(Vox- POV)

ENJOY


Another week passes and still, my sparring suffers. My moves are too clumsy and my limbs don't seem to move the way I wish them to. Hawthorne likes to smile when I trip over my feet. I find him rolling his eyes as I aim my punches or attempt to duck from his. Each day I do not improve is another assurance that I am not cut out for this.

It is late in the afternoon today, another round of fighting with Hawthorne has left me bruised and heavy. My limbs ache and burn as I attempt to defend myself. Today, he has made a game of my fate. Each time the dark-boy hits me, he cheers for himself. The agitation works it's way up my arms and my face is red from anger by the seventh hit. His smile is brighter than I've ever seen it. I ignore the happiness it attempts to bring me.

I am brave. I will not let him hit me again. I am not a fool. Focus.

As he hits me once more, I decide speed and skill will not work. I file through every peace of information I know of Hawthorne, trying to find anything that may throw him off momentarily. I become desperate when another hit lands on my ribs. I am about to tease him about his lover when I remember his flinch eariler. We had been walking to the spar room as Soldier Green passed. He called Hawthorne Cousin. It is not the first time I've heard the nickname and with each reference I see it affect him. My curiosity ebbs into my anger as he lands a tenth hit and cheers madly for himself.

"Ready for more?"

I smile and the words form in my mind. The cuff spits them out with little malice but I see the effect on his face. "Sure am," they say, "cousin."

His eyes darken as I aim a blow to his head. My hand is caught mid air by his own and he pulls me close. His other arm locks onto my left one and drags my body against his. Detachedly, I note how dark each of the whiskers on his chin are.

Hawthorne is no longer cheering for himself. "Do. Not. Call. Me that."

I watch his eyes burn with anger and wonder if it is possible for the anger to spill over from the depths. His own eyes watch mine and I see them dip lower, to my lips. Mine burn to drop as well, to glance at his own mouth, taste his breath, but I think of the earlier lesson, I won't let him distract me.

Of course, he is distracted. I make myself as small as possible and swoop down, slipping out of his arms. I kick out, trying to sweep his feet from under him but instead managing to kick his shin. He swears and jumps around, congratulating me, his eyes back to their playful manor.

I don't mention that I had meant to sweep his feet out, instead enjoying his momentary praise. Maybe I am getting better at this.


I am not getting any better at this. Three weeks into my sparing and my face is lined with bruises. My body is slowed and swollen and there is a constant ringing in my left ear from a fall I took last week. For all my effort, I have barley touched Hawthrone. The training is no longer a game for him, each time I fall he yanks me to my feet and each time he lands a hit his frustration grows into a palpable thing.

Both Hawthorne and my body are ready for this torture to be over. Banks, however does not, as evident by our latest lovely chats. Just as Hawthorne lands a blow to my throat, knocking me onto my back, I know he has reached his limit.

"That's it!" he yells. "This isn't going to work."

The words hold such finality that my heart begins to race. This is it. This is when I will die. Of course, it's not something I've thought of too much within the last two months. Knowing you'll be replaced if you don't complete the training is reason enough to give-it-your greatest effort. Banks had been very clear on how easily I would be discarded. I lift my beaten body, ready for more, ready to prove I am worth living.

Hawthorne shakes his head. "No more, you can't do this."

I am a desperate fool. "Please. I will try again."

"You're no competition for me."

All hope runs out of me, as if it were a gas leaving my lungs. I have failed. Banks will replace me and Hawthorne will never think of it again. Some part of me is angry at the thought, angry at myself for not being good enough and at Hawthorne for not giving me the proper chance. "Fine," I hear the cuff say, "Just get it over with."

A moment passes and nothing happens, Hawthorne is frowning at me. "What?"

"I'm being replaced, right? So, get it over with." I nod toward the knife on his belt.

A bark of laughter escapes his lips. "The Rebels wouldn't do that, this isn't your Capitoll!"

A scowl lights my face. I am already dead, and I am a fool and I am too tired to care about either.

"My Captiol would never do this!" the cuff drones.

"My Capitol would never force twenty-years olds to marry a stranger! My Capitol would not threaten death if a clumsy girl couldn't finish basic Grind training!"

Some shock lines Hawthonres face as he shakes his head "You're mistaken." His dismissal is the final blow. A tear falls down my cheek and I feel all hope inside me die. I turn to leave as Hawthorne grabs my arm, he spots the wetness on my face. "I'm sorry, Vox." It is the first time my name has left his lips. "I just-….Tell me what happened."

The memory of the blade digs into my throat, I swallow away the fear.

"Banks threatened to…" the fear settles in my stomach, I fight to form the words, "to cut things off of me if I don't pass the training, If I don't marry-"

"He has no authority."

A figure standing in the corner, nodding approvingly. "President Paylor was there."

I wait for Hawthorne to accuse me of lies. To cast away the truth I've offered. to deny his government is capable of such things. He doesn't. Instead, Hawthorne nods once and says, "I'll help you. I won't them replace you."

