16. Chapter 4 Zayn's POV
You are just the dregs of the ultimate food chain."
" You can't fight the system."
"Was Carver just a shadow they drew?" " '
the dregs' " " 'Carver' "
" fight the system " And those words bounced off the walls and led me to believe they came from somebody in real time. "Hm?" grunting with awareness, looking to Coy expectantly to acknowledge what she just said. Still, she shook her head with melancholia, the state of gloom eclipsing her face.
We all are living in a dream. And it's though she is saying "
Leave me to dream." Now that we had (reluctantly) completed our Tribute Parade, it was time for the nitty gritty. The actual reason we spent a week in the Capitol. The coconut macarons and pompous tea in Worcester cups must of looked eternal for those without a mourn on their mind. Either way, there's no point in indulging oneself now when any minute now we would have to burn ten fold those treats in fervent training. And half of the calorie burning would be from distressed panicking from co-existing in the same four walls as all the pretty teenage eyes with bloodshed as their goal. How it was already time to descend 8 floors to the gym, only my daydreaming knew. The popular thing now with Coy was to cling her arm to mine with death as her grip. Secretly I cherished this as something I just couldn't receive in 96 hours. And it came in handy when you're in a spacey elevator with 2 of the many white bodied soldiers wanting us dead. That was when the transportation paused swiftly, peacefully to the 4th floor. Either the 'latest in tech' elevator with face recognition broke down, or we were picking up the tributes from District 4. My brain chose the latter.
Splendid. In my mind I wanted stupidly to have met the Careers at a safe distance, slipping in dirty looks while I demonstrated how lethal District 7 men really are in the training arena. Instead, I'll be close enough to smell the blood on their tongues and awkward enough to catch their eye for more than needed. But after seeing the sea-born pair gather into the elevator, I was more or less relieved. Their bodyguards seemed more likely to bare their teeth than this duo. The boy was gauky, which would be acceptable in real life, but an unfortunate disadvantage in the Games. I sensed he was even more antsy than I. Fiddling the smaller hand connected to his one, hefty one. Then, I followed the petite limb to the female tribute. Who couldn't be a day older than Coy, even if she tried. Her features would be a neon sign against whatever setting the arena was in. Again, her hair tint and eyes would be acceptable in real life, pretty even, but it was a dead giveaway here. She lacked the normality of blinking by also locking onto a spot with her vision. Which happened to be Coy's face. I sideways glanced to her profile to see if she decided to eat those pastries and left behind crumbs. Nothing. I caught onto the fact they were probably judging us as we are them. And as soon as that familiar ping reminded us we've arrived, the lanky male tribute stomped out of their as if I was the Career myself, yanking the poor girl with him like a flag in the wind. The koala bear clinging to it's branch ( or my arm) exchanged raised eyebrows with me before we got that familiar jolt to the back to hurry up. That was the moment we walked in.
You can't fight the friction. A boy, crying in his own vomit, throwing random punches to the matted floor. Two people standing off. A boy and a girl, both looking the oldest age to qualify in the Games, foreheads pressing together in sheer disgust. One or the other ready to spit, or punch,
something. That was when the boy cocked his head back and plowed into her's. Cherry bomb droplets fell to the floor just as she. He nodded in triumph, before wavering and collapsing atop the fallen girl tribute. Both our heads seemed to manifest migraines, Coy's and I's. Too stunned to cry, traumatized. The refuge to all this was a beaten down center with rope-like cloth circling around a duo of busy tributes sitting Indian style on the mats. A gave a point to the boy and girl for Coy's attention and her eyelashes fluttered in excitement. She rushed to their side without my aid. At first I felt crimson with anger that she didn't ask for my permission. But, then I realized she won't have anybody to ask in the Hunger Games. She yearns independence. By the time I reached their sanctuary, the lovely, wheat-haired woman was blissfully teaching Coy the type of silk by stroking it with ease. " It's a shit-hole here, innit?" The male tribute, sighed. Not bothering to watch his language. "Mind if we work here?" not bothering with friendly introductions. "What District 8's is District 7's." with a subtle shake of the cinnamon hair, he sends out a shockingly teeny hand. " 'M Louis."