Final Reality (THG Fanfic)

Chapter VI

Trust me.

Sean’s words echo in my mind. My hands start to sweat in their gloves and my stomach twists, becoming uneasy as the anxiety starts to kick in. The grand doors of the Training Centre welcome in the early evening air of the City Circle and the screams and cheers of the people of the Capitol. Just as District 1’s chariot is pulled into the Capitol’s view, Cathal rubs my shoulder to comfort me. It doesn’t help as much, but my stomach starts to ease, though only a bit.

Before we know it, we are being pulled into the City Circle, deafened by the praise the Capitol throws over us. Roses are thrown; little notes of support are followed as well. Despite the joy spread throughout the circle, I do exactly what Sean told us to do. I don’t smile. I don’t mirror the Capitol’s affection. I brush away the roses of love. I keep a cold, hard glare on the bearded man at the podium; a white rose over his heart. Cathal does the same.

Trust me.

Sean’s voice bounces around in my head. I consider disobeying him, because I think what he is having us do is a bad idea, something a mentor should never do. I tried to protest, but Sean simply walked away as if the conversation was over. In my perspective, the conversation was definitely not over. As our chariot rounds the City Circle, I glimpse at Cathal, mentally asking him if we should go through with what Sean told us to do. Cathal nods without reluctance and I return my defiant stare to President Snow. In unison, Cathal and I press the three fingers on our left hand to our mouths and raise our hands in the air, saluting President Snow. It’s not a lot, but gasps are spread around the audience enough to plant most of their attention to our salute, our gesture.

I see the girl from Three – Zara – glare at me for a second as if wondering how stupid I could be, trying so hard to get myself killed. However, the most unexpected thing happens. She turns back around, nudges her tribute partner, and raises three fingers together. While our chariot turns around to re-enter the Training Centre, I catch glimpses of tributes behind us raising three fingers. The flaming cattle from District 10; the trees from Seven; the wheat-covered farmers from Nine all have three fingers raised towards the Capitol. And slowly and hesitantly, the rest of the tributes address the Capitol with three fingers – including the Careers.

I catch someone’s gaze. The little girl from the mining district, wearing a coal-black gown and headdress, has her thin but strong hand in the air. Primrose has a hard look on her face, like she’s ready to fight, to destroy, to terminate, but almost to the point where she could breakdown into tears. Her strong stature suggests she is no longer the frail little girl we once saw on our screens. The girl who had her older sister snatched from her reach, the girl who cried on national television for her sister to survive, no longer exists. Just before Primrose exits my view, I see her, ever so slightly, nod her head in approval. I don’t know what for exactly. For the salute? As a greeting? I don’t know. I train my gaze back on the Training Centre, but I notice in my peripherals that some of the audience have imitated our gesture. Their own colourful arms piercing the sky with three fingers.

The chariots suddenly jolt forward, everyone forced to hold onto their chariots. We see and feel the chariots speed up, and the audience is thrown into a fit. When we enter the Training Centre once again, we see that a large number of peacekeepers have assembled inside, their guns poised ready to shoot. I suddenly begin to shiver, thinking I’m going to die before I even enter the arena. “They can’t shoot us,” Cathal whispers to me. “They can’t change tributes and revoke a Quarter Quell.”

It calms me a little, but not much. I need Marcial or Lorna or someone to tell me what’s going on, but I can’t see them. The peacekeepers disperse into smaller groups, escorting each of the districts into elevators. They gracefully help us out of the chariots as if we were kings and queens, but as soon as our feet would touch the ground, the peacekeepers’ grips our arms would tighten hard, and push us into an elevator. I get shoved into the railing of the elevator as the doors slide closed, and Cathal almost falls on top of me. We zoom up to the sixth floor where our rooms await us, and hopefully our team of mentors. When the doors open, I expect Liliana, Sean and Lorna to flood us with greetings or questions of worry, but we’re left questioning the emptiness of the apartment.

It’s not long until the elevator doors open again, releasing our frantic escort and our surprisingly calm mentors. Liliana doesn’t even pause to think about wrinkling her dress when she comes in to give us both a big hug. “Those peacekeepers are so disrespectful!” she says, obviously angry. “And what was up with those chariots suddenly whizzing back into the Training Centre? I hope you two darlings are alright! No scratches? No bruises?”