I fight the hope that is clawing it's way through me. "You said there was no helping me."

"We need someone closer to your size to help. I'll ask a friend. Trust me."

I look into his eyes and feel the hope bloom. I am not a fool. Hawthorne will not let me die.


Two mornings later, Hawthorne's friend is standing beside him as I walk into the sparring room. The steel walls of this room are lined with black paint. I wonder if it is designed to cover the blood.

Hawthorne is in the corner of the room in a charcol t-shirt, matching his eyes. The woman at his side is close to my size and age. Her eyes are green and hook upward. Strangely, I am struck by her similarities with a cat Seta once adopted. Something about her eyes and stance was feline. The cat had loved nearly everyone but me; me it had bitten.

Like Hawthorne, she wears grey. Her shirt is more of scraps tied together to reveal skin in strategically attractive places. I ignore the sight of her full breasts and lean stomach. Seta would probably call this girl a scat, slang used to describe a girl free with her attentions. I nod toward them.

"Vox, This is Soldier Loree."

She smiles and it does nothing to brighten her face. There is an edge behind her voice as she coos, "Please, call me Johanna."

I nod once more, not caring what she calls me.

Hawthorne tells me to stretch and I pull my body into the positions.

Johanna is either deaf or ignorant as her poor-whispers are easily heard.

"You didn't tell me she was so… Captiol." The word sounds like a slur. Scat

"It has no bearing."

I hear her snort as I duck up from the stretching. Nothing further is said.

"Okay, get into position."

We do and I see from the way she stands her left leg is favored, her right shoulder is slightly dropped and from the way her right wrist is held, it has once been broken. All of the information could help, but it is not guaranteed to win me the fight. I swallow the fear I feel at her sneer. Nothing about this spar will be pleasant.

I imagine Seta next to me, get that scat. The image produces a smile, which Johanna misinterprets as a challenge. She smiles back, despite my own reserves about flesh connecting with flesh, I find I have less reservations about hitting this particular girl.

"You know," Johanna says as she begins to circle me, "I was stationed at the Capitol for some time. I wonder if we've met?"

Rule number two, don't get distracted. I ignore her.

The circle continues and I remember Hawthorne's fifth rule, always keep your opponent in front of you.

"Surely, I knew you're father- You look quite familiar." She charges me but I duck in time to avoid it. Rule number three, avoid. avoid. avoid. Hawthorne makes an encouraging sound from the side of us.

Johanna is not fased by the miss. She continues as if nothing has happened. Rule number ten. don't let mistakes get into your head. "I knew a man named Rhodes with hair like yours."

The name distracts me and I trip over my feet. Johanna comes at me, again and this time knocks me to the ground. Rule seventeen. GET UP VOX!

"Pay attention Vox!" I nearly snarl back at Hawthorne.. I'm still shaken from Loree's words. I do know a Rhodes with pale hair like my own. Rhodes is Seta's father. Our hair was the reason we became friends. As children, everyone assumed we were sisters. As we grew, we stopped correcting them. FOCUS!

Johanna's smile at me and I realize she saw the name made me falter. I have confirmed some shot-in-dark attempt to distract me. I was distracted. Rule thirteen. Don't let them see you care.

I pick myself up and nearly stumble again as she says, "he had a daughter near your age, I think." Ignore the scat! my mind-Seta whispers. I try but my vision burns with unshed tears. Something burns in my throat.

Hawthorne yells again, "Quit talking. Start fighting. Vox watch your spacing, keep a strong stance." I can't remember which number rules those are. My distress becomes palpable.

"Oh hush, Cousin," Johanna laughs, "We're just catching up."

Rule fifteen. When all else fails, be creative. I dodge low and try to sweep out Johanna's legs. My strike is too slow as she hops over the kick. At least she is taking me more serious now. Rule five. Make them sweat.

Her face turns crueler, she snarls, "What was the girl's name, again? Seema?"

She knows her name. Fire licks my veins. I want to hurt her. Rule ten. don't let your anger get the best of you.

"It's a shame she died so young."

The fire erupts through my body. Blood leaves my face. Blackness sparks before my eyes. I forget my posture, standing stiff.

"VOX! Pay attention!"

Nothing he says get's through. I am a wall. I am glass. There are no rules. My heart aches. Seta is dead.

"died in one of the raids," Johanna says and with the six words I loose all control. I launch myself at the women, landing completely on top of her. Some terrible-noise screams out of my mouth as I slam her head against the mats. Instead, of a satisfying crack I hear a thunk. It is not enough. I raise my fist and bring my whole body behind the blow. Her head snaps back again.

With a sharp shove, she slips me over and raises her fist. The first hit bites deeply into the skin near my eye. I welcome the pain, it shields me from the tearing my heart feels. Just before her fist meets my face again, darkness descends and Hawthorne yells my name.