I: The Beginning

It starts with the knife.

Seeder is the one who tells me to get the Gamemakers' attention. She says that they watch recordings of us training, and that some of them even come live and see everything through one-way glass. Usually they only pay attention to the weapons stations, but she thought that maybe I could make a bit of an impression if I did something really special.

Since my biggest talent is being sneaky, I decided that I should do something to show them how sneaky I am.

For the first part of the session, I'm not entirely sure how to go about doing so. Then I find my focus drifting to the Careers. Cato throws knives with Clove, while Marvel and Glimmer squabble over a bow at the archery session. Eventually their noise gets to be too much for the District Two tributes, and Cato sets down his knife and stomps over to break up their argument.

That's when I get the idea. I can show everyone that I'm sneaky and brave.

I quietly make my way over to where all of the Careers are arguing. After making sure that they're all appropriately diverted, I pluck the knife off the table and disappear behind a bunch of training equipment. Then, just to be safe, I scatter up the climbing ropes until I'm pressed right up against the ceiling.

Once I'm settled in, I look down at the Careers to make sure none of them saw-

-and gasp with fear when my eyes lock with Marvel's. He's disentangled himself from the spat and is hovering a few feet away, with his lips twisted into a very amused smirk. My heart stops and I wait for him to call me out on what I did, but instead he winks and gives me a thumbs up, and then walks pointedly away from Cato.

Getting out of the way before the storm hits.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, and slump against the ropes.

He didn't tell, and it doesn't look like he's going to either. It's so easy to forget, seeing all the Careers laughing with each other and training together, but they really aren't friends. Marvel probably doesn't like Cato. Probably thinks it's funny that I picked on him.

It's sad, almost. That they really can't trust each other. But right now I'm more relieved about it than anything, because I know that Cato would've went after me right away in the arena if he knew I'd taken his knife. At least I don't have to worry about that.

I smile with relief, and wait until Cato is finished throwing his fit before I return to the ground. Discreetly, I place the knife exactly where I found it.

When Cato sees it there a little bit later, his cheeks turn red. My eyes travel to Marvel, and this time I'm close enough to see that his eyes are very pale green, and dancing with laughter.

…

I sneak down to the training room to work with weapons later that night. I told Seeder about my idea to follow Katniss and Peeta and learn what I can from them, and she said that was fine, but that I should maybe work a little bit extra on defending myself too.

I'd had enough time during the day to visit some of the stations and learn the basics, but hadn't gotten the opportunity to really practice anything, so I'd asked Seeder if I could maybe go down later at night. She shrugged and said it was fine, and so that's exactly what I do.

The room is very eerie when it's empty, but I like it better this way. It's downright scary during the day, when everyone is learning to use maces and knives and swords. When they're all learning how to kill each other.

Now all the tributes are gone, and it isn't quite so terrifying.

I go to the knife station right away. It's the most practical. Spears and swords and things like maces or axes are probably too big for me. But knives are small. I can use knives.

I look through the collection and pick one that looks like it'd fit in my hand well, and then I hold it the way the man at the station told me to. It feels okay, but when I flick my wrist and send it flying towards a dummy, it misses completely.

I frown and try again. This time it hits the dummy but doesn't stick. Next throw, I try to copy Clove instead of just doing what the man taught me. She's the closest tribute to my size, and she was really good with knives, so I hope that moving like she does will maybe help. I can't quite recall exactly what her form was like, but I do remember how sharply she followed through. I make sure to do the same.

The knife only nicks the dummy's shoulder, but it leaves a mark.

Someone claps behind me, and I yelp in surprise. Quickly, I turn around and tell myself to be brave, that no one can hurt me yet, but my bravery goes away really quickly when I see Marvel sauntering towards me. I hadn't noticed before, but he's at least a foot and a half taller than I am. He's smiling too, which scares me even more than his intimidating size.

Careers aren't supposed to smile, and I find myself worrying that he's like the sharks I've read about in my science books, except that instead of being attracted to blood, Marvel likes the smell of fear. I worry that he can hear my pounding heart and sense the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream, and that he's taking pleasure in it.

It's ridiculous, but I am absolutely certain that he's smiling because I am afraid.

