents seem to occur monthly.
"Welcome to the 100th Annual Hunger Games!" Effie chirps in her natural Capitol accent, smiling winningly out at the crowd. "Let's start the reaping! Of course, ladies first!" She totters across the stage in her black high-heels to a shining glass bowl mounted on a dark wood table.
My heart thumps. Four of the papers piled in the bowl have "Melodie Rosewind" written on them. Four of those papers could be the ones that lead to my nearly certain death in the Games. I freeze, not even daring to breathe, as Effie's hand plunges into the bowl, gripes around for a few moments, then draws back up with two slips clutched there, and she slowly begins to read the first name.
It can't be . . . it won't . . .
"Melodie Rosewind!"
|-|Chapter 6=
CHAPTER 6:
Of Course
A thousand heads turn towards me, and I instinctively shrink back, wishing all too much that I could just disappear into thin air and leave this whole scene behind and forgotten. But that can't happen. It won't. If I even had a ghost of hope that it would, it all but vanished when I dimly hear Harmony's name being called.
Harmony's grasp tightens on my wrist, and I can feel her entire body stiffening. My head is still spinning with the shock and the suddenness of the moment, and it takes a few sharp words from Effie Trinket to jolt me back to my senses. I whisper a few encouraging words to Harmony and we slowly, unsteadily, walk through the gap that has instinctively formed in the crowd, up to the stage.
As we mount the stairs and walk forward to stand beside Effie, a collective murmur of sympathy rises from the crowd -- how heartbreaking it must be to see two eleven-year-olds clutching hands when, in less than a week, we'll be fighting to the death. A wail comes from the very back of the throng, and for one split second, I see my mother's face, even paler than usual, her mouth open, her eyes as wide as dinner platters.
Even Effie is struggling with emotion at the sight of our closeness; her eyes are sparkling with barely withheld tears. She somehow manages to regain her composure after a few deep breaths, and walks -- with much less vigor now -- over to the male reaping ball. She clearly wants to get this whole sad thing done and over with, because I don't even have a moment to wish for Tanner's safety when the first name is called.
"Ryder Fletchwood!"
I should probably be thinking, Thank goodness it wasn't Tanner. But I know better than that . . . the odds have not been very dependable lately, so who can count on them to keep the boy from the Seam out of the Games?
While a tall, muscular boy that I'm guessing is Ryder mounts the stage on the opposite side of us, Effie fumbles with the second paper. She finally manages to get it facing in the right direction, and she lifts her head to stare out at the audience as two words -- the exact two words I was halfway expecting her to say -- exit her mouth.
"Tanner Angora!"
I resist the urge to both facepalm and cry at the same time. Of course he was chosen. Of course it's me and my two best friends that are going to be flung into a deadly arena in a few days. The only thing is . . . we aren't going in as enemies, but as allies. Right up until our last breaths. Right . . . ?
|-|Chapter 7=
CHAPTER 7:
A Final Goodbye
Tanner walks up, his mouth tight and non-expressive, the glow in his eyes the only way to see just how horrified he was, and joins Ryder on the stage. Effie gestures for us to shake hands, and the exchange goes a bit awkwardly since there are four of us instead of two. When Tanner extends his hand to me, I shake it nervously, because this boy could very well be both my savior and the thing that ends up getting me killed in the arena.
Then we turn back to the crowd, expecting the usual round of applause that follows every reaping, but it never comes. What? I think, wondering what was going on. Have I done something wrong already?
Luckily, it's not because of me -- or because of any of the other tributes, either. Because, after a tense silence, each person in the audience lifts their three middle fingers to their lips, a sign of great respect or admiration, or another way to say goodbye to a loved one.
Then, a crisp white uniform blocks my view as a band of Peacekeepers march up and lead us away from the stage, into the Justice Building. We are each assigned our own room, and I'm astonished at how lavish it is, even in comparison to my house on Victor's Road. I sit on the velvet couch and, despite my rather futile efforts, I can't stop myself from continuously running my fingers across the smooth material. It was actually kind of calming, in a way, and I kept on doing this for about ten minutes, trying to quiet my thumping heart while I waited to say my final goodbye to District 12 itself.
Finally, the door swings open, and my parents burst in, followed by Katniss and Peeta. I am embraced in four tight hugs from each individual, then we all wrap each other in one great, big bear hug. There's not much that anyone really wants to say to me, except for Katniss, who is obviously trying to do her best to ensure my safety in the Games. But we all know it isn't going to happen. That I'm not going to win. That when I do come back, I'll be a corpse, as cold as stone and with eyes that will never open again. Everybody knows it. But nobody says it.
