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Plume returned to her room feeling agitated. Her hands twitched at her side in annoyance as she shut her room behind her. After the lights had shut off in the amphitheater, she left in a hurry, practically sprinting to her cabin so that she could remove all of the accessories. Plume could handle dresses and fancy makeup but in moderation. Wearing long skirts or high heels for hours made her feel suffocated in a way.
She scrubbed her body raw in the shower. She wasn't only thinking about her makeup and the body glitter. She was much more concerned with getting every single molecule of dirt and sweat off of her before the arena tomorrow. Who knew when she'd get another warm shower? Never, most likely.
Tomorrow. Plume almost threw up at the thought. Her stomach broiled as she struggled to conceptualize the fact that she could be dead by the next sunset. Her heart hammered in her chest when she finally slipped on her pajamas, sliding into a bed that felt too soft, too comfortable. It was wrong. Plume would've much rather preferred waking up to death, without having to mull it over for an entire night. It was the waiting that killed her. The anxiety of thinking about her murder rather than it actually happened. That's what scared her the most, she thought. Not the blades themselves, but the idea that one of them could be buried in her sternum in less than ten hours.
Plume knew that she wasn't going to sleep at all. It was common for tributes to stay awake on that final day. The first time that Plume was in this situation, she had spent hours pacing the room back and forth, muttering to herself and pinching her arms to assure herself that, yes, she really was in the Capitol and about to be thrown into an arena of death. At the second stroke of the clock, a fifteen-year-old Plume had gone down to the Training Center and practiced survival skills for the last time. She stayed there until morning when Zirconia came to collect her. Those last few hours before the Games, starting fires and tying knots as the sun rose, gave Plume respite from the soul-crushing anxiety that she felt.
Presently, as she laid there staring at the ceiling, her eyes unheavy and bloodshot, she realized that that might be the only good thing going for her. Keeping herself occupied with survival skills could help alleviate the stress of tomorrow.
Plume ripped her covers off of herself and quickly dressed into breathable spandex. She tied her still-wet hair into a loose braid and set off in the direction of the elevator. Everybody was asleep in the District 10 quarters, so Plume didn't need to worry about talking her way out of a sticky situation. She slid on her sneakers, entered the elevator, and pressed the training floor.
At night, the Training Center was almost dead. The weapons stations were not illuminated. There was some sort of rule about not having trainers to supervise in case somebody accidentally cut themselves on a blade. However, the raw survival skills were still on display for any tribute that wanted a last-minute exercise on water purification or plant identification. The only other person occupying the space was a lone Peacekeeper, his gun holstered at his side and his white helmet skillfully pulled over to shield his eyes. Despite the black screen covering the Peacekeeper's face, Plume could tell that he wasn't expecting anybody to be in the Training Center, judging by the way that he quickly strengthened his posture and turned to face her. She didn't address him. She instead made her way over to the area reserved for poisonous plants.