"You're a clever little rat, aren't you?" he asks lightly. "You have two bad tosses and figure that something must be wrong. So you adapt. And improve." His eyes are the color of sea glass. "It's what animals do to survive."

"I- is that what you see me as?" I ask in a shaking voice. "An a-animal?"

Marvel shrugs.

"Or a target."

He says it so dispassionately that it scares me even further, because I realize in that moment that I don't want to be killed by someone who thinks I'm a target. I want the person who kills me to know that they're taking a life. It's unlikely that Marvel will be the exact person who takes me out, but he's here and he has to listen, and maybe he'll even let his allies know what I have to say.

"I-I am a person," I choke out. My voice trembles and I take a deep breath and force myself to sound just a little bit more confident. "My name is Rue. I… I like to sing and watch the clouds with my best friend and I have five little siblings." I look down and whisper the last part: "The youngest two probably won't remember me if I die in the arena."

His eyes flash. His smile fades. He did not want to know that, and now he is angry with me.

"You are a target," he hisses. Like he needs to remind himself. "An outer district rat, and I will kill you if I get the chance."

"Of course you will, Marvel," I say. I don't want to be here alone with him anymore, and I start walking away. Before I leave, I find myself whispering, "And I don't hold it against you. Your life isn't worth any less than mine, and you want to get home too."

He chokes on his next breath, but I keep walking, too intent on getting away from him to notice.

…

I practice knives at training the next day.

I hear Marvel before I see him, because he walks like an ox. It's hard to believe, that someone Thresh's size can move so very quietly, but a person as lean as Marvel seems unable to get anywhere without slapping his feet against the floor.

With the peacekeepers around and so many witnesses surrounding us, I even feel safe enough to find his utter lack of grace a little bit funny.

"How did you know my name?" he asks, a second after coming to a stop beside me.

Without waiting for an answer, he casually picks up a knife and makes to toss it. I halt my own throw and watch him, paying careful attention to his form. His long arms give him powerful leverage, and the dummy rocks when the knife slams into its stomach.

It's scary, how much force he puts behind it, but I can't help but notice that the movement is slow and inefficient. He throws knives the same way he'd throw a spear. It isn't good form, and I decide not to try to copy it.

I flick my own knife. I've gotten a little better with extra help from the instructor. This time, it sticks in the dummy's side.

Then I look at Marvel.

"I know all of the tributes' names."

"That makes them harder to kill," he says, in a voice that tells me he thinks I'm an idiot.

I smile sadly and pick up another knife.

"I don't think I have much chance at killing anyone anyway," I tell him honestly. This time, the knife clunks off the dummy's chest and falls to the ground, emphasizing my point. I make a face. "I really don't want to try. Maybe… maybe I won't have to."

His knife lodges in the dummy's throat. It wobbles back and forth seven times before stopping.

"You're pathetic," Marvel says.

We're quiet for a while. I get several good sticks and can't help but feel a little bit proud of my progress.

Marvel never misses.

My arm tires before his, and when I stop to take a break, I look at him and ask, without really thinking about it, "Why did you volunteer?"

He's in the middle of his throwing motion, and the knife soars over the dummy's head and clatters against the wall behind it.

"That," he says, "is none of your business."

Then he walks away.

…

I don't expect Marvel to return to the training room that night, but he's already there when I arrive. I hover in the doorway for some time, watching with wide eyes while he launches spears at dummy after dummy. I have no doubt that his form with this weapon is perfect. Several times, he throws so forcefully that his targets fall over backwards.

I imagine that it would be very painful to be on the receiving end of one of those tosses, and the thought scares me enough that I almost leave.

I don't.

Instead, I take a deep breath and amble forward, until I'm standing next to the knife station. I know that Marvel hears me, but he doesn't acknowledge my presence. After some time, I forget that he's there and start focusing on my technique as the thud of his spears fades into the background.

Then the noise stops and suddenly his footsteps are slapping against the hard floor, all the way up until they come to a stop right beside me.

"My father doesn't respect me," Marvel says suddenly, his voice low. "That's why I volunteered. Because everyone respects victors."

It takes me a second to place why he's telling me this, but then I remember my question from earlier and I suddenly understand. Pity that he wouldn't want me to feel squeezes at my heart, and I want to tell him I'm sorry and your father is an idiot, but I know he wouldn't like that.

