𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐋𝐋 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.
What District 2 victor, Saffron Creek, and prodigy, Finnick Odair, share is the very antithesis of what has been stolen from them. They test the edges of the rules that construct t...
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house of cards . . . . .
It is the second day of training. Tomorrow she will be sent into the arena.
At the moment, an invisible war is being waged. Volleys of bullets are launched through the air, but it is uncertain if they are hitting their marks. Saffron is staring down at President Snow while he sits behind a fortress of mahogany, and yet she has the sensation that they are on equal footing.
His office is unremarkable. Speckled windows peer onto the sterile courtyard and are embraced by dull curtains. The air around the president permeates with abnormality. It is neither cold nor warm like the space in which she stands has been suspended in purgatory.
Snow concedes the silence first. "That was quite the spectacle last night."
"It was," she agrees.
"Were you aware it was going to happen?"
"No."
"Are you lying?"
"Why would I? It doesn't benefit me."
"Very good. Is there anything else I should be made aware of?"
"Not a thing."
He is disbelieving. She is telling an untruth.
"They'll only tell me the plan when we're in the arena."
"Who?"
She waits. He does too.
"Odair," he states, simply.
A subtle ache rises in her jaw. Then it travels to her head and it feels like steam is emitting from her heart and turning her vision red. She clears her throat.
"Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss Everdeen, and Peeta Mellark." She reserves names. Plutarch Heavensbee. Johanna Mason. Finnick Odair.
"Of course. That doesn't surprise me."
A single breath carries out an ocean of tension.
Beyond the door, the Gamemakers are holding a meeting. They speak of preparations, of statistics, and of good-natured betting. She hears vague whispers about temperature settings and which protocols to follow in case of technological malfunctions. Saffron only catches every sixth word through the dense walls. They're probably real wood.
Humidity, she hears. Water, they say. Something else. Then laughter.
"I warn you not to forget your role when you are in the arena."
"I won't." She swallows. "Can I ask you for any insight? About the Games?"
"Now, Miss Creek." His smile is an attempt at benevolence. "Everyone is equal in the arena."
What a joke.
At dinner, she eats in her room alone. The sun has barely dropped below the horizon when she collapses onto her bed. The comforters bury her. Pillows cave in above her. It has not been five minutes before she is swallowed beneath the surface of sleep.
She is running from her deal with Snow and compartmentalizing what she knows she will ultimately have to do. The pressure is stifling.
I will be alone in the arena, she thinks.
She does not exactly know how she will pull this betrayal off.
Perhaps, she hopes, the war will be won when she wakes, but she knows it is only just starting.
