Decima had a knife, but there was no way she was going to pull it right now. She had one friend here, and that was brighton, and brighton was sobbing. It was hard to keep Monty's warning in mind, that careers would kill her, that she didn't have friends.
Brighton wasn't a career right now. they were pretending. and her husband wasn't here. "Sure." she decided, nodding. "Are you... okay, brighton?" she asked, following her friend, sitting across from her.
She could have cackled at Decima's question. It wasn't very Brighton-like, and she'd already done too much that wasn't Brighton-like, so Sable didn't. She wondered if anyone behind the scenes was putting to together, now that Sable had shown herself to be so weak. Their old teachers, perhaps?
Sable put her knife in her lap and took a sip from the canteen, then held it out to Decima - as much as she needed to conserve her water, it would be rude not to offer. Even Brighton had manners, when it counted. And everything counted in the arena. Brighton would understand sharing resources in a moment of truce. Sable wiped at her face as the tears slowed and, after a long moment, answered Decima's question.
"The Bloodbath was more than I expected," she admitted. It was vague, and Sable needed to be vague to keep up her ruse, but it was honest. And damn, it felt good to be honest.
Ty released C.P., and the body slid onto the concrete and dirt, his head twisted at an odd angle, eyes open and unseeing, mouth open too. It was exactly like the dummies they practiced on. The same snapping sound, the same struggle, and crunch, heavy limpness. Dead weight, through and through. Ty stepped over his body, looking for Sable in the chaos, seeing her crawl along the ground, struggling against another -- some outer district girl.
Cara did half the work. She pushed up, trying to straighten, certainly focused on Sable when she should have been aware of the threat from behind. Ty coiled around her throat, his hand spreading wide, the other catching the top of her head. Her nail dug into his arm, carving sharp crescents, but it was brief. Another snap, another ripple as her body succumbed.
He tossed her aside, stepping over Sable, swallowing down the thought that Brighton wouldn't have needed his help. She'd have snapped the fucking girl's neck herself. But there were definitely cameras on the couple from One. Of course there would be. Especially as another cannon sounded. He held out his hand, "let's go, love."
Sable hadn't even thought about her next move. She'd just been so relieved that Ty was there. He would know what to do. And then he did it, without hesitating, without asking - he snapped Cara's neck, and held out a hand to Sable - to Brighton, his wife.
"I almost had her," she told him. Because she did, didn't she? She could have killed her. She would have had to. That was just how the Bloodbath worked unless your fake husband swooped in at the last minute and stole the kill. But she took his hand anyway and was grateful for it. She had one ally in here, at least. She wasn't alone.
But they weren't out of the woods yet. The two of them still needed weapons - her canteen wasn't going to cut it; there were no witches here, and no amount of water was going to melt the other tributes. So Sable let Ty take the lead, trusting him to keep her on the right path, while she scouted the surrounding area and the meager selection the Vox had provided them. Then-
"There!" she said. She tugged on Ty's hand without thinking, pulling toward a pair of knives that glinted in the sun from above, and stepping right into the path of another tribute. District Eleven, Sable thought, but she couldn't remember her name. Persimmon, or Peach, or something.
There were two cannons, before the countdown was finished. Sable didn't see who the tributes were. All she could do was look at Ty, and hope he would give her some direction, some inclination of his head that would tell her what to do in the Bloodbath, what item to go for, anything. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe she was so worried about it setting off the sensors and killing her instantly.
And then they were running.
Here they fucking go.
Sable sprinted alongside the masses and into the Bloodbath - it was a big crowd this time, bigger than usual, and she quickly lost sight of Ty. Panic welled up inside of her, but she couldn't let it take hold. She needed to be Brighton right now. She needed a weapon, and she needed supplies. She needed to take what she could get and fight her way out. She needed to prove herself. Could she? Could she prove herself?
There wasn't even time to think about that as a body shoved into her, knocking her on the ground. She scrambled up. She could not die this early, which meant she could not stay on the ground. She grabbed at whatever was closest to where she fell as she arose and turned to face her attacker. It was a canteen of water, and Cara, from District Six, lunged at her for it. But basic hand-to-hand combat was Sable's strong suit, and she easily dodged the attack, planting a kick to Cara's knee that sent her sprawling. She could do worse, she though. She should do worse.
And then she saw him, coming up behind where Cara was clambering up from the ground.
Dansen was dead. and honestly, good. What a whiny, grifting little shit.
