Tributes (Part One)
Tributes
I push my way through stalks of corn, my feet knowing the path while my mind wanders. I'm thinking about the Games. How can I not be? They're tomorrow. My name is in that stupid little bowl. At least twenty to thirty times, I think, trying to work the math out in my head. There's Melody, myself, and my parents.
He'll be there. He's always waiting for me. “Hey, Rory.” The boy - well, he's a man grown now, looks up and smiles.
“Amy.” He gets to his feet and we walk through the corn stalks together. The sun is trying to break through the clouds but, failing miserably. I miss the cold winters that we used to get back home. Melody is too young to remember them, but I do. I remember the white snow and the blue jacket I used to own. It's too hot here, in District 11, and the Peacemakers' strictness is something to be truly, deeply afraid of.
“Happy Hunger Games.” His forced, cheerful tone reminds me again that the Capitol is always listening.
“May the odds be ever in your favor!” I nudge his shoulder with mine. I've known Rory since we were kids. He's like a brother and he's my best friend. I still worry for him, you know? His name isn't in there as much as mine is - but that didn't mean he wasn't at risk like everyone else.
“Amelia! Rory!” We hear Melody's voice the second we're through the field and into the orchard. She's got the same hazel eyes as me, but the blonde, curly hair of our mother. We keep moving, because standing still is dangerous, and Melody talks the whole way. Birds she saw in the trees, a gross apple that was rotten, something someone said, and it's like she'll never stop.
To be honest, I don't want her to. It's keeping my mind off the games.
“I'll see you at the square.” I say to Rory as we part ways. Melody and I stick to the orchards and Rory is in the fields. Once we're working, all I can think about is the Games, because what if I get chosen? And if I do...and if I win...Melody would never go a day without food again.
2
I brush my red hair and hold it back with a headband. My mother is sniffling, she always gets emotional around this time of the year. I suppose she can't help it. There's a chance one of her children will be taken and forced to fight to the death on national television. I'm wearing a dark blue dress, the same one I've worn for the past two years. Mom has given Melody a black dress with a white collar.
She hates it. “Amelia.” She says, her face going serious, “What will we do when I'm tall like you and this dress no longer fits?” I have to applaud her sheer optimism. Melody understood the Games, but she chose not to fear them. Or maybe she repressed the fear and acted like it didn't bother her. She still had another two years before her name would be entered, so maybe that's why she wasn't worried.
“That's if you ever get to be as tall as me.” I tease.
I keep my arm around her shoulders as we walk to the square. The cloud have passed and now the entire square is basking in the warm sunlight, the air thick and muggy, and my dress sticks to my skin as we wait.
“Welcome!” I hate how they try to turn this into something joyful and to be celebrated. I always disliked her, Chyna, the chaperone. Maybe because she was from the Capitol. Or maybe because she never looked human. Her skin looks plastic in the bright sun, her annoyingly yellow dress with feathers around the shoulders - I snort. She looks like a puffed up bird.
Melody fidgets under my arm and I search for Rory in the crowd. He's talking to someone with his back to me. The ceremony begins and my heart rate increases. She walks over to the glass bowl, her hand twirling around the rim, adding anticipation for the Capitol viewers and dread for the Tributes. She plucks one of the folded papers and holds it up for everyone to see.
“The male tribute is...” I hold my breath. “Rory Williams!”
No. I think, my eyes frantically searching for him, Not Rory, not him. He wouldn't hurt a fly.
But the man that steps forward isn't Rory. Chyna wrinkles her nose, “What are you doing?” And I can see the Peacemakers are trying to pull Rory forward and bring this man back.
He says something and I can't hear him. Chyna does - all color on her plastic face seems to drain. “Well...” She seems unsure, “Well...” She repeats and the Peacemakers let go of both of them. Rory doesn't move, but the man does. I get a good look at him as he steps up onto the stage. He's wearing suspenders and a bowtie. Something about him is familiar but, I can't place what.
I don't know who he is - but he just saved my best friend's life.
“What's your name then, dear?”
“John Smith.” He looks at the crowd, “I volunteered as tribute, if you all are wondering.” He nervously touches the bowtie around his neck and I think well-off. Wealthy family? What is he doing? He looks moderately well fed and suddenly I realize who he is.
