Chapter Five
It had been utterly quiet and peaceful, allowing Clark to get some much-needed rest, until there was a sudden pounding on the door and a shouted, “Rise and shine!”
Clark awoke, startled, as Marcius knocked on the door of his room. He landed with a thud on the floor, only then realizing that he’d forgotten to secure himself the night before and had been floating in his sleep.
Not waiting for Clark to answer, Marcius barged in a moment later. He stared in consternation at the boy lying in a tangle of pillows and blankets on the floor clear across the room from the bed.
“What are you doing over there?” he demanded, raising an eyebrow at Clark.
Clark thought quickly. “I … ah … the bed was too soft, so I thought I’d sleep on the floor instead.”
Marcius rolled his eyes. “Barbarians,” he mumbled, unaware that Clark could hear every word. “Luxury is wasted on these outer district barbarians.” In a normal tone of voice, he added, “Well, get up. You have a busy day ahead of you. You’ll talk to your mentors at breakfast, then start training at ten, where you’ll meet the other tributes.”
Clark untangled himself from the bedding and looked for his glasses. Finding them, he placed them on his face and then stared at Marcius through them, as he asked, “But didn’t we meet them yesterday?”
“When? Oh, you mean the tribute parade?” Marcius shook his head. “Not officially. Last night, you were representing your
districts. Today, you’ll be representing
yourselves.” He glanced at his watch. With a touch of asperity in his voice, he said, “Now, you need to hurry. Shower and get dressed, then join us in the dining room.” He shook his head as Clark moved to pick up the pile of bedding. With a tone of annoyance, he said, “That’s an Avox’s job. Yours is to get ready for the day.”
As soon as Marcius stepped out and the door closed behind him, Clark picked up the pile of pillows and blankets and put them back on the bed. His parents had taught him to clean up after himself, and he didn’t plan to stop just because he was in the Capitol.
After he showered, he dressed in a training uniform. Clark thought about how Marcius had found him and realized that he would have to be more careful in the future. If the man hadn’t knocked before coming in, he would have caught Clark sleeping on the ceiling — that was something he would have been hard-pressed to explain. At home, it didn’t matter — his parents were well-aware that he sometimes floated while sleeping, and sometimes they even found it amusing, but it was a secret he needed to keep from the rest of Panem.
Ordinarily, Clark would have been awake much earlier, but he hadn’t slept at all on the train, and very little the night before the Reaping. Few kids of Reaping age slept well the night before the event, and Clark had slipped out of the house at midnight and flown a couple of circles around Panem before returning home, where he had spent the rest of the night lying on the barn roof looking up at the stars. After two nights of little to no sleep, even he was tired. Added to that was the fact that the rooms must be, at least somewhat, soundproofed, so the quiet had helped him sleep.
He would have to be more cautious. For the sake of everyone he knew and loved, he needed to keep his special abilities hidden. No one could know that he wasn’t just an ordinary kid.
Clark pressed his glasses firmly into place. He couldn’t afford to give in to the temptation to use his X-ray or heat vision — or any other of his out-of-the-ordinary talents. He was just a tribute — perhaps stronger and more likely to survive than any of the others, but nothing that could be construed as abnormal.
*****
Everyone else was already present when Clark arrived in the dining room and sat next to Becky. Becky looked up as he sat and smiled at him. Marcius looked at his watch pointedly, tapping his foot impatiently as Clark filled his plate with food and settled down to eat.
“In four days, you’ll be in the arena,” Marcius reminded the tributes. “You need to use this time to strategize with your mentors.”
Clark and Becky looked at Matilda, who was staring blankly at her empty plate, her head occasionally nodding slightly. She’d obviously managed to acquire a dose of morphling somewhere.
