Octavia 'Tavia' Pander -- D2 [done!]

Career Training Facility - Annual Evaluations - 45:03

"We've got to talk about her at some point, you know."

"I guess." Sigh. "All right. What do your evaluations for Octavia Pander look like this year?"

"Do we really have to go over this again? It's just the same thing over and over again." Rustling of papers.

"Yes -- unfortunately. Her father pays us just like the rest of them do. So let's just get it over with."

"Fine, fine. The less said about where that freak gets his money, the better."

"Ok. What do her primary strengths seem to be?"

"Honestly? Doing what she's told. If we give her an instruction, she'll usually manage it fine. But otherwise, she just stands in the middle of the training floor, completely blank. I don't know if she's rebelling or slow or what. It's just creepy."

"Can she fight?"

"Yeah. Slightly above average efficiency, I'd say, unless someone is coaching her through the whole thing. If she ever learned to think for herself, I'd say she was a force to be reckoned with. But as it stands..."

"I get your point. I guess that covers her weaknesses too, then. Can she really not do anything on her own?"

"Well, it's not like she's comatose. She takes care of her needs fine. She survives, but -- I don't know -- it doesn't seem like she's alive. She never talks to anyone, and no one talks to her. That makes her easier to handle than some of our more fiery students, I guess. The arena's no place for complacency, though."

"Could we team her up with someone? Make her a kind of guard dog for a stronger tribute, to give him a better chance at winning."

"I suppose. But it would be risky. Personally, I'd prefer having two strong tributes who hate each other."

"I see." More shuffling of papers. "Does anyone have potential marketing strategies, should she get reaped?"

"No chance. I mean, put some hair on her head and meat on her bones and she'd be decently pretty. But as she is now? Sponsors'd be put off, unless her freakishness could be played as 'mystique.'"

"And don't get me started on that ridiculous nickname her father is trying to spread. 'Skeleton girl.' Like there's anything intimidating about a skeleton." Laughter.

"What's the deal with her father, anyway? I know there are some nutjobs for parents here, but he seems to reach a whole new level of crazy."

"His brother killed himself after he didn't get reaped. That kinda set the whole family off. The parents are total recluses now, and Octavia's father seems to devote all his time to training her. Not that he's in a good position to handle that, of course. I'd even venture to say she's lucky to have the skills she does with him for a teacher."

"You think he beats her?"

"A few years ago, yeah. The mysterious bruises don't seem to show up as much recently. Who knows why. She's still a stick, though, so I guess he hasn't let up on her food regimen."

"It's kinda sad, when you think about it..."

"This whole business is sad. Let's save our tears for actual contenders, shall we?"

Recording cuts out.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Father says they call me 'the skeleton girl' behind my back. I know that's a lie.

It's not hard to figure it out. He wants me to be perceived as a threat -- but I am not. He wants the other Careers to remember me -- but they do not. He thinks that such a name would humiliate and strengthen me -- but it does not. Thus, it is a lie. And he, a failure.

My father can no longer train me as a Career. When I was a weak, vulnerable child, he had the skill to teach me, to beat the emotion out of me until every one of my emotions disappeared. He gave me the clumsy basics of combat and tried to instill a thirst for blood, the real advantage that put Careers a cut above other tributes. I guess he partially succeeded, for I am able to fake the ravenous hunger for violence my colleagues and classmates show.

But he forgot that, if I have no emotion, I have no passion. I am not able to thirst for blood. In fact, I am not able to want or desire anything.

I simply do as I am instructed. Most of the time, I am instructed to kill. So I do it.

As a child, I had a turbulent relationship with my father. At times, he would lavish me with praise, then beat me within an inch of my life a moment later. He was enough of a father that I felt obligated to love him, and I was naive enough to wonder why he didn't love me back. It was only when I shed all emotion and pretense of relationships that I saw him for what he really was: a broken man shooting for a goal he can never possibly achieve. He told me once, while he was drunk, that my uncle killed himself after he was not Reaped, bringing shame upon our family. In order to reverse our fortune, Father vowed that he would produce the perfect Career, a very monument to triumph and violence.

But he did not create the perfect Career. He created me. He is not intelligent enough to know the difference.

I suppose I am satisfactory. I can handle a variety of weapons, and have adequate ability in the areas of survival. The others do not like me, though. They perceive me as cold, distant -- off. I am not intimidating. I am simply there, silently performing my duties, ignoring the rest of the world. Sometimes they mock me. Most of the time, they simply don't care.

This must be why Father came up with that artificial nickname. Skeleton girl.

I do look like a skeleton somewhat. I keep my head shaven at Father's insistence. My skin is pale and sunken around my eyes, the result of too many nights spent in fruitless training. Father gives me only enough food to sustain me, so I am lanky and scrawny-looking. Only my height is truly an asset to my appearance: I stand at 5'10". I have not looked at my actual face in years, as I simply do not see the point of mirrors, but I notice pitying looks from passers-by. Perhaps I could have been pretty. In another lifetime. With another Father.

For now, I simply nod as he feeds me these heavy-handed, clumsy lies. If he says I am the skeleton girl, then I will act as though I am. It is my instruction. It is my only purpose in life.

I do as I am told.