That Fine Line

Chapter 9 - The Plan

"So why Katniss and not someone else, like Peeta?"

"She was the one who started it all. The 'Girl on Fire' brand, being the one to suggest collective suicide with Peeta, those being the main reasons. There are other moments too, but it's these actions that have spurred the recent rebel activity in the Districts," Finnick explained.

I guess it made sense to choose her. "Does she know about the plan?"

"Not yet. We can't risk revealing ourselves too quickly, or the Gamemakers will react, and all of us will be eliminated."

Our conversation ended with Dan's entrance. "What are you two doing back up here so early? Shouldn't you be training more? To get ready for your private sessions?"

Shit. I forgot about that.

~

We stood next to each other alone in the elevator, heading down to the Training Center for our last chance of training before the individual evaluations tomorrow.

"You look nervous," he observed. Again with the sensitivity to my emotions. He was reading me like a book.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do for the evaluation." I wasn't sure why I had the sudden urge to be honest and actually tell him what was troubling me.

"What've you been doing so far?"

"Basic survival stuff."

"No combat, nothing else at all?"

"Nope." 'Cause I spend the rest of my time observing your fighting patterns.

We stepped out of the elevator onto the giant parking garage-looking room.

He thought about it for a while. "What did you do back at home? In Four? What was your job before you moved to the Victors' Village?"

"Uhh, it wasn't regular. We took turns on our shifts at the factory, but I'd usually rotate with some other around cleaning, scaling, gutting..."

He perked up when I mentioned the last part. "Gutting. So you know your way around a knife, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," I retorted, "But my abilities are restricted to cutting open fish bellies and taking their insides out. Nothing really to do with any combat stuff."

He beckoned for me to follow him to the knife rack. Various knives of different shapes and sizes lined the board for tributes to take their pick. Spotting a thin knife that resembled a fillet knife the most, he took it and handed the weapon to me.

I was still fumbling with the handle, indecisive on how I was going to hold the knife, when I heard him take his own pick of a dagger from the rack.

"Fight me," he commanded.