A/N: Ohmygosh. Such a hectic day. I got called for an interview this morning, and after that and grocery shopping, I ended up having to take my dog to the hospital. So I just got home and rushed through editing this so that I could post at least one chapter today. It's not my favorite chapter, but it shows another part of life in District 4, which is something we haven't seen a lot of yet. And we get to see Annie.

Thank you everyone who has provided feedback so far: SQUISHPIE, The Other Perspective, TheSeamGirl, Adrenaline Write, KRK the JRK, caisha702, Steff Malfoy1, jensonluvsu, My-Hearts-Storm, WindxClubrox23, Hahukum Konn, Stranded Star, windyday, and my friends at Deviant Art.

You know what's mine and what isn't. Enjoy.

CHAPTER NINE

I haven't had to go to school since the year I won, but this year I'm bored and desperate enough to make a reappearance. I need to get out. Not to the beach or to town or to the pool. I need to get out and do something that makes me feel like I'm not just wasting time. So I offer my services as a trainer. This will be my life from now on. Train for the Games. Go to the Games. Lose the Games. Come home.

It's been months and things are still awkward at home.

Okay, so technically the kids are training for jobs, boating, fishing, crabbing, weaving, everything really. But who in District 4 hasn't already been trained for those jobs since birth? And what job requires children to use weapons against people instead of sea creatures? We are Careers, and what we have is actually a larger scale version of the Capitol's Training Center, where all children eligible for the reaping are allowed to practice and develop skills. Various tradesmen from the District volunteer their time. Depending on who volunteers each year, stations can range from finding and preparing food to stringing up traps. Healing wounds to using weapons. Everyone, including my dad and Mags and Hurley Mouette and even my mom when she was still alive, has done this at some point or another. Now it's my turn.

Three ages are permitted to train each day. Sunday is 12, 14, and 17. Monday is 13, 15, and 18. Wednesday is 14, 16, and 12 again. On and on, so that each age group trains for exactly three days a week. Twelve-year-olds only ever practice with other twelve-year-olds. Each of the three age groups to train on any given day has three hours. One for body-building—running, swimming, weight lifting. One for survival skills. One for weapons. That's where I come in.

It's annoying how quickly my first twelves lesson fills with bright-eyed girls, eager to get a closer look at Finnick Odair. They're too young to know any better. Hardly any of them can even hold a trident properly by the end of an hour. None of them can throw one. And the ones who manage to spear the dummy can't retrieve the weapon from its sand-filled chest afterward. If mine is the only lesson they get before entering the arena, none of them will survive.

My next lesson with the fourteens isn't much better; a quick survey of the training area confirms that only about ten or so of the girls are using other stations. That means I've nearly all of them, along with a few lost-looking boys who actually care about learning to wield a trident, here.

The twelve-year-olds were one thing. They have no business being in any situation where they need these skills. I can forgive them for being entirely incapable. But I won my Games at fourteen. I knew what I was doing. These girls are either clueless or they're simply pretending to be so that I can put my hands over theirs and teach them how to do this right. I don't know which would be worse. If they're clueless and they're picked, they're dead. But if they're actually good at this and they're letting lust subtract from valuable training time, then they're stupid. And if they're picked, they're dead.

My day concludes with seventeen-year-olds. At least these kids take me seriously, probably because they know they have a higher chance of being picked. Maybe some of them even hope to volunteer. But if everyone who ever planned on volunteering actually went through with it, someone would have taken my place and I wouldn't be doing any of this. Again, I'm put into the situation of training kids who are older and bigger and stronger than I am. But this time, none of that matters. With this one skill, I'm the best there is. I may not have their respect, but I at least have their attention.

I'm thoroughly exhausted when a bell finally indicates that the last hour has ended. But at the same time, I'm not ready to go home. Instead, I find myself lounging in a hammock that I hope was woven by the station's master and not the less-adept fingers of some of the kids I've seen today. One question plays through my mind. How on earth am I ever going to bring home another victor?

These kids are so innocent. I'm not even sure what that means to me anymore. Innocence. When did I lose mine? In the arena? After? I don't know. But I know that I can't remember the last time I laughed with my friends the way these kids do now. I can't even remember having kids my age who cared about me, and not just because it's nice to be one of Finnick Odair's friends. The handful of kids who linger after the bell, their laughter is real. I can't help but envy them as they take turns showing each other different grips and techniques, and ultimately impaling the dummy with a trident. These are the kids who didn't want to be part of the larger group. Probably they think they're too good to associate with the riffraff. Or maybe they just can't stand me.

The girl's long curly hair should be the first feature that distinguishes her from her male companions, but she's so petite and girly that she'd probably stand out anyway. She has to be one of the fourteen-year-olds. One of the boys stands behind her, wraps his arms around her tiny body, and does what's supposed to be my job and shows her how to hold the thing the right way. She laughs and shrugs him off. And before she leaves, the girl positions the trident next to the dummy and uses her finger to draw an invisible smile across its blank face.

I don't want her to get picked on reaping day. I don't want any of them to get picked. I don't want to go to the Capitol anymore. I don't want to fight with my dad.

When the kids are gone and only a few volunteers remain, I unstring the hammock. It's strong and comfortable, and I want to hang it in my yard or my house or something. I don't think I'm supposed to take it, either, but no one stops me from carrying it out through the double doors in a tangled ball. The things I don't want may be out of my control, but the hammock is just another reminder that I'll never want for anything. And if I were any of these kids, I'd hate me too.

Not thrilled with it, but whatever. It's been a long day and at this point, it feels good to post anything.

Going to try to get ahead in editing tonight so I'll still be on track in the event of further complications. Again, if you haven't read my other stories, please check them out. And if you've taken the time to read all 9 chapters, please take the extra two minutes to write a review and let me know what you think of the story so far or my writing style, or anything really.

Thanks! See you in Chapter 10!