To Reach for Victory
Chapter 2
Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.
The next morning, I wake up in Tarsus's bed. He's spooned in behind me, and it feels nice having his arms wrapped around me like this. My legs are entwined with his.
Then it sinks in. Today is Reaping Day.
I put that out of my mind as I snuggle in for a couple more minutes.
Unfortunately, a single bang on the door brings that to an end, as his mother says, "Wake up, Tarsus! And I know you're in there too, Aurelius. Your parents want you home before the Reaping!"
Shit. There goes my plan for one more round with Tarsus.
Maybe it's for the best. As ridiculous as it seems, what if he's right about something happening during the Reaping?
I grudgingly slip out from his embrace. He rubs the blankets, mumbling, "'relius? Y'there?"
I laugh and shake his shoulder. "Hey, big guy. Rise and shine!"
Tarsus's eyes open and he whines, "Aw man, I was having such a nice dream about you!"
"What was it, anyway?"
He frowns, trying to remember. As he yawns, he says, "Don't remember. It was just nice."
"Hey. My parents want me home before the Reaping starts at two. Meetcha there, okay? I'll try to ditch Janus."
It's not that Janus and I don't get along. We're cousins, after all. But we're just not that close. A big part of it is that he washed out of Career training when he was only thirteen. The CEC let him go after he seriously blew his unarmed combat evaluations, and he told me later he had some kind of coordination problem that kept him from putting his fighting moves together well. Careers tend to hang out with each other, so Janus gradually moved out of my social circle. And to be honest, I'd rather hang out with my more-than-friend and training partner.
Tarsus gets out of bed and is preparing to take a shower. I get my clothes on and get ready to leave. I can just shower at my parents' place.
As I put my hand on the doorknob to leave the room, Tarsus beckons me over. He grabs the back of my neck to pull me closer, and kisses me deeply. I put my hand on his chest to steady myself, and I can feel his heart beating a bit faster than usual.
After a few more moments, he lets go of me and puts his hand on my chest. He says, "I'll see you at the Reaping. Good luck, okay?"
"Yeah, you too." I poke him in the chest and say, "Hey. Be punctual."
I get a poke in return and he replies, "Same to you. Get outta here. Your parents'll get upset if you stick around too much longer."
As I leave the house, I wave a cursory good-bye to Tarsus's parents and walk down the street to my parents' place. Most people live in one-floor houses with gabled roofs. The streets are paved, and a fair number of the luckier ones in Two have cars. We don't, but then a Peacekeeper can't afford to get out of shape, and a CEC coach certainly can't. We can use the trains that go between the villages if we have to, though I've almost never had to go to the other villages.
After about a fifteen-minute walk, I'm back home, and my parents are just setting out the plates for breakfast. I say, "Hi. I was—"
My father brusquely replies, "We know. Your friend Tarsus. I ran into his parents after coming off patrol. Get cleaned up and dress in a proper outfit."
Mom briefly waves at me. I wave back and rush to my room. After peeling off my clothes from yesterday, I go through my morning ritual, remembering to shave as well.
After I finish shaving, I look at myself in the mirror, thinking for a moment like a Capitol citizen. Question: Would this guy be worth sponsoring?
My face is angular, not broad, which seems to sort of fit the Capitol's beauty standard. My hands and fingers are maybe a bit bigger than some other peoples', but at least they make me look like I'm a tribute who can kill anything he sees. I'm quick on my feet, too.
Being quick and being able to fight anyone: that's the thing that makes Tarsus and me good sparring partners. Whatever we may be, in the CEC when we're opposite each other, we're enemies. The person who spots you in weight training can be your opponent somewhere else. Friends who don't go all out against each other get forced to fight one another until they learn this lesson.
We voluntarily spar at least once a sparring day, and we've done damage to each other. I've lost count of the bruises we've given each other. Once, I dislocated Tarsus's shoulder in unarmed combat, and in swordfighting, he gave me a wicked cut along my right arm. Brutus liked seeing the scar that left. It's about eight centimeters going from my elbow to about a third of the way down my lower arm.