Clark and Becky turned to Haver, who looked at Matilda in disgust. Shaking his head, he looked at the two tributes. With a sigh of resignation, he said, “I doubt you’re entirely ignorant of what goes on in the arena. After all, the Games are required viewing. You know that the arena could be anything — forest, mountains, desert, swamp, even an abandoned urban area. What you do before the Games begin will help determine whether you’ll survive or not. My first lesson would be that food and water may be hard to find, so eat and drink as much as you can between now and the beginning of the Games, but only enough to build up your reserves — not that either of you seem to have a problem with that, but don’t overdo. It could slow you down,” he said, watching as Becky accepted more hot chocolate and Clark grabbed a few more pieces of bacon from the platter on the table.
“Second lesson, if you have any special skills, don’t let the other tributes know about them. Save those for your private session with the Gamemakers. They’re the ones who will determine your entry scores — and as you know, your scores will determine how many sponsors you get, and sponsor gifts can mean the difference between life and death. Food, medicine, weapons — sponsors can give you all of those.”
“But can’t you get those at the Cornucopia, too?” Becky asked.
Haver grimaced and shot back, emphatically, “Stay away from the Cornucopia. That’s the
best advice I can give you. Unless you’re a member of the Career pack, trying to get supplies from the Cornucopia is a sure way to get yourself killed. That’s where the bloodbath happens, and sometimes as many as half the tributes die in those first few minutes, fighting over the supplies. When that gong sounds, run like all the demons of hell are after you. Get away from the bloodbath as fast as you can and don’t look back. Look for water instead. Remember, don’t worry about food. You can live a lot longer without food than you can without water.
“Finally, there are three
rules you need to follow. One, don’t step off the tribute launch platform until the gong sounds. If you do, the mines will blow you sky high. Two, there can be only one winner, so don’t get too attached to
anyone.” Haver looked from Clark to Becky significantly. “And three, no matter how hungry you get, don’t eat your fellow tributes.”
Clark and Becky looked at each other, matching expressions of disgust on their faces, before Becky gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and ran from the table. Clark shoved his plate away. “Has that ever … actually happened?” Clark asked. He supposed he could understand how someone could be tempted, but … the very idea was repulsive!
Haver nodded. “The year Matilda won, the boy from District 6, a tribute named Titus, went savage and started eating those he killed. That didn’t play well with Capitol audiences. Violent death is fine, but cannibalism isn’t. His kills were censored for that reason, and even the censored versions have seldom been replayed. He died in an avalanche, which may have been arranged by the Gamemakers. The Capitol has certain … standards … for its victors.”
Matilda looked up for a moment, her eyes dull. “Yeah, standards. Fu …” Her head dropped onto her plate and she started snoring.
Haver sighed. “She’s not supposed to have access to morphling in the Capitol, but obviously someone got it to her anyway — and she found it impossible to resist.” He shook his fellow victor gently. “Matilda, you can’t stay here. Let me help to you to your room so you can sleep it off.”
“Go ‘way,” she mumbled.
Haver got up. “I’m going to find an Avox to carry her. My back isn’t what it used to be.”
“I can do it.” Clark went around the table and picked Matilda up carefully. She opened her eyes for a moment, mumbled several profanities, and went back to snoring.
Once Clark had put Matilda back on her bed, Haver found a female Avox and instructed her to watch over the sleeping victor. They had no way of knowing how much morphling she had taken, and too much could be deadly.
“She’s right, you know,” Haver told Clark as they stepped into the hall and shut the door behind them.
Clark frowned, confused. “About what?”
“About your chances.
You could
win this thing. A few weeks from now, you could be back in District 9 with a house in Victor’s Village.”
Clark shook his head. He knew what sort of rewards the victors received, but those things were far from his thoughts.
Pointedly, Clark asked, “What about Becky?”
Haver turned to Clark so that he could see his face before he said, “Clark, you know there can only be one winner. It’s been thirty-five years since I won, and since then, I’ve seen more than a dozen girls like Becky enter the arena. None of them lived more than a day or two, if that. Most of them died within minutes.” His arm swung out in a gesture of dismissal as he continued, “Small, weak, sickly — Becky doesn’t stand a chance.” Poking a finger in Clark’s chest, he finished, “And if you try to protect her, it could cost
you your life.”
