The Capitol Games

6

OCTAVIA

A strange calm settled over me that only came from years of calming my racing heart and electrified nerves. I tried to convince myself I've been in situations worse than this, but I knew that was a lie. There were no worse games to play than the Hunger Games.

I stood in a circular elevator, only big enough for myself. Johanna stood, leaning against the wall, as did another several guards stations around. I doubt the others were receiving the same treatment as I did, but at the time I needed it most, the fight left me.

"Don't look so sad, kid. The Games are fun, I had a blast!" Johanna says.

I level her with a raw look. "Drop the act. I don't need the bitter facade anymore."

Johanna tilted her head. "Do you have anything you want to take with you? A token? Can't be a weapon though."

Tributes were allowed one personal object into the arena with them—a memory of home and somewhere to fight to get to. I remember one time where a girl dropped her token, a sphere of wood, off her platform and was blown sky high. Another time, Katniss Everdeen took in a golden mockingjay pin and started a rebellion. The tokens were more than just objects.

"I don't have one."

"It won't help you much anyways."

The floor beneath my feet began to rise, as did the water in my throat, but I pushed it back down. I can't panic—not now. Panic never did anyone any good.

My reasoning didn't stop my thoughts from going haywire. Everything was moving too fast, including the tile beneath my feet. Was it only a couple of weeks ago I sat in my apartment, waiting for the war to blow over and maybe I could build something from the ashes? Was it only a few months before that I was still training with my father with no knowledge of a rebellion? Was it only not long ago I sat in an office with the scent of blood surrounding me?

"Don't die," Johanna says. She disappears from view.

I think that's the only piece of truthful and genuine advice she has ever given me. I better take it to heart.

The platform rose, taking me into the arena.

I always thought I've been awake this entire time, that the others were the ones still living in their man-made fantasies and I was the only one who knew the trouble we were in. But now, as I got my first look at the arena, I realized I was no better than them.

The Games were very real. And I was here to play.

Watching it on television didn't compare to the pure chaotic beauty of real arenas. My father took me to see quite a few, showing me where people died and how others used what was around them to stay alive. Even then, it was like a stage set for a play—not a real place where people fought and died. No amount of knowledge or training could prepare someone for that. You had to live it.

The arena was beautiful every way I looked. To one side, I saw rolling, snowy mountains. To the other, a deep beautiful ocean surrounded by sand. Directly across from me, a dense forest with tall pine trees shining in a bright sun that blinded me at first.

At first, I thought they reused the clock idea from the last Hunger Games. I blinked—almost laughed. Johanna was right, this was all just bittersweet justice.

I could make out the low, dusty mines of District 12, the urban area of District 8, even the hum of power from what I assumed to be District 3.

Around my platform, the area where if I was to step off, I'd be blown to pieces, was coated in fine carpet with elaborate swirls and shapes.