She wasn't supposed to say that, she was supposed to respect and honor his sacrifice. but the capitol hadn't done that for any other tribute, why would she start now? After all, she'd had something to do with it.
And now, she had a few objectives. Find water, preferably something big enough to swim in. Monty had been right, her ability to swim was a leg up. She would be best off if she used it. Lacking that (and this arena seemed to be sorely lacking), Find brighton. "Brighton..." she hummed, absently, turning a corner before coming face to face with her. sobbing. and a knife.
Not exactly the picture of a district one career she'd been expecting.
"Hey..." She said, somewhere between offended at the offensive facing her, confused at the tears on her friend's face, and reassuring. "You good? We good?...you good?"
Decima. It was Decima. Oh fuck. She couldn't just fight her, couldn't just get this over with. No, she actually liked Decima. She was going to have to put her knife down and actually talk to Decima, to explain herself. Here, in this tiny room where Decima was blocking the only exit, Sable was going to have to figure out how the hell she was getting out of this, both literally and metaphorically.
What would Brighton say if she got caught crying? Sable honestly had no idea. She'd never seen Brighton cry until the night before the reaping. She hadn't know Brighton was even capable of it.
But Sable knew what Brighton would say about Decima, about allying with a Capitolite. And Sable knew what Brighton would do to anyone who saw her show any kind of weakness. And Sable...Sable didn't want to do it. She was supposed to be Brighton. But she wasn't, dammit. She wasn't.
"For like, five minutes, can we pretend I'm not a Career?" she asked. She hated how small her voice sounded. She could feel Brighton's ire grow with every word she spoke. "Just pretend I'm not supposed to be ruthless and kill everyone?" But then, Sable hadn't killed anyone. She hadn't been able to, not when it counted.
She picked up the canteen she'd set on the ground, and moved away from Decima to take a seat in one of the chairs.
Music played in the distance, muffled by the time it reached Sable's spot in the tunnels. There were no faces down her for her to watch and mourn, and no way of knowing who or what awaited her around each dark corner. She knew though, instinctively, that Ty was still alive. He would never die so quickly.
When the music ended, a beat Sable had thought was drums continued, and she recognized the sound as footfalls, growing closer. Sable gripped the knife she carried and backed away from the sound, hiding further into the shadows as whoever it was came closer. Was she a monster, using the shadows to stalk its prey, or a mouse, terrified and in need of cover? She didn't think she would know the answer to that until she saw who it was who was about to round the corner.
Sable picked her way down the stands in the setting sun, pausing every so often to squat behind chairs and observe her surroundings. She didn't want any more surprises. But the sun moved faster than Sable had anticipated, and the dark was setting in quickly. She had to find the entrance to the tunnels. It was her only real chance at a spot to hide, to rest.
She had nearly reached the bottom of the stands when she heard the slithering. She whipped her head to toward the sound, and saw a dark green, rope-like creature, contrasted against the light rock of the ruins, squiggle its way along the dusty stands, far enough away but headed directly toward her. It was a snake. A muttation, certainly, but what kind of muttation? Could she fight it? Did she have to run?
A new sound came from behind her, and she turned again, trying to keep her eyes on the snake at the same time as she watched the tribute to her other side, seemingly equidistant from the mutt. It was Lyra. Oh Snow, this was how she died. A choice between death by tribute, or death by whatever this snake was capable of. But the known was better than the unknown, and Sable found herself running toward the vicious Career, away from the snake.
"Mutt!" she called out, in warning, or explanation, or a desperate plea to maybe not kill her, but help instead?
Bloodbath treasures now in her hands, a canteen in one and a knife in the other, Sable knew it was time to move. She saw the opening to what she knew to be tunnels under the Arena, and she passed it. She'd head down later, after all the other tributes who were going to use them made their way further, deeper, and Sable wouldn't have to fear every single corner. Now, she took to the stairs of the stands and ran up, up, up, until she could hardly breathe, until she'd made her way into a room that overlooked the Cornucopia far below.
She wasn't sure where she was. She remembered this Arena from her history classes, of course, but this room hadn't been something that was covered, as far as she could recall. And perhaps that would be to her advantage. Perhaps other tributes wouldn't think to come up here. Perhaps she could hide, lock the door, and wait out the Games.