Clark shook his head, more vehemently this time as an edge entered his tone. “I won’t abandon her! I promised her that I would be her ally in the arena, and I will be, for as long as I can.”
They turned at the sound of a sniffle behind them. Turning in unison at the sound, they saw Becky standing at the end of the hallway, tears running down her face. She looked uncertainly between Haver and Clark.
Clark was at her side in two steps. Putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, Clark said, “Becky, I meant what I said. I won’t abandon you, and I won’t hurt you, either.” He handed her a tissue from a box on a side table.
“B-but he’s right. I might get you killed …” she sobbed out.
“Becky, there are some things that are more important than winning, like being loyal and doing the right thing.”
Becky wiped her eyes. “But —“ She started coughing, deep wracking coughs, bending forward.
Clark stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do. He watched her fearfully for a moment, but at last she managed to get her cough under control.
“I’m sorry,” Becky squeaked. When she finally stood up, she wiped some blood from her lips.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Not for you, anyway.” Clark turned from Becky to glare at Haver.
Haver sighed, about to respond, when Marcius strode into the hallway, looking annoyed.
“Hasn’t anyone here heard of keeping an eye on the time? It’s 9:59! You’re due in the training area in
one minute! Come on,
now!”
Haver looked relieved as Marcius led the tributes away. Marcius was still ranting about the importance of keeping track of time. Clark and Becky turned back to look at Haver once. Clark was still angry and Becky was even more uncertain. Then they entered the elevator and were gone.
*****
The District 9 tributes were the last to arrive in the training area. The trainer, Atala, looked at Marcius sharply as he delivered his charges to her at two minutes past ten. Twenty of the other twenty-two tributes were already gathered in a semi-circle around her, all except for the pair from District 3, who were arguing loudly in a far corner.
Atala blew her whistle loudly, startling the arguing pair. She shouted so that everyone could hear her. “There will be absolutely no fighting with other tributes before the beginning of the Games! Now, you’re wasting time. Get over here and join the others!” She shook her head as the tributes started to join the circle together. “Separately. One of you can go over there —“ She pointed to an empty space near the Careers. “— and one of you can come over here.” She pointed to the spot between Clark and Becky.
The District 3 boy swaggered over to stand beside the Careers. They looked at him with barely concealed contempt. The pretty brunette stomped over and stood beside Clark, her arms crossed over her chest angrily.
Atala looked around at the assembled tributes. “In two weeks, twenty-three of you will be dead. One of you will be alive. Who that is will be determined in part by what you do here. Don’t ignore any of the training stations. You may want to grab a sword and start swinging, but the survival stations are every bit as important. Some of you will die from infection. Others will die from starvation or dehydration. Don’t ignore the importance of learning how to build a fire or set up a shelter — exposure can kill you as surely as another tribute. There will be experts in each skill at each training station. I strongly recommend that you try to learn skills you don’t already have.” She read off a list of the skill stations, then said, “Okay, get to work,” dismissing the tributes.
Fascinated by her, Clark watched as the girl from District 3 stalked away, deliberately going in the opposite direction of her district partner. He stood there watching her until Becky tugged on his sleeve, distracting him.
In another demonstration of her growing trust in Clark, she asked, “What should we work on first?”
Bringing himself back to the task at hand, he said, “I don’t know. Is there anything you already know how do to?”
Becky looked around thoughtfully. “Um … I know how to make a fire, and how to bank it so it lasts the night. I … I don’t think I know anything else.”
“Can you start a fire with anything other than a match?”
“No. Can you?”
“Ah … I know how to start a fire with flint and steel, but I’ve heard there are other ways … like rubbing two sticks together.”
“Maybe we should start with that,” Becky suggested, “and then we can learn the other stuff.”