He's the son of the district's physician. A doctor in training. Why did he volunteer?
“Amelia Pond!” My name rings out and I feel Melody's arms wrap around my waist.
“What?” I breathe. I didn't even see Chyna move over to the second bowl.
It's Rory's voice that snaps me back to reality, “Amy, go!” When did he make his way over to me? He's got Melody in his arms and she's shouting - “Wait! You don't have to! Tell them you don't want to go!” I collect myself and before I know it, I'm on the stage.
The crowd doesn't applaud. We're not known for that. I look and they're holding hands. All of them. I look over at John and he gives me a weak smile. He reaches out his hand and I take it without hesitation. His grip is firm and reassuring, it grounds me, and I set my jaw. Let the games begin.
3
I pick at my nails while I wait for my family to join me to say their goodbyes. My mom is the first to enter and she's a sobbing mess, my father holds her arm and Melody trails behind. I hug them and keep a brave face. Everyone is watching. I won't show weakness.
“Here.” Melody whispers and she gives me a green handkerchief. It's rough and the edges are fraying. I can tell she made it herself and I promise I'll keep it with me. Logically, this handkerchief will do little to help me in the Games, but it's a part of my family. I wonder if I can keep it for my district token.
I don't cry until I'm on the train. Even then, it's one tear that slips out and I rub it away quickly before the cameras can catch it. I hear footsteps and an arm brushes against mine. I don't have to guess who it is. “Hi.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you volunteer?” It's the only question on my mind. He saved Rory, saved me from having to kill my best friend - but now I'm going to have to kill him. I peek at him through the curtain of red hair framing my face.
“Because...” He scratches his head, “Rory is a good man.”
“And you're not?” I challenge. Did he have a death wish? Did he do something terrible and now wanted the Games to be his justice? He looks at me and there is a deep sadness in his green eyes, but it vanishes before I can question him again.
He leans in and I swallow, the games have started and I don't know what angle he's playing. “Remember...” His mouth is right next to my ear but, I only catch one word. John backs away and I don't see him again until supper.
The food is too rich for my stomach so, I stick to what I know I can eat. Bread, fruits, vegetables. Even then, I eat in moderation. I am not going to throw up the contents of my stomach on the first day. John, on the other hand, is talking and eating at the same time. Our mentor seems pleased enough with us. He's old though, rarely someone lives when it comes to the poorer, less-well-fed, districts. He's prone to hacking coughs and often he'll drift away from the middle of a sentence.
John keeps his attention and they keep their attention off me. Good, I'll be a shadow. I can play this game cleverly. I can outsmart them. Outrun them. I study John as an opponent, he's lanky and it doesn't look like there is much muscle, but I could be wrong. One year, there was a girl who was a thin as a twig, but she was surprisingly strong. She broke a mans' neck, twice her size.
John is smart though. I can give him that. He probably knows more about herbs and medicinal things...he's got me beat on that. I take a large bite out of my bread and chew. I could do this, I could win, because it's not just me. I might not have to be the one to kill John. It could be someone else.
4
I sleep with Melody's handkerchief curled in my palm. I hope she knows I've kept it. I find a red plaid shirt and jeans to wear and when I see John - it looks like all he's done is thrown on a tweed jacket to his wardrobe. Is that your plan? Look like an old man so that people don't see you as a threat?
He smiles at me. “Amy, come here.” I slowly walk over and take a seat beside him on the couch. The television is showing the rest of the districts. My opponents. My competition. I watch John's fingers as they tap on his knees. He's restless. He doesn't even look like he's got much sleep.
I watch intently when our district comes on screen. I watch as John whispers to Rory and Rory gives him a pat on the shoulder. It happens seconds before Rory's name is called. John's answer of 'Rory is a good man' isn't a sufficient one at all. It gives me more questions than answers. Someone willing to sacrifice their life - isn't that a trait of a good man as well?
I purse my lips together and watch as the rest of the districts show their Reapings. As the District numbers decrease, the size, stature and overall threat of my opponents increase. Obviously, the more well-fed and well-trained are going to be my biggest worry. The Capitol's Pets. The Careers.
John shifts beside me and looks at his watch. “Wheaten wants to talk to us about our training.”