But, when tested, the door didn't lock. Taking in her surroundings - chairs and tables, like the viewing rooms in the Tower - Sable gave herself time to even out her breath. She took a long drink from her hard-won canteen and gasped until she managed a steady rhythm, in and out. She needed a plan. She needed the strategy that Brighton had studied. She needed to be Brighton. But if there was one thing she'd learned in the Bloodbath, it was that she wasn't Brighton. She was Sable, and she didn't have what it takes to win.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as her breath threatened to lurch again, this time in sobs. She couldn't let it. She placed her canteen on the ground next to her and bit down on the fist that didn't hold the knife to silence herself as best she could, lest some stray tribute overhear - or worse, a tribute who had followed her. Or even worse than that, a mutt. As Sable cried, presumably ruining Brighton's spotless reputation, she waited by the door, ready to attack whoever came in, because she had to try, dammit. She had to try.
Her dress was less flashy than Sable knew Brighton had always dreamed. The interview dresses were supposed to be showstoppers. Hers was better, she thought, than her parade outfit, but that wasn't saying much. The grandeur of the previous Games was lost without the resources that made it so. Sable didn't mind. Less flashy was more comfortable, more in her element. Sable had never been one to be the star of the show. She walked onto the stage with feigned ease made easier by the lack of fanfare, marveled that a limited audience had still managed to attend despite everything going on, and grinned at her host.
Calix Crystal offered Sable - well, Brighton - a hug before indicating that she should take a seat in the chair across from him.
"Brighton," he began when the cheering calmed down, "one half of the current most talked-about couple in Panem. How has your time been in the Capitol so far?"
"It's everything I dreamed it would be," Sable said. She knew she needed to praise both the Vox and the Games to truly sell her role not just as Brighton but as a tribute. "I've been waiting since I was a little girl for my chance to be here, and to get to come to such a beautiful city under such important circumstances? To represent my country while the stakes are the highest? I couldn't ask for more." Perhaps it was a little over the top, but blame that on nerves. If Brighton was mad about it, Sable would never know.
"Well, I'd say you could always ask for love, but it seems like you've found that already," Calix said. He winked at her, and Sable laughed.
"I have indeed," she said. "Tiberius, my husband, and my partner in all things."
"Including in this Games," Calix pointed out. "Tell me, what made you two decide to volunteer together?"
"Oh, it was the Academy's decision." Sable corrected, before trying to walk it back. "But Ty and I could not have been more on board. Both of us want to win more than anything, what is marriage if not supporting each other's dreams and helping each other achieve our goals? One of us will get everything we've ever worked for and wanted as the final triumph of the last Games. It feels poetic and romantic, and I couldn't be happier."
Calix clapped his hands together, evidently thrilled, and Sable wondered how much of him was an act. Who was the real Calix Crystal?
"Now Brighton," he continued, "you know only one of you can win. Are you worried you'll have to face down each other in the end?" Sable shook her head immediately. She'd anticipated this question.
"Statistically speaking, it's incredibly rare for district partners to make it to the final two," she said. Calix leaned forward, seemingly fascinated. "And we're going to fight by each other's side as long as we can, but that doesn't always work out geographically in an Arena. I may not be there to protect him, or vice versa, and that's okay. That's the Games. One of us will make the final two, and whoever that is will be the final Hunger Games victor."
"Incredible," Calix responded. "And what do you plan on doing, as victor?" Aside from mourning your husband, his eyes seemed to ask. But Ty wasn't her husband. And he certainly wouldn't mourn her when she died, even if she was dying for him. For his family.
"I'll start with supporting our troops as best as I possibly can," she said, her smile never leaving her face. "Contributing to the war effort is so important. I'm not sure how best I can help yet, but wherever is needed, that's where I'll go." Calix nodded sagely, and Sable thought about how quickly he'd flipped loyalties to the Vox, and wondered again what, under all his showmanship, was real.
Maybe none of it was. Maybe she and Calix Crystal were the same.
"That's an incredibly admirable goal," he told her. "Now, one last question for you, Brighton, before I bring your other half out here onto the stage. Why should people bet on you?" Sable laughed then, as if Calix had told the funniest joke in the world.
"I mean, who else would you bet on?" she asked, as if betting on Sable-as-Brighton were the most obvious, natural conclusion in the world. "I'm not just the best, I'm also the most fun," she said. "You can't go wrong." She grinned Brighton's mega-watt smile into the camera and winked.
"Well, there you have it folks," Calix said, standing up out of his chair and indicating for her to do the same. "Brighton Delvaux of District One!"
Music played as Sable left, waving to what she pretended was a crowd of her adoring fans. Brighton's fans.