If there was a factory for tributes I suspect my body would probably have been one of the choices. I'm not quite as bulky as some of the past tributes, but I've heard rumors about why some tributes and not others seem almost disproportionately sized for their age. If the rumors are true I'm glad I didn't go that route. Those side effects seem kind of unpleasant.
But all in all, I like the impression I give. So, yeah, I could get sponsors. But how many?
Mentally turning away from those thoughts, I shrug. I'm not even sure what I'll do after I turn nineteen. Probably learn guns and be a Peacekeeper somewhere. I really don't want to work in the stone quarries. It's backbreaking work and it can take a toll even on the strongest of us who leave the CEC.
Anyway, breakfast calls. I get dressed in my best shirt, a clean white long-sleeved one with buttons up the front, and my one good pair of pants which are black slacks. My shirt and pants feel strange against my skin; usually I wear T-shirts and shorts at training.
After that, I go to the kitchen and eat in silence. It's one egg and a tiny piece of ham. It's a small luxury my mom has allowed me, since she usually follows the CEC's controlled diet for Careers rigidly. Normally breakfast is oatmeal with skim milk she makes from a powder. I'm fortunate. I've heard people in some Districts don't even get one meal a day, if Dad's Peacekeeper friends back from their tour of duty are any guide.
My father's apparently just choosing to totally ignore what I got up to last night, which is fine with me. I think I could probably kiss Tarsus in front of Mom, though, and she'd just shrug and say, "He can fight, so you two should be able to get along."
Now that I've finished breakfast, I should probably drink some coffee even if I don't really like it. Our mayor's got a tendency to drone on when we just want to see whose names come out of the big glass Reaping balls. I look at Mom, who allows me one cup. She's mixed some of the cheap crap you can get in the store with some special Capitol stuff, and the combination takes some of the edge off the aftertaste. I think she's allowed to get Capitol coffee because she trains us.
But I definitely feel wide awake now.
I make my excuses and say I'm going to visit Janus. Dad says, "See you at the square, then." Mom nods at me and gestures to get moving.
Janus also lives in the main village, near the town square, and I can see the television crews setting up in the distance. Uncle Thasius is home, and I shake hands with him and give Janus a brief hug. He's happy I'm there. I guess he wants to show off his latest toys.
On the long bench along one side of his room I see he's field-stripped an older-model rifle used about ten years ago before it got replaced by the new one. He shows me a few paper targets, all with neat little holes in the center. I whistle in appreciation. "Janus, how far away are you from these when you shoot?"
He shrugs. "Couple hundred meters, maybe?"
My eyes widen. "Shit, you're good. We don't really do guns at the CEC 'cause tributes would be deadly with 'em. I mean, we're taught something about how they get made, but no practicing with them. The closest is archery. My best has been a hundred percent at, like, five meters."
Janus smirks as he reassembles the rifle fluidly, each piece locking into place as though he worked at the factory that made it. "Five versus two hundred, Aurelius. You'd be dead before you even saw me."
"Not arguing with that."
"Hey, why don't you come over more often, anyway?" Janus has blond hair, like me, but his eyes are brown. I can see the hurt look in them, though he's trying to hide it from me.
Damn it, what am I supposed to do now? It's Reaping Day! We don't have time for a big long yadda-yadda bring-the-family-closer chat. It's mostly my fault anyway, for pulling away from him.
Not voicing any of these thoughts, I mutter, "Stuff. Y'know."
He snickers. "Yeah, like Tarsus stuffing your ass. Or do you stuff his? I've heard things. Your dad talks to mine, you know."
I narrow my eyes at him. "Hey. Shut the fuck up, okay? You even get a girlfriend yet? Or boyfriend?"
"Actually, yeah. I did get a girlfriend," says Janus nonchalantly. "Her name's Callia. She's a year younger than me."
"Never seen her at the CEC."
"'Course you wouldn't. I go to the Academy, same as her," retorts Janus.
