Chapter 47 : The Tribute Center
The elevator stopped at District 4's floor first.
Finnick Odair entered like he owned every space he occupied—bronze skin gleaming, sea-green eyes measuring everything, smile already in place. Behind him, an elderly woman moved slowly, her silence carrying weight I couldn't identify.
"District 12." Finnick's voice was honey and danger combined. "The famous volunteers. I've been hoping to meet you properly."
He produced a sugar cube from somewhere, offered it to Katniss with theatrical flourish. "Sugar?"
"No thanks."
"Suit yourself." He popped it into his own mouth, sucked thoughtfully. His eyes moved to me, calculating. "You're the interesting one."
"Am I?"
"Survived wounds that should have killed you. Took a spear for a child. Forced the Gamemakers to crown three victors." The smile sharpened. "Interesting is an understatement."
The elderly woman—Mags, I remembered from the files—watched our exchange without speaking. Her eyes were sharp despite her age, taking everything in.
"We're all interesting," I said. "That's why we're here."
"True enough." The elevator stopped at our floor. Finnick's expression shifted—still charming, but something genuine flickering beneath. "We should talk. Really talk. When you're ready."
He stepped back as we exited. The doors closed on his knowing smile.
The District 12 floor was familiar.
Same layout as last year, same excessive luxury, same sense of being displayed like merchandise. I cased the rooms immediately, moving through each space with purpose while Katniss and Haymitch settled in.
My Blind Spot mapped camera positions, identified surveillance gaps, found the corners where conversation might be private. Not many. The Quarter Quell merited enhanced watching.
The tribute supplies were better this year—acknowledgment that contestants were valuable assets, not expendable children. I touched everything useful: high-quality nutrition bars, a medical scanner more advanced than anything in my first arena, enhanced water purification tablets.
One hundred items now. The storage space stretched to accommodate, growing under pressure of need.
Haymitch gathered us for evening briefing.
"Finnick approached you deliberately," he said. "He's testing."
"For what?"
"Alliances. Information. He's been playing Capitol politics since he was fifteen—he knows how to read people, find leverage, build coalitions." Haymitch's eyes were sharp. "But be careful. Smart enough to have multiple agendas means smart enough to betray you if the calculation changes."
"You think he's dangerous?"
"Everyone in that arena is dangerous. The question is what kind." He pulled up more files. "Johanna Mason. District 7. Won by pretending to be weak, then slaughtering her competition when they underestimated her."
The photograph showed a woman with short dark hair and eyes that promised violence. "She's volatile. Hates the Capitol openly. Could be an ally if she decides to trust you. Could cut your throat if she doesn't."
"Anyone else worth noting?"
"Beetee and Wiress from District 3. Technical geniuses, won their Games through invention rather than combat." He frowned. "Wiress is eccentric. Speaks in fragments, hard to follow. But Beetee says she sees patterns others miss."
"And the Careers?"
"Already coordinating. I've intercepted communications—coded but obvious. They're planning to operate as a unit from the start, probably try to recruit Finnick and maybe Johanna."
The picture forming in my mind was complex. Twenty-four victors with decades of history, grudges, alliances, and ambitions all colliding in one arena.
"What about the rebellion?"
Haymitch went still. "What about it?"
"You said help is coming. That something bigger is happening." I met his gaze. "Some of these victors are part of it."
Long pause. "The less you know—"
"The less I can reveal. I know." I held his stare. "But I need to know who I can trust when everything falls apart."
"When the time comes," he said finally, "trust the people who should be your enemies but aren't acting like it. Trust the ones who have every reason to play Snow's game but seem to be playing something else."
Not a direct answer. But something.
I couldn't sleep.
The Capitol glittered beyond my window, obscene wealth displayed in every light. Somewhere in that city, people were celebrating the upcoming Games—betting on tributes, planning viewing parties, treating our deaths as entertainment.
The training center was visible below. Through the windows, I could see movement: someone swimming powerful laps in the pool. Someone else destroying training dummies with systematic fury.
Finnick and Johanna. Already preparing while others slept.
I poured Capitol coffee—obscenely good, rich and smooth—and watched the city lights. Entertainment. That's all we were. Pawns in Snow's game, characters in stories written by people who'd never held weapons.
But stories could be rewritten. Pawns could become players.
And somewhere in this glittering nightmare, people were working to bring it all down.
I drank my coffee and waited for dawn.
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