But I do. "Stop acting like I'm Katniss already!" I snap, frustrated by their attempts to reassure me. "I'm eleven years old, I've never touched a single weapon before in my life, and the sight of blood makes me sick! How am I supposed to win the Games, when all it is is killing, hunting, and trying to stay alive in a complete bloodbath?"
Silence greets my words.
Then Katniss places a gentle hand on either of my shoulders and leans in, meeting my gaze so intently that I shiver a bit. "Melo," she says in a soft, but firm voice. "Listen to me. If you talk like that, you will die. So you have to believe in yourself, and never let your guard down, even for a heartbeat. During the public training, try every single weapon possible and don't stop until you've mastered each one. A bow, knife, spear, or dagger would be ideal to start with. You understand?"
Then its over. My family is led out of the room by the same squad of Peacekeepers that escorted me here, but nobody takes their place. Why? Because apart from my family, everybody that I am close to is coming with me into the Hunger Games. So I sit there, chewing the side of mouth and ignoring the trickle of blood that eventually taints my tongue, and wait. I sit there for what seems like eternity, waiting and waiting and waiting for my death ride to the Capitol to arrive.
|-|Chapter 8=
CHAPTER 8:
If Only
Time passes. It seems like a year has passed when the door finally swings open again and four different -- not like I'd really notice, with their identical uniforms and all -- Peacekeepers marches in. Two of them take each of my wrists in a gloved white hand and they lead me out of the room, where the other three tributes are being held in similar ways. Then we're all walked out of the Justice Building onto the makeshift stage, walked past the shabby buildings, walked past the Hob, right up onto the train station platform.
I've never been here before. Not like I'd ever want to, either. Always dirty men walking around in overalls forever stained with coal-dust, hauling loads on and off the trains that seem to be constantly arriving. Then my wary eyes fall upon a sleek silver train with the Capitol seal imprinted on the side, and the moment I do, it seems, the Peacekeepers march us over to it and help us onboard.
Then the heavy metal doors slam shut -- barely missing Tanner's fingers -- and then the platform, the Peacekeepers, and District 12 is zipping away. I press my face to the window, watching as the pale brown smudge of the platform fades away, and I can't stop the single tear that rolls down my pale cheek.
I feel a something on my back, and I turn to see Tanner. His gaze is grim, but his voice sounds certain -- almost to the point of confidence -- as he says, "Come over here. Dinner is just about ready." He gently encloses one of my small hands in his own and leads me over to a separate room, where a grand table has been set with an even more impressive banquet.
Effie Trinket is already there, as well as Harmony and Ryder. A scruffy old man that I presume is Haymitch is downing a bottle of liquor. Still clutching Tanner's hand, we walk over and take our places. A tall, silent boy in a white tunic fills our glasses with sparkling water. I swallow hard as I see him, so mute and expressionless, dressed in that same outfit that they used years ago, when Katniss was a tribute. An Avox. Someone who committed a crime. A traitor. I remembered that much from what she had told me.
Tanner nudges me, jerking me back to the present. I glance down at our interlocked fingers and I realize that I must've completely stopped the circulation in his hand with how tightly I've been holding it. I regretfully let go and massage my tingling palms while whispering to him, "Sorry . . ."
Tanner nods his assent without speaking, for the table is now almost completely covered in delicious foods of all sorts. I don't know where to start. Finally, I fill my plate with strawberries half covered in edible gold, a few sandwiches with the most exquisite toppings, frozen hot chocolate swirled with marshmallows, and some chicken in orange sauce. And, for dessert, a both beautiful and delectable looking sundae. Maybe a chocolate cake for good measure.
I begin to eat my strawberries which, to be honest, don't taste bad at all. They're very sweet and the edible gold is like sugar on my tongue. Once I've sucked the juice out of the last one, I start in on my sandwich, which has premium meat, beefsteak tomatoes, and perfect bright green lettuce. When I've finished that, I take a spoon and scoop out a bit of my frozen hot chocolate and try it. It's amazing.
I'm already starting to get full, but I force myself to eat a few pieces of chicken and a bite or two of icecream before my stomach is filled to the brim with this rich food. I lean back in my chair. It would probably taste even better if only it wasn't being served on this dreadful Capitol train, but instead on my dining table back home. If only the Quell was something else, anything but what it actually was. If only . . .
|-|Chapter 9=
CHAPTER 9:
Game Plan
Nobody said much while we were eating, but the moment that Ryder had had his fill, he wouldn't stop talking. Talking to Haymitch, I mean, and basically ignoring the lot of us.
"So, whatcha gonna teach us?" Ryder asks him eagerly. "How to snap somebody's neck, or how to throw a spear into somebody's heart from sixty feet away?"