Clark looked at the fire building station. He wouldn’t be able to use his heat vision in the arena unless he was extremely careful, and he hadn’t made a fire any other way in a long time.
“Sure,” he replied, “we’ll start there, and then we’ll move on to the other stuff. The more we can learn, the better our chances will be.”
*****
By the time the tributes broke for lunch at noon, Clark and Becky had been to both the fire-making station and the knot-tying station. To Clark’s surprise, Becky proved far more adept than him at tying knots — something she attributed to making quick, jerry-rigged repairs to factory machines during the harvest season. He’d been better at making fires without matches. Becky’s attempts to start a fire with flint and steel had resulted in badly bruised fingers and skinned knuckles, and she hadn’t had the stamina to build a fire with a hand drill. Clark thought that if he was careful while using that device he could help it along with bursts of his heat vision.
The tributes ate breakfast and dinner with their mentors and escort, but lunch was eaten with the rest of the tributes. At lunch, the food was arranged on carts scattered around the dining room, and the tributes served themselves.
The Careers sat together at one table, rowdy and arrogantly assuming themselves to be better than the other tributes. Most of the others sat alone, though the boy from District 3 seated himself at the Career table, ignoring their glares and smirks.
Clark and Becky had just served themselves and sat down at a table a short distance from the Careers. They were discussing which training station to go to next when the District 3 girl set her tray down with a bang at the end of their table. They looked up, startled.
She ignored them, unloading her tray, which contained a few healthy items and a large portion of some chocolate dessert, while staring daggers at her district partner.
Her district partner said something to those he was sitting with, drawing snickers from the Careers. The District 2 boy, probably the most arrogant of them all, turned to look at her. He had dark, wavy hair and a cruel smile on his face. He whistled at her, then called, “Here, Mad Dog!”
She glared back at him with a look as intense as any Clark had used when learning to control his heat vision. Instead of bursting into flames, however, the boy just guffawed and turned back to his lunch.
She shoved most of her lunch aside, concentrating on the dessert. When she realized that Clark and Becky were gawking at her, she snapped, “My name
isn’t Mad Dog!”
“Um … okay,” Clark responded. “What is it?”
She gave him an annoyed look. “It’s Lois. Lois Lane.” She raised her voice enough to be heard at the Career table. “And his name is Claude — which was his parents’ fancy way of calling him a dirt clod!”
At the Career table, Claude just smirked at her. Then he whispered something else to his newfound friends.
Clark cleared his throat. “Erm … well, I’m Clark Kent and this is Becky Rasen. We’re from District 9.”
Lois tossed her head. “District 9. Oh … yeah … farmers. In District 3, we develop new technology.”
“The better to kill people with,” Clark replied. “At least farmers produce something everyone needs.”
Lois raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so?”
“Yes … food. If it wasn’t for farmers —“ He nodded at her meal. “— you wouldn’t be eating that.”
Lois took another bite of her dessert and said, grudgingly, “Thanks.” She gave him a half-smile.
Moments later, the Career table erupted in a fresh round of sniggers. Seven pairs of eyes turned to stare at Lois.
She slammed her fork down and, getting up from her chair, stomped over to Claude. “What did you just say about me?” she demanded.
He ignored her.
The girl from District 2, a blonde, smirked at Lois and said, “He said you were frigid — and he gave us all the details.”
Lois had been called this before, so it didn’t surprise her, but it did mortify her. She tried to salvage at least some of the shreds of her dignity by saying, “I am
not frigid! It’s not my fault if
he’s unimpressive!”
There were more snickers, this time directed at Claude. Lois turned on Claude furiously.
“You lying, cheating, project-stealing son of a —“ Lois was drawing back her hand to slap him, but stopped abruptly as a Peacekeeper came towards her. Stepping back, she concluded, “Don’t fall for him, girls. He’s a thief — and he doesn’t have anything to offer in exchange.”
With that, she turned and stalked out of the room, leaving every tribute staring after her.
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