Sable had never done particularly well at the Academy. She hadn't gotten into the advanced classes. She hadn't mastered strategies or won any awards for spectacular aim or notable prowess. But at the end of the day, Sable had passed every single one of her classes, and that counted for something. It certainly counted above the lower district tributes.
"Brighton Delvaux," Sable introduced herself. "District One." The lie was rolling off her tongue much easier now with several days of practice. Not that she'd need to keep it up much longer. But that was just a name. To truly be Brighton, Sable would have to sparkle. Which meant she could chose only her best skills, clean-cut and flawless. Lucky for her, Sable had years of practice, and knew how to craft a good story.
To start, a warm-up, to serve as her introduction: Sable grabbed a weighted bar, and made her way over to the fancy rack that matched it. The official title of the apparatus was a salmon ladder, though Sable wasn't sure why. Maybe it had been invented in District Four. Either way, Brighton had made her try it over and over one summer until she'd mastered it, calling her weak and pathetic and a disgrace to their image until Sable had finally flung herself onto the top rung. So it was with ease now that Sable pulled herself up the bar and threw the bar onto higher rungs, and pulled herself up again. All the way to the top, and then back down. She swung herself down when she finished, and landed perfectly balanced.
Next, the rising action: Sable wasn't great with heavier weapons like swords, but she had never minded knives, and had just practiced with them with Sheen, so the weight felt familiar in her hands as she headed over to the row of dummies. She sank each knife into a different place on the body, a different practiced combination to get there. It had been a final project of hers when she'd been seventeen - one of the few finals she aced - and in a flurry she had five dummies ripped open before her. She twisted the knife in the gut of the final dummy. In a person, it would maximize the damage.
Then, the climax: Sable's best skill had always been hand to hand combat, and while she might not be able to beat a Career victor trainer - thank goodness Cress Meadowforge was a Gamemaker now and couldn't prove Sable's hypothesis on this - the highest levels of the training center simulators still tried to give the lower district tributes a fighting chance. Sable cranked up the simulator to the max level, and waited for the simulation to come after her. She blocked the first attack and swept out with her leg, which was anticipated by the simulation and avoided. Sable threw herself up and shouldered into the simulation, a strangely tactile thing that made her skin buzz upon contact. The simulation took a step back and threw a few punches, which Sable dodged, blocked, dodged again, and then returned in kind. Her final blow landed on the simulation's jaw and she wasted no time while it took the impact to tackle it to the ground. Though it fought her, she knelt on its neck until it suffocated, disappearing in a mass of pixels. So strange, how the simulation technology worked. Sable smiled, though. It had been a success.
The falling action came next: A bow and arrow were elementary weapons, really, but Sable had shown close combat, and now she needed to show range. She didn't stand as far as she could, perhaps, but if she stood too far she wouldn't hit the targets. Sable needed a sweet spot between where she was able to aim properly, and where would be impressive for her to stand. She notched three arrows, one after the other, and each hit their targets - more dummies. It wasn't in the dead center of the white bullseye, but almost was good enough in the Arena. Close would still net her a punctured lung, a ruptured bowel, or an immobilized shoulder. With good enough, she could still take someone down.
And finally, the conclusion: If Sable were being honest, she was surprised she hadn't retched yet over the number of fake deaths she'd caused in the past nine or so minutes. But this training wasn't about honesty. It was about falsehood, about the lie that she was Brighton, and she was the darling of the Academy. The last Career female the District would ever see. So Sable embraced it, hopping onto a table and giving a deep bow to thank the Gamemakers for this opportunity. A front flip - a skill she'd mastered before she'd even entered the Academy, at Brighton's insistence - was her final move. She landed neatly at the foot of the table, and waved as she headed out of the room.
Brighton might have done better. And she might have called Sable pathetic for the way Sable's entire body hummed with adrenaline and pride. But Sable didn't even care. She'd done it. Clean-cut and flawless.
Maybe she stood a shot at winning these Games after all.
But she shook that thought from her head as she exited and the true future victor stepped passed her though the doorway. Tiberius Delvaux. She didn't wish him luck. He wouldn't need it.
Sable yawned as she stood in line, waiting to get into the large square that hallmarked the center of the District. Her last Reaping. Brighton stood in front of her, somehow looking perfect despite how much she'd cried last night. But then, Brighton always looked perfect, even when she was crying. Sable was the ugly cryer of the two, as last night had proven.