Everybody goes to the Academy (which has a much fancier name, but I can never remember it) until they're twelve. Then the lucky ones (like me) get picked out to go to the CEC. The rest stay to get a general education up to the age of sixteen or seventeen. People from there go to work in the quarries, or train as Peacekeepers. Some people, like Tarsus's parents, are lucky enough to get jobs in the factories that make all kinds of weapons.
Janus is allowed to have the rifle he's got since he's signed up for Peacekeeper training. He's apparently already impressed them with his marksmanship, and he thinks he can get special training to be a sniper; that's someone who can shoot at very long range, very accurately.
I'm honestly happy that he knows what he wants to do. I just wish I knew the same. My thoughts drift back to Janus and his family.
I never knew my aunt. It's rare in District Two, but some women still die giving birth and my aunt was one of them. Uncle Thasius never remarried, but he's seen women off and on over the years. Never settled down though.
For some reason, thinking about missing a family member makes me blurt, "I wanted to volunteer for you at your Reaping, you know."
Janus doesn't look impressed. "Not from where I'm standing you didn't. I heard about what Brutus said, you know."
I point menacingly and bark, "Do not continue that sentence if you know what's good for you."
When he's kept his mouth shut for a few seconds, I continue. "I wanted to volunteer, damn it. You have no idea, no fucking idea how much I've kicked myself for that. Do you know I was humiliated in front of everybody I knew in my age group in training? You know they made me do double rounds of training for a week after the Games ended?"
I'm so angry now I want to hit something. Anything. But I don't want to hit Janus, so I settle for an incoherent growl as I smash my fist into his bed, hearing the springs creak in protest.
Janus is eyeing me warily. This is probably the first time he's seen the way we Careers let out aggression. He runs his hand through his hair and says, "I–I'm sorry. I didn't know it really did mean that much to you."
I sigh. "I just don't like being reminded of what Brutus said, okay?"
Nervously, he changes the subject. "Look, uh, you wanna go check out who they might send from the Capitol this year?"
I chuckle. "More like you want to check out Callia, right?"
"Shut up. She's pretty, that's all." Janus blushes a bit. "But yeah, I want to be near her before they split us up into age groups."
"Okay, let's go. Where's Uncle Thasius?"
"Dad should be just outside. He likes to sit on the porch before we go to the Reaping."
Janus fidgets nervously and doesn't open the bedroom door, though.
He blurts, "Are you all like that? Machines?"
Softly, I say, "Janus, listen to me. People like me are chosen so you won't have to ever turn yourself off to fight. Feel sorry for the people we meet in the Arena, not for us Careers."
I show the scar on my right arm. "See this? Tarsus did that to me during training when we were swordfighting. At the moment he did that, he wasn't looking at Aurelius his friend. He was looking at an enemy."
"But what did you do to hi—"
"We were training with flails and I got him across the back. He's still got a small scar from where it cut the skin open. Another time, I dislocated his shoulder."
Janus's eyes are wide. "I've never been so glad I washed out of training after evals. We'd eventually have hurt each other, wouldn't we?"
I shrug. "Price of being a Career," I point out.
His hand trembles as he reaches for my shoulder. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just clasps my shoulder, then pats my back. It seems to be more for him than for me, as though he's reassuring himself I still have a heart that beats and flesh that stays warm.
Just outside the front door, I notice throngs of people migrating to the town square, and Uncle Thasius grunts as he stands up. He's got a twinge of something called sciatica, something the Capitol could cure immediately but which would cost him a lot of money to get treated.
But we live to serve the Capitol, and I muse on that no more.
We head to the Reaping ceremonies.
Janus breaks off when he sees his girlfriend. Callia looks pretty nice. She's almost his height and has black hair. Soon after, Uncle Thasius and I meet my parents, and I rush ahead to find Tarsus.
I catch up with him at the town square, where the Justice Building is located. One thing that always amazes me is how a square that doesn't really seem that large can squeeze tens of thousands into it, if needed. We go into the roped-off area for the sixteen-year-olds. I spot Drusus and stand so I'm between him and Tarsus. He bumps shoulders with me and leans in to say, "Thanks."
