Justifiably confused.
"What are you doing here?" The words burst from my mouth before I can stop them. There's no telling how long he's been watching me, and if I'm completely honest, I don't want to know. This boy intrigues me, no doubt, but that doesn't change the fact that I'll have to kill him. It's midday, after lunch, so we're the only two in the training room. No one else can witness what happens in here, spare a few mandatory Peacekeepers. Their only job is to make sure we don't kill each other before entering the arena. That won't happen, though. It'd ruin the sport of the game. I miss the boy's response; I'm so caught up in my inner thoughts. He repeats his answer, noticing the glazed look in my eye.
"Training, same as you. What's your name?" His immediate jump to personal questions startles me, but only briefly.
"Oh really," I sneer, gently pulling away a piece of hair that had caught in my lip gloss and ignoring his question, "Because to me it looked like you were staring. I don't see a weapon in your hand." He smiles at this, only adding fuel to the fire. My scowl deepens. Why is this boy so happy? He does know how this game is played, doesn't he?
"That's because you're holding it." The District Seven tribute gestures to the axe lying in my lap underneath the war-hammer. I blush, stupidly, and hand the still warm handle to him.
"My apologies…" I murmur, slightly embarrassed. "My name is Wren, "I add, toying absentmindedly with the war-hammer's deadly spike. The tip pricks my finger and a drop of scarlet blood blossoms from the tiny hole in my skin. I stare at it, transfixed by the sight of my own blood. I wonder what I'll look like covered in it, I wonder, frowning at the microscopic wound.
He shrugs as if the entire exchange never bothered him in the least. "I'm Thatcher. Call me Thatch. Everyone does." Thatcher says simply, shrugging off the uncomfortable awkwardness in the air. As if being unafraid of this entire process isn't intimidating enough, Thatcher takes the axe from my hand and wields it about his body, moving around with blinding speed. The axe flies out of his open hand, nestling into the chest of a dummy approximately 20 feet away from us with a soft thump. I don't understand it. Not only is he getting all up close and personal with me, expressing a friendliness that could land one of my spears in his back, but he's exposed his greatest strengths with one action. My mouth hangs open and I am stunned. Thatcher turns to me with his usual warm smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. In that moment, I know that he knows, too. This is temporary. In just under a week, we'll be fighting to the death and only one of us will make it out alive.
Realizing this makes me think. I watch Thatcher as he turns from me, figuring I won't say anything else. His body is what you'd expect from a young adult that's worked with lumber nearly all his life, but my eyes cannot help but wander from his broad, well muscled shoulders down to his feet which stand with confidence even I envy. He does not notice. Instead, Thatcher continued about the sparsely populated training room, wielding about certain weapons he is unfamiliar with in a klutzy fashion. Clearly he has never touched a spear before, or a bow and arrow, or a sword. I smirk, allowing the Capitol's version of a war-hammer to tumble from my lap onto the floor with a dull thud.
"So what's your angle?" I question, breaking the heavy silence. He laughs and turns to me, a flirtatious curve to his lips. A quiet bubbling stirs within the depths of my stomach. I find it unnerving and downright irritating. I should be feeling nothing. Within under a week, I'll be killing this boy, or trying to. I should WANT to try to, but all I feel is empty.
"I'm clearly your knight in shining armor, Career. You won't even outlast those pitiful District Two tributes at the rate you're going." Thatcher saw my near panic attack and his voice has taken on an unusual sneer. In that moment…I know what he really thinks of me. I'm just another murderer of children. It stings, and once again, I hate him. I hate him so much that my entire body freezes solid, starting from the bubbling in my stomach, creating an unfeeling monster. He wants a murderer of children? He wants me to be the classic Career? Fine. I hope he knows I'll be hunting him first, and I'll do so at night when no one can help him.
With several clear-cut strides, I'm back to the spear station. It's about twenty five feet away from Thatcher; a distance I've never attempted. Laughter still reaches his eyes and gloatingly tickles his tongue. My chocolate-brown eyes focus on a spot near his head and with one fluid motion, a deadly spear with a golden shaft slices past his arrogant face, embedding itself in the wall behind him. Thatcher's eyes widen, and his mouth closes in a taut, grim line. I have finally gotten to him, finally broken though his impenetrable arrogance, and all it took was a spear.
"Know this, District Seven," I speak quietly, heading back in his direction. For whatever reason, I am not very angry with him. Just honest. "And know this well. While you've played with your woodland friends for the past seventeen years, I've spent every day and night training to kill someone like you. If you honestly think I'm a damsel in distress, you might as well count yourself among the dead." Each word draws me closer until we are only several inches apart. Our breath mingles within the air; he smells of mint and pine. I am furious; my hand clings to the spear shaft still quivering in the wall. I discover my anger is passion, and it frightens me more than his hardened expression. The silence concreted between us won't easily dissipate with simple small talk, so I leave. Eveevee and Euripides ignore me when I reach my floor. Interviews are in three days, and there simply isn't anything to say.
Alright, so this isn't my best chapter yet. I wrote it with some serious writers block (lol), so I apologize. Seriously, no reviews yet? Has anyone even read my story? C'mon guys, you're breakin' my heart