“We’re fine, Liliana,” I assure her, patting her back before pulling away. “We’re okay. Just a little shocked.”

Then Liliana does the weirdest thing I think a Capitol person could ever do to someone from the districts. She looks deeply into my eyes, searching for any sign of harm, and strokes a stray hair away from my face as if she was my mother. “Oh!” she squeals, pushing on a point on my forehead where it abruptly begins to hurt, and I wince at the pain. “What happened here?! Who did this to you? How did you get it?” Liliana shrieks, revealing the flood of questions I initially expected.

“Lily, I think you should back off,” Sean says, “They seem a bit frazzled and breathless.” Liliana scowls and considers protesting. But without haste, she kisses Cathal and I on our foreheads, congratulates us on our stunning performances at the parade and leaves to order Avoxes to prepare dinner. Sean approaches me, gently touching his hand to my minor head injury. “It’s only a bruise,” he slaps it and I wince once again. “You’ll be fine. And thank you both. For listening to me,” he praises gratefully. “And for trusting me.”

Lorna walks up next to him so all four of us are face to face. I expect her to say something about our gesture at the parade, a scold or an insult of some sort, anything? “You guys both did great out there,” is all she says. After a small chat about dinner, Lorna orders us to shower and change for dinner. Cathal leads me down a hallway where our rooms should be. I don’t know how he knows where they are, but I guess it’s quite easy to assume where everything is. It’s relatively easy to navigate your way around the apartment. We walk past three doors before he stops and says he’ll see me at dinner. Apparently, we had already walked past my room. I’m sent away to my own room where I strip and bathe in the vast bathroom that is connected to my room.

There are many buttons and knobs that help adjust the shower settings to your own comfort. We have showers back at home, but obviously not as advanced as these. Our showers even stop working at certain times of the week, so really, we only get four showers a week at the most. I’m tempted to try and make the most out of this shower, but I decide to make it as normal as possible. Warm, soft and lemon-scented. When I’m finished, I wrap myself with a towel and look into the mirror, wiping away the fog from my shower. There, I can see the real me. Well, almost. I still look like how I left District 6, but my face no longer has those grotty pimples and the scratches I achieved from playful tiffs with Fletch, and even the scrape on my shin from the reaping has disappeared. It’s flawless, smooth and surreal, free of acne and zits and other imperfections. For a moment, I think the mirror is playing tricks on me, maybe some sort of Capitol contraption to make you feel good about yourself. But my face is real. I even touch it; stroke my cheeks just to make sure.

After closely examining my face, I walk back into the room only to find my costume for the parade has been taken away. And I realize I forgot to thank Marcial and my prep team. Also Cathal’s stylist, who I still have yet to meet. I make myself a mental reminder to thank them the next time I see them. I open up the closet that is situated in the corner between the bathroom and my bed, and pull out a red shirt and black shorts. I dry my hair with the towel, regardless of knowing that there is probably some sort of device that’ll dry my hair faster hiding somewhere in the bathroom. I don’t venture to try it. I tie my hair in a simple ponytail and make my way out to dinner.

Dinner is pleasant. No one mentions the motions at the Tribute Parade again, nor the sudden aggressiveness of the peacekeepers. We speak of what to look forward to in training, and how we should act around them in regards to our stunt, suggest we should make allies. I don’t say I don’t want any allies. To be honest, I’d rather go through alone; I don’t want the extra baggage. After last years’ games, I don’t want to watch a beloved ally, like Rue, die in my arms. I just couldn’t handle that. Allies mean vulnerability, and vulnerability means certain death. I excuse myself from dinner early, claiming that I’m exhausted. I’m not sure if they believe me or not, but they let me go anyway. I walk down the corridor to my room but end up taking a detour up a flight of stairs I find just off the hallway. It’s starts off like a normal staircase, but twelve steps up it begins to twist. The path gets smaller and it feels like I’m walking right into a trap. I think about turning around and going to bed, but I’m curious of what lies beyond the last step.