I shrug. It's no problem. Tarsus doesn't hold grudges, but you'd have to really know him to know that.
The facial expressions I see on the Careers are very familiar. Our Success Masks, I call them. You put on this blank face – not a smile, not a frown, and you stare through anything and anyone as though they aren't there.
When you first see it at twelve years old, it can be a little unnerving. The CEC officially bans hazing, but there's a way of passing it on from one group to the next. What the eighteen-year-olds do is put their Success Masks on, walk into the gym on the first day with the twelve-year-olds, and give 'em that stare. The instructors are always conveniently absent.
Then the fear of the Capitol strikes them when one of the eighteens says, "One of you little shrimps, come up and fight me. Now."
One of them always faints when that happens.
When I was twelve, it was Janus who fainted. I admit to being pretty scared myself, my legs shaking as I looked up with wide eyes at these tall, bulky almost-adults who could probably snap someone's back without even blinking.
Then they all grinned in unison and left.
I remember watching a group of eighteen-year-olds leaving the gym just after the first new twelves showed up, and after they closed the door the group burst out laughing. The eighteens that scared me when I was twelve probably did just that.
The Success Mask is also a good way to hide when you're hurting like hell, physically or emotionally. The CEC sometimes mixes things up and has different age groups fight each other to get us used to different fighting styles than we're familiar with. Twelves fight thirteens, thirteens fight twelves or fourteens, and it goes up the ages like that. It is also a good way for the instructors to evaluate us.
A few months ago, Tarsus went up against a somewhat familiar-looking seventeen-year-old girl who was as tall as he was, and who was really good with a sword. He lost two rounds, and in the third he nearly got impaled on her sword. In moving backward, he tripped and fell on his back, losing his sword in the process. At that point, the trainer blew the whistle, ending the thing.
Nobody had to say anything to know it wasn't good for him. But Tarsus didn't let anything show as he stood up, brushed himself off and shook the girl's hand.
The only clue I had as to how much it cost him to be humiliated by someone older was after he stood next to me. As I brushed his shoulder with mine, I could feel him trembling, and I saw a muscle pulse under his jaw. That was all. His face was blank; no expression at all.
Tarsus told me later his trainer forced him to practice with a sword for twelve hours straight on what would have been his day off.
That has happened to me, as well. When I was thirteen, I lost spectacularly in wrestling against a fourteen-year-old. My trainer made me wrestle a sixteen-year-old on my day off until I couldn't move anymore.
My thoughts come back to the present as the crowd begins to fall silent. I see Mayor Leckstrom and our Capitol escort standing near the podium, ready to go on about the history of the Games and our District's willingness to serve the Capitol.
Maybe at one point this speech was interesting. Now it's just boring. But I've long instinctively understood that openly showing boredom is dangerous. So I keep my Success Mask on, staring at the mayor, who's now deep in the middle of blather about the oceans rising.
But finally the speech is over, and now he's announcing the past Victors. I see Brutus and Lyme among the others. We've put in a pretty decent showing over the last sixty years or so, compared to District Twelve, which has just the one guy, Hayseed, or Hay-something.
Once the mayor is done, our Capitol escort, who, as best as I can tell, seems to be just one big orange thing from head to toe, bellows, "Welcome, everyone! Let's see who we send to the Capitol this year!"
Huh. We've got a woman this year. She's new, then. And now the Reapings begin.
The woman yells, "Just for some variety, we'll draw the boys first this time!"
Tarsus and I exchange a glance, then shrug. Since the mayor hasn't moved to intervene and the Peacekeepers aren't moving in, I guess the Capitol escorts can do what they like as long as the names get drawn.
She draws from the glass ball containing the boys' names, and with a flourish she pulls out a piece of paper and reads the name.
"Tarsus Silva!"
Author Notes: Thanks go to SkyWriter9 for the beta work! :-)