A finger prick to mark their presence, and then the twins were shuffled into the pack. Sable marveled at it. Her entire plan hinged on it. A finger prick. Not a print. Just a prick. It allowed her to be the heroine, emboldened on her righteous quest.
When they were little, Brighton and Sable had held hands during the Reaping. Brighton had always been so excited to see who was volunteering. She was going to be just like them one day, she promised Sable. One day she'd say my name is Brighton Cygnus, and I volunteer as tribute! and Sable would look on in admiration for her sister, her built-in best friend, the strongest and bravest person she'd ever met.
Sable hadn't told Brighton what she was planning, though she and Tiberius would know soon enough. Would they love her for it? Sable wondered. They'd never loved her before.
There had been a moment, during the days when they were starving, that Brighton had looked at Sable, and Sable had thought that maybe, just maybe, they could be true sisters, like in her novels. And then, last night, it was Sable to whom Brighton wept. Her twin. They'd shared everything their entire lives, and it had never been enough for Brighton to let Sable in, not really, not until last night.
Brighton finally had something she valued more than her own life, her own glory.
Brighton was pregnant.
Apparently she and Tiberius had started trying after Snow's execution. Their dreams of winning the Games had been destroyed. There would be no more Games. The thing that connected them was forever gone. They needed a new dream. And to bring love and joy and the pureness of new life into the world, one good thing to hold out against all the bad, was a pretty good dream. But then there was one more Games, and District One had a brilliant idea.
Brighton tried to go along with it, at first, but as much as she was willing to risk her own life, she wouldn't risk her baby's. She wanted Ty to win as much as she wanted herself to win. And it worked when it was just the two of them. One of them would get everything they'd ever dreamed. And wasn't that what marriage was all about? Helping each other achieve their dreams? But to Brighton's surprise, that dream had died the second she'd taken the test to be sure. The second she knew that she carried a life inside of her.
And Sable...Sable was her sister. Her twin. Her most loyal companion, her built-in best friend who Brighton could tease and mock mercilessly because she would always have to love her. And perhaps Brighton, in her own way, loved her back. So when reality set in, Brighton knocked on Sable's door, and tumbled into her arms, sobbing.
So Sable would do what she always had done: whatever she could to make her sister happy. It wasn't even a hard decision. Her sister was pregnant with a baby who had done nothing wrong, had done nothing to deserve the kind of death that potentially awaited in the Hunger Games. Sable's own life, which had always been a dull, dim, black hole to Brighton's shining star, didn't hold a candle to that flame.
In the crowd now, Sable looked over to where Tiberius stood. He would understand, she thought. She hoped. As a new district escort took the stage, and began to speak to the glory of this new Panem, Sable took her sister's hand, just like when they were kids.
Except as Brighton looked at her, confused, Sable twisted her fingers to tug off Brighton's ring. She slipped it onto her own hand, and winked.
"Tell that kid how much their Aunt Sable loves them," she said.
"Are there any volunteers?" the escort asked. Sable hadn't gotten their name. She raised her hand.
"My name is Brighton Delvaux," she called out. "And I volunteer as tribute!"
Ty wished she'd make herself scarce and stop attracting undue attention to a facade they themselves didn't even fully believe. But Sable seemed intent, committed to further amplifying the act, and denying her publicly would only allow room for curious minds to wander, to assume things.
"Simulator?" he jerked his chin toward it. He'd never partnered with Sable before, though with Brighton, it had been seamless. Their bodies an extension of the other's. One. "Let's how them how it's done."
Let's show them how it's done. It was perhaps the nicest thing that Ty had ever said to her. He wanted to partner with her. He wanted this to work. Well, he wanted to win. But that he was willing to put any amount of trust in Sable and her ability to get him to victory felt huge. She smiled at him, genuine this time, and nodded. "Let's show them how it's done."
"I wouldn't want you to go easy on me crutch or not, hell if it weren't for the crutch I would ask if you wanted me blindfolded so you had a fighting chance." He grinned a little, picking up his set of knives from the table, and feeling their weight. They felt good in his grasp and he nodded towards Brighton,
Blindfolded. Was that a thing? Were Careers supposed to know how to fight blindfolded? But Sable couldn't show any nerves. It wasn't like she'd never held a knife before. She could do this.
I am Brighton. I am Brighton. I am Brighton.
Sable picked up her own pair of knives, and nodded before swinging her knife toward him, taking care to watch his hands for the block as she did so.