I resist the urge to gag at the horrifying images that Ryder's words bring into my head; a small child hanging limp from the massive eighteen-year-old's strong arms, or a spear impaled deep into someone else's chest while blood sprays like a fountain. My natural instinct would've been to curl up and cover my face with my hands, but that can't happen here. Not with Ryder, who can and will kill anyone who seems weak in the arena. So I sit up taller, straighter, and try to look as if I actually have interest in this topic.
Meanwhile, Haymitch takes a long swig from a glass of white liquor, and a long moment passes before he responds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, belches loudly, and then says, "I ain't gonna help you with the killing part -- I'm gonna try to make sure that you survive."
Ryder blinks, and his gaze hardens a bit. "Fine. Whaddya want me to do?" he replies stiffly, clearly disappointed at this turn in events.
Now, this is something I don't have to fake curiosity in. If I want even a hope of winning, I have to pay extremely close attention to any tips that Haymitch may be able to give me. I lean forward in my chair, rest my elbows on my knees, and stare intently at my mentor -- who, through the gifts that he decides to send, may very well be my ticket back to District 12.
Haymitch grunts and downs the rest of his bottle before even bothering to speak. Once he's finished, he gazes at each of us in turn, as if sizing us up. "Well, first, I oughta know what you kids can do," he rumbles, seeming slightly amused. "This boy first," he adds quickly, swinging around to point at Tanner.
Tanner starts. "Well, I, uh . . . I hunt a lot. I can use a knife and set basic snares, but that's about it," he mutters, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Don't forget about how strong you are," I pipe up. "I've seen you in the Hob before, with loads that are at least three-fourths of your weight, and you carry those with ease."
Tanner shrugs dismissively, but Haymitch grins a toothy smile. "That can be good. Wrestle 'em to death, eh?" he says, then turns to Ryder. "How 'bout you?"
Ryder smirks. "A knife, a spear, and a sword, I got those down," he says rather haughtily, in my opinion. "And knot-tying is a breeze for me."
Haymitch frowns. "All that?" he grunts disbelievingly, then shakes his head and says, "Get your hands on a couple knives, will ya?" Then it's Harmony's turn. "What can you do, sweetheart?"
Harmony twists one of her light brown braids around her hand uncomfortably. "I-I can use a d-dagger, and I-I'm pretty fast and, g-good at tree-c-climbing,I guess," she stutters nervously, then blushes and gives an awkward laugh.
Haymitch sighs. "Then grab a few of them and get the hell out of there. If you can get into a tall tree, you might be able to take a few down by throwing your daggers down at them," he mumbles. He whirls around to face me, and I flinch at the almost wild look in his eyes. "And you, sweetheart? I heard you're Katniss's niece. Let's see what kind of tricks your aunty taught you, hmm?"
I swallow hard, wishing that he hadn't said that. Ryder was probably singling me out as a threat already. "She, uh, she didn't teach me anything," I murmur and stare at the ground self-consciously. "I can't use weapons, but I can do mostly everything else: set fires, climb trees, tie knots, camouflage, and I can run very fast."
Haymitch grins nastily. "Well, you couldn't have disappointed me any more than you just did, sweetie," he says coldly, making me wince. "All I can say is, practice as much as you can in the training sessions and pray that you'll at least be able to pick up on one of the weapons."
Tanner crosses to me and rests a comforting arm around my shoulders, whispering, "It's alright, I think the wine and the time is really getting to him. I'm sure you'll do just fine. And you, me, and that girl, Harmony, we're allies, right?"
"'Course we are," I say flatly. Haymitch's stinging words seem to have leached all of my emotion right out of me, leaving me drained of anything except for an irresistible longing to lie down and forget everything. "Otherwise you can watch me die in the first five minutes."
Tanner opens his mouth to say more, but then Effie's there, shooing us into our compartments and nearly shouting at us to stay there until she calls us tomorrow morning. I grumble under my breath as Harmony and I are nearly shoved into our room, and the door is slammed behind us. The click of a lock registers in my sleepy ears.
"Well, that went well," I say sarcastically. I strip off my clothes and grab a soft, velvety pale pink nightgown from the ornate mahogany drawer provided to us. I pull it over my head and my head pokes through just in time to see Harmony doing the same with a light blue gown.
"It's alright," Harmony says soothingly. "Haymitch and Effie'll be better in the morning."
"Sure," I mutter impatiently. "Goodnight."
Harmony murmurs something in response as we climb into the thick, fluffy bed together. I pull the covers up to just below my chin. Then my eyelids droop shut and I fall into a deep slumber.
|-|Chapter 10=
CHAPTER 10:
Unimaginable
WIP
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Category:Stories