“What can you do?” I can't help ask. He's the physicians' son. Not the type to go hunting in the woods with a spear or spending weekends sparring in hand-to-hand combat. He turns towards me and once again I'm met with those green eyes that are so impossibly old and tired for a man so young.
He taps his temple with a small smile, “I'm clever.”
That's when Wheaten joins us, sitting in the arm chair across from the couch, “Stop yabbering. We've got business to discuss. The business of you lot not going and getting slaughtered on the first day.”
“Now then - any skills you might have.” He looks doubtful, “Save 'em. Don't go showing off and letting your com...comp...competition be seeing what you're made of early in the game. Got that?”
We nod in unison.
“Good.” Wheaten talks for the next thirty minutes. From basic survival, like finding water and shelter, to the easiest places on a person's body to kill them. It's the longest I've ever heard him speak without trailing off or having a coughing fit. While he's talking, I'm thinking about what I can do. I can run and climb which is good for escaping.
But, really, I can't spend the Games running.
I look at my hands. There's no way I could overpower someone - the Careers are built like machines. I could poison them. I could lay-low and kill someone while they slept. Or burn down any make-shift shelter. The ideas start pouring into my head and I have to admit - it scares me.
It scares me. After this, whether I win or loose, I'll still have taken someone's life.
5
We reach the Capitol by mid-day. I'm at the window and once again, John slides up next to me. I should find his lack of personal space concerning - but I don't. These will be our last few hours of neutrality. Once we're in the arena then everything will change.
“My mum used to read me a story about the Capitol. Well, I say read - but she didn't actually have a book. I think she made it up.”
“Oh yeah?” I glance at him and he's lost inside his own head. I drop the subject and focus my attention on the gleaming buildings and bizarre people that live here. It's all so bright and vivid. It hurts my eyes.
“Though the man above might say “hello”, expect no love from the beast below.” He mutters absently to himself. What does that have to do with the Capitol? I think. There's more to the story, there's always more than one line to a story, but the train pulls to a stop and we've got to go and get dolled up. Make an impression for the Sponsors.
They've fitted me in a gold dress, it shimmers and swishes when I move, they keep going on about how its supposed to look like the fields of grain. I just grit my teeth and let them pull my hair and pile make up onto my face. But, then the dress is pulled off of me.
“I've had a brilliant idea!” Oh god, I think, I'm going to be naked.
“Demeter!” My stylist, Gypsy, cups my face in his hands. His bleach blonde hair is slicked back and his eyes covered in silver eyeshadow. “The Goddess of the Harvest! Yes, with beauty like yours, love - how can we hide it in shimmering gowns of gold?!”
I'm re-dressed in a white sheet. Only, they cut and snip and fit it. It reaches just above my knees and a gold rope is tied around my waist. My red hair is pinned up, with a braid going around the crown of my head...like well, a crown. The make up is sparse and I constantly hear Gypsy exclaiming how beautiful and marvelous I am.
John joins me with this stupid grin on his face. “What?”
His grin vanishes and he looks flustered for half a heartbeat. “Nothing!” They've got him wearing the same clothes as me, only his toga (I think its called that) is longer and isn't blank canvas white but more of a soft brown and then a dark brown accent. “They've got a lot of cool hats over there.” He says pointing to a cupboard where dozens of hats were rotating. Some looked like they were glowing.
“And we can't wear any of them?”
He looks genuinely upset as he stares at the cupboard - “No.”
“If you win, you can buy all the hats you like.”
“Oh Amy,” His fingers brush my cheek, the softest expression I've ever seen on his face, and my heart does a flip in my chest. “We both know who will win this game.”
Is he talking about me or...?
“Places, you two! Come on! Let's give them a show!”
It's rather fitting, riding in on a chariot while dressed like old Gods. John puts an arm around my waist and for a moment - I consider shoving him off because the games have started. They started when our names were pulled. But, the chariot gives a slight jerk to the side and I'm desperately glad he's got a grip on me. No need to go toppling down into the crowd now. I don't want my competition to think I'm some clumsy half-wit.
Somewhere from the start to the stage, I feel myself relax. I manage a smile - forced and fake at first. But then it's genuine. And people are waving and blowing kisses and throwing flowers and I'm dizzy form all the attention. His grip never falters. Not once.