Liam sat in the cold shower, the water running over him carelessly while he stared down at the overrun drain between his sodden feet; as if the longer he looked at the water rushing down the drain, the better the chances of his own escape of the arena. It was day three of training, which meant today was the day all the tributes were slated to meet the Gamemakers – the ones who would be sitting comfortably with a nice beverage while planning what lethal hybrid monster to send after him in the arena.
And worst of all, he was sober. His mentor had finally put his foot down on the booze the day before, keeping an annoyingly close watch on him throughout the day, so there was nothing to help ease the thoughts rushing through his mind, leaving dents and nicks in his sanity he felt he could not yet afford to lose.
He checked the digital clock on the bathroom wall just outside the shower for what must have been the billionth time. Checking and re-checking the 8:20 projected by the screen, he assured himself that he was not, in fact, going to be late for breakfast, which he probably wouldn’t be eating. He doubted if anyone would be able to eat today – well, anyone sane.
Biting his lip and looking again at the water running down the drain below his feet, he tried to force his mind to slow down. It was swirling into a million different directions, Fourteen tributes before you go, it reminded him, that’s at least three hours you’ll be waiting – assuming that each tribute gets fifteen minutes… male tributes first... he had no idea when all the information his stylist and mentor had been flinging at him over the past few days had begun to actually sink in, but it was really starting to scare the shit out of him. Breathe, he told himself, inhale… exhale…. It’s just a stupid score.
But it wasn’t – and he knew that. He couldn’t lie to himself about it, he shouldn’t even try. This was probably – no, it was – the most important score of his life, and he had never been so pessimistic about it. The Hunger Games were made for those with extreme strengths with weapons – he hadn’t had any kind of advantage to bring from his district. Unless you count standing in a factory for long hours in the cold, working on an assembly line after school. Well… more like sneaking out of a factory.
Well, when it came down to it, all that took was just having the nerve to actually do the thing. But... that wasn’t exactly an advantage… was it? Well, not exactly a showcase-able one. No, he decided, no, there’s got to be something else…
And goodness knows what the countless drugs he’d put into his body had done to it… He was well muscled enough, from various required school athletics and long hours spent moving things around in the back of freezing cold factories. He was tall, but… was that really enough to get him any kind of a good score?
He turned his mind from hometown advantages to what he’d been doing while prowling the training center by himself the past days. He’d done some weightlifting, of course, and had also done some knife throwing…. He was decent at it all, he supposed, but was only a master of the basics. Nothing to exactly show off… and nothing seemed to click for him. Nothing was the one special talent that was completely his own, that he could stride into the room with confidence, do with ease and stand out, and yet…
Somehow he almost didn’t even want to do well. There was a sneaking part of his mind that kept nagging him about how the Gamemakers were the ones who were responsible for countless lives of innocent children before him, and were sure to be responsible for his own death. He wanted to deny them their show, show them that he simply refused to play by their rules.
But was it worth his life? What’s left of it, anyways… he bit his lip, already knowing that his mind was made up – the sudden cease in the churning of his stomach told him that. He believed that he could really have a shot at this thing if he kept his head through it – he really believed that – but would he really want to come out as victor? Having known that he had killed for these despicable people, and undoubtedly changed himself for it, simply for the love of his own life?
It seemed so… selfish. What the hell did he ever do to deserve to walk out of here? He didn’t even have a life to walk back into. Doing drugs and … and what, now? He wouldn’t have to go to school, would never have to work… he would have nothing.
There’d be the Hunger Games every year. The newest Victors were always the mentors… would that be worth it? To see harmless children, whom he had seen and spoken too, coached and hoped for, slaughtered year after year? He was borderline alcoholic when he could get his hands on it already, what the hell could he do to cope with that?
The privilege, the so-called fame, the fortune? Were they worth his sanity? He looked around the mental picture of the other tributes. He knew immediately whom he did not want to win the games – the careers. They were sick enough to contribute to this hell, and he was determined that someone who was truly worthy, who had something really worth living for, would survive. He would do whatever it takes to make sure this yet to be determined person would leave the arena alive.