So instead I turn and give him a little smile and say, "Thank you for answering me."

He crosses his arms over his chest and grunts.

I go to throw and he says, "Elbow in."

I hesitate because his form really wasn't all that good, but then I realize that maybe that's on purpose—that his motion is long and slow because he'd rather get more force behind his knives than get off quicker throws. I mean, I'd imagine that his Career training would have taught him how to throat a knife properly, if he wanted to.

I shoot him a grateful smile, and then I throw again—this time making sure to keep my elbow in.

The knife hits the target dead on.

"Can I make you a deal?" I ask, looking at him suddenly. Marvel gestures for me to keep speaking, and I go on, "If you can help me throw knives, I'll show you how to walk quietly." He rolls his eyes and opens his mouth and I know that he's going to tell me how stupid of a trade that is, but I interrupt before he can. "I stole Cato's knife and he didn't notice. If you could do that in the arena…"

He grins.

"I could sneak up on the motherfucker and stab him in the back." His tone alarms me and I don't do a very good job at hiding it, but Marvel only smiles sheepishly. "Sorry." He clears his throat. "Now, pick up the knife again, but try tightening your grip just a little…"

We keep going until I get five good hits in a row. Then he makes me start teaching him.

It's fun.

I show him how to walk on the balls of his feet and how to distribute weight and the right way to move his hips. Then, since he won't be walking all that much in the arena, I show him how to run too. Then we go over how to land after jumping.

I like that part the most.

"Imagine you're a bird," I say. "And land like you don't really want to be touching the ground at all. It's really easy."

Then I jump off one of the training platforms I talked him onto, and ghost silently to the floor.

"For you," Marvel pants. He's red-faced and more out of breath than I am, but he always listens and hasn't asked for a break. He is very determined. "You weigh about five pounds. If I were that size, I could be quiet too."

"It's not about size," I tell him, thinking of Thresh. "You just have to know how to move. Now try."

He jumps and his feet clatter against the floor. I can't quite hold back a laugh, and Marvel sends me an almost playful glare. Then he takes a deep breath and drags himself back up onto the platform.

"Watch how you distribute your weight—it should be the same as you did when we worked on walking and running."

I think maybe he lands a little more quietly this time. Maybe. But not as quietly as he could land.

"Let's try something different. You need to get lighter on your feet, and this isn't helping as much as I'd like." I reach out and grab one of his hands and tell him, "Dance with me."

I think I surprise him so much that he can't form the right words to say no. Instead, he manages awkwardly, "There's no music."

So I start singing a District Eleven folk song, and do my best to lead Marvel through the steps. We figure it out after a while, and once the quick footwork and fancy movements click, it turns out that he's actually a good dancer. A lot less unwieldy than I would've thought, and his big feet only step on mine three or four times.

We do several more dances after that, and then I make him walk again, and then run again, and then jump again. And even though he isn't good yet, he's certainly a lot better.

I tell him so, and he smiles so genuinely that I can tell he doesn't get complimented very often. I remember what he said about his father and suddenly I very much want to slap that man in the face.

Except then we stop outside the training room and Marvel scratches his head awkwardly and says, "Goodnight Rue."

And suddenly all I can think about is that he acknowledged I have a name.

…

...

Author's Note:

I actually wrote this last summer, decided it was too odd, and left it to die on my computer. But since I haven't been producing much lately and don't have any stories finished except a single one-shot, I started looking back through my old Documents for rejected one-shots and mostly-finished works and found this. It's four or five chapters (I'm too lazy to check) of about this length, and is completely finished.

It'll read very quickly, and the character progression will be fast because of it. That's mainly because it was intended to be a one-shot but grew a bit too long to be posted in one go; I apologize if it makes anyone seem OOC.

Any criticisms or support would be much appreciated, especially because I don't think anyone has written anything like this before. I guess I just noticed that everyone always seems to connect the two, even unfavorably. I mean, they died at the same time, and Marvel is pretty much solely remembered because of his role in Rue's death. It's a twisted connection, but I think it can have a good dynamic if it's handled right. Anyway, there are depressingly few Rue-centric fics, so this will hopefully go towards helping that as well.

That's pretty much everything... I'll post again in a few days, when the next chapter is edited and everything.