Juno didn't move, not trusting her. "Why help me?" she asked instead, suspicious, afraid the second she stepped on that mat, the Career girl would have her pinned to the ground and humiliate her. Not only did Juno prefer to keep herself uninjured prior to the Arena, she really didn't want to be made an example of to the entire Training Center. And Careers had a history of doing that on screen, so she imagined it wasn't much different behind the scenes, either. "You're not... we're not friends. We're not allies. I don't even know your name."
"Why not?" Sable asked, throwing in one of Brighton's laughs, as if they were already friends, though Juno was right, and Brighton would never be friends with someone like her. "The Games isn't going to be any fun if it's not a challenge. Besides, we could be allies. You never know what's going to happen once you get in the Arena. All those promises during training can just go out the window." Sable punctuated it with a wink, hoping it sounded convincing. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. She hadn't taken any advanced tactics courses. But it sounded true enough, and if she'd learned anything from years of watching the Games (and also from reading romance novels, if she were to be honest), it was that when everything was on the line, people were capable of anything. "I'm Brighton. Nice to meet you."
"Alright, step up," a bored Trainer called. Indigo did as she was told. After all, if she was going to go into the Arena, she needed to learn how to throw a decent punch. The trainer raised a padded glove, and Indie threw her best attempt. Her fist thudded into the glove with a satisfying smack, but she could tell from the Trainer's face that something was off. Her form, her power, something. She took a step back, waiting for feedback.
"Great, let's pair you up. I'll be over here. Don't kill each other." He turned his back and stepped off the training mat, leaving Indigo a bit stunned. Nothing? He flicked his fingers and her opponent stepped up. Indigo's face drained a little bit of color, but a glint of indignation leapt to her eye.
Brighton.
"Alright, then," she said, imitating the Trainer's bored tone. "Let's see if all that Academy training can stand up to good old factory experience."
Sable had been sparring with a training simulator when a voice called her over. A trainer was matching her up with...oh. Indigo, the angry girl from District Eight. Well, that should go over well. Sable sighed, and gave Indigo a patronizing smile. "Alright," she said. "Let's see what the factory taught you about hand to hand combat, shall we?" She centered her weight and shifted onto the balls of her feet, ready for however Indigo wanted to throw herself into this.
Tomorrow was the launch. Sable wasn't sure how she was supposed to be feeling, but she knew the fear that sat deep in her stomach wasn't it. She was supposed to be Brighton. Brighton would be, what, excited? Calm? Antsy in anticipation? If there was anything Sable had learned the last few days it was that as easy as it was to fake being Brighton to people who knew nothing about Brighton, it was impossible to get into that girl's head. Impossible to imagine just why it was that Brighton had dreamt her whole life of these Games. Sable didn't have the killer instinct. She was just as pathetic as Brighton had always told her she was. And though she'd known it when she'd volunteered, it was finally starting to sink in that Sable was going to die.
A noise startled Sable from her thoughts and she looked up, her Fake Brighton scheming smile plastered on her face, but it was just Ty.
"Hey," she said, giving him a small wave. "Excited for tomorrow?"
Slate dodged the punch, though it ended up being a feint, and instead nearly lost his balance as her foot hit his leg. He used the energy of what could have been a fall to throw himself to the side and toward her, with the aim to knock her to the ground beneath him. "It depends on the partner," he said truthfully. He liked sparring with a good partner.
Slate barreled into her, and Sable found herself falling. She took the momentum to scramble backward before he could get fully on top of her, just far enough to kick out toward his stomach to try and push him the rest of the way off of her. Depends on the partner. A partner like Gamemaker Cress Meadowforge, who would have been her mentor had this been a Snow games. "What do you look for in a partner, then?" she asked.
Sheen was standing by the sparring mats with a crutch, he was watching the tributes from Four. Assessing if they were or were not Career Fours. It was always a hit or miss with District Four he had found in how talented they actually were. When he turned to go, he caught Brighton's eye, and grinned instantly understanding the meaning. Moving over towards her, he chuckled.
"You know I think I would usually be able to wipe the floor with you, but with this crutch, I think you very much have a good chance of actually managing to beat me. You wanna start and see the tone?"
Sable believed he absolutely would have destroyed her had he had all his limbs. He was a victor, after all, one of the shining stars of District One. Now though, she had the upper hand. And Brighton would be ruthless.
"I won't go easy on you just because you have a crutch," she told him, though she wished she could. She wished she didn't have to do any of this.