Nodding to himself, fully coming to terms with what he was about to sentence himself too in – he checked the clock – approximately five hours. He shut off the water, his body instantly beginning to warm up from the lack of freezing cold water.
He stepped out into the bathroom cautiously, as if someone from the Capitol had somehow monitored his thoughts and was preparing to stop him, take him away and lock him up… if only… he thought somewhat desperately.
Grabbing for the towel and tying it snugly around his waist, he took a look in the half-fogged mirror. He ran his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He stepped on the drying mat, and closed his eyes as a whirlwind of hot air whipped up around him, instantly evaporating any traces of water from his body.
Keeping his eyes closed, he went back into his room and threw the towel onto the bed, trading it for the simple training clothes his stylist had put out for him. He put those on carelessly as well, and double checked himself in the mirror to make sure that his hair was messed up.
Casually picking up his shoes, and not even bothering to put them on, he walked outside to breakfast. Avoiding the gaze of his mentor and escort, he starts to pick an overly rich and extravagant breakfast that he’s sure he won’t be eating – but, it’d be nice to look at, and it’s there, so why not?
He placed the overflowing food on the table with deliverance, before sitting with the same careful air, and then glaring up at the other occupants of the table, as if daring them to ask him why he was going to be so careless as to look a mess while seeing the Gamemakers.
He offered them, not the of the same bland expression he’d offered everyone back home for the past seventeen years, but a smoldering look of contempt. It was almost a relief to have come to the conclusion that he no longer had to play by anyone’s rules but his own, he’d no idea how liberating it felt.
It was as if a bottomless pit of sheer anger and fury had been opened from inside of him, and he could hardly wait to get down to that training room and give those damn Gamemakers a taste of it. Too bad they won’t be the ones inside the arena, he thought, picking up the large cup of coffee sitting on the edge of his plate.
Gulping down a few sips black, he heard his escort – an overbearingly bubbly middle aged woman with unnaturally colored eyes and much-too-long hair by the name of Candince – beginning to make polite conversation with his mentor. Smart girl, he thought maliciously, he’d like to see them try to make him be nice today.
After the worrying he’d been doing about the Gamemakers’ evaluation, waking himself up at the crack of dawn, lying in bed unable to move for fear of what might happen to him as a result of his actions, to just let go was bliss. Bliss he planned to enjoy.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. After eating the bare minimum of food on his plate, Liam assured his stylist, mentor and escort that he would not, in fact, get lost on the two second elevator ride to the training center, he spent the early afternoon doing some last minute training with a number of other tributes.
It was really astonishing, he noted, how much easier it was to hit a target with an axe or a bow when you were so – rushed with adrenaline, possibly?
Finally the call came for the tributes to eat lunch in a small room off the training center, and he strode into the room confidently, taking food and also noticing how he seemed to be the only one actually eating anything. Not that he was exactly eating much.
He waited in a familiar silence as he watched the tributes disappear, nervously, one by one back into the training room. He counted the minutes until – he guessed – it would be his turn. He noted the place of the district six tributes, watching while they both took their turns with the Gamemakers, and it was finally his turn.
He stood up, and placed a confident smirk on his face, and walked into the training room with an aloof air of coolness. He spotted the dozen or so Gamemakers immediately across the room, all in dark robes and eating lavish food or sipping wine. Fat bastards, he thought, while forcing himself to give them a polite nod.
Heading immediately for the berries at the camouflage station, he looked down at the small red berries he’d noted earlier. Taking picking them up without hesitation, and walked over to the blank white wall directly across from the Gamemakers. He quickly and carefully painted the words ‘fuck you’ across the wall, as tall as he could reach.
He turned around to face the Gamemakers, not even fully looking at the faces of his killers. He waited there a moment, blood pounding in his ears, giving them another polite nod and a smile before stalking out of the door, and up the elevator.
He would await his sure to be low score with no further thought.
