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No new website updates lately, but definitely some in preparation for the next few chapters!

Author's Note: Phew, apparently these training day chapters are a LOT longer than I expected them to be...BUT, they're really fun to write, so yay! Hopefully after my finals end next week I can get onto a better and more timely schedule! Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 14

First Encounter

Cole Spera (District 2 Male)

The translucent elevator ride felt like a millennium, a millennium spent unmasked during a slow, steady descent. The complex subfloor constituted a spiderweb of lengthy corridors, each branch extending to a multitude of janitorial rooms and small offices. But the main hallway, teeming with radiant lights reminiscent of those in the white room, led directly to a pair of tall, frosted glass doors.

And behind those doors was the training room.

The assigned District Two Peacekeeper led the Spera siblings through the unwelcoming threshold. The other side was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the garish illuminative monstrosities of seemingly every other room in the building. The walls were painted black, completely unadorned save for the occasional Panem seal emblazoned in the eye-straining darkness. Somehow, this was yet another form of optic torture.

The training stations were neatly denoted, some of which occupied their own respective rooms within the massive training facility. Each weapon was given a practice area, each skill its own designated post in the organized compartmentalization. Littering each station were weapons of ample sizes, weights, and variations: crossbows, longbows, explosives, swords, knives, katanas, spears, machetes, maces, axes, scythes, and many more. And, for the less hostile: camouflage, medicinal training, plant and animal identification, camping skills, resource management, knot-tying, fire starting, item crafting…

Within minutes, the remaining tributes were filtered into the room, some chatty and outgoing, others quiet and reticent. Cole hated the prolonged wait, spending the time anxiously twiddling his thumbs and keeping a hopeful eye on Heracles and Sierra. Had their previous-night's allegiance dwindled?

"Good, you're all here." A heavy voice cut through the air, its owner revealing himself from within the shadowed veil of one of the room's tenebrous corners. A young man emerged, probably no older than his early twenties. He was dressed half in Peacekeeper armor, half in the pliable training suits the tributes were sporting. He was another musclebound titan—not particularly tall, but certainly armed with the archetypal "Peacekeeper" burliness.

"I'm Volt," he said, running a hand through his spiked blonde hair. "And I'll be your training assistant these next few days. If you have any questions, you come to me. Or,"—and he pointed to a few other Peacekeepers speckling the room—"you can talk to them." His tone sounded resonant and full, perhaps purposefully made deeper to assert his dominance and effectively appear more threatening.

"You have ten hours each day. And you have three days, so use your time wisely. This is your opportunity to make allies, practice your weapon technique, whatever. I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you what to do; you figure that out for yourself." Volt straightened, slightly puffing out his chest. "Any questions?"

"What if one of us gets hurt?" Destin asked, cleaning his glasses on his shirt.

Volt blew air upward. "Well, depends on how it happened. If someone else intentionally hurts you—depending on how bad it was—they might get executed. If you injured yourself on accident or something, then that's just sad. But luckily for you, you'll be taken to the infirmary and patched right up. Any more questions?"

"Yeah," Jean said, smiling. He swept his arm across the room in the direction of his twenty-three peers. "So where do you keep all the good tributes?"

Volt coughed out a laugh. He looked at some of the weaker tributes—predominately at many of the higher-numbered Districts. "True," he said, walking over to Elias. "So many weak tributes this year, eh?" Then he poked the boy from Eleven in the stomach. "Like you." He moved over to Josaline. "And you." Then to Lezar, pushing him roughly on the upper chest. "And you, especially." Volt passed by Destin, shooting him a trenchant glare. And finally stopped in front of Jean. "You're right. Such little talent in this lot. Not a very promising year, is it?"

"Not at all," Jean snorted.

"Right…" Volt paused, looking Jean directly in the eyes. "Might be an easy victory for you, then. Unfortunately, though, there isn't a station in here to help overly prideful people find their way back to Earth's reality." And he patted Jean on the shoulder, swiftly turning around and returning to his post in front of the tributes.

The boy from One merely scowled, and Ambrosia pursed her lips in stifled enjoyment.

"Any more questions?" Volt prodded. When no one answered, he said, "Well, then. Let's get started, shall we?"

Jayleigh "Jay" Llyr (District 4 Female)

The first thing Jay needed was to confirm the sanity of her district partner. She wouldn't allow her main ally to continue his loose-cannon meltdowns, dragging her down with his insistent need for therapeutic release. And if his bipolarity was a setback, perhaps he would become her first victim in the arena.

There was a large cafeteria inside the training facility, where Avoxes dutifully cooked and prepared food for the tributes' whimsical hunger needs. She wasn't hungry—Sandy was—but they and the careers from One needed to have an important conversation.

"Should we get Cole and Jade?" the girl from Four asked as they sat at a lengthy table, Jean and Ambrosia on one side and Sandy and Jay on the other.

"Those hobos from Two?" Jean spat. "Nah. I'll just talk to them later—in private. See if they wanna join our alliance."

Ambrosia shook her head rapidly, offering a barrage of inscrutable sign language. She glared at Jean, the inch-long scar beneath her eye underlining her inner menace.

"What's she saying now?" Jean asked.

Jay shrugged; she didn't know sign language. And Sandy just stared dumbly at the girl from One. Based on his expression, Jay could only infer he was thinking Who invited her? I don't want her part of our alliance.

"Ambrosia," Jay said kindly, offering a faint smile. "Maybe you could write it down? What you're saying?"

The silver-haired girl simply nodded, pushing herself up from the table and leaving the room in seek of Volt.

"I never have a clue what she's trying to say to me," Jean huffed.

Jay hadn't really spoken to Jean before. What was he like? Mean, prideful, condescending. Easy enough. "Well, at least she tries to talk to us. She's not like the little boys and girls in the other districts who are afraid of their own shadows…"

Jean cracked a smile: this girl understood him.

Jay offered a sly smile of her own: she was playing to Jean's personality.

"So, we're the final four alliance, right?" Sandy verified.

"Yes," Jay said, "And we can see if District Two wants to join us." Then she glanced at Jean. "But they'll probably just get in our way, anyway. And they'll be the first to go if our alliance gets too big."

"Uh huh," the boy from One agreed. "And honestly…" He pointed to the seat that Ambrosia had formerly occupied, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I don't really mind dumping her off at any point. She's not career material, anyway."

Sandy chuckled, cracking his hand against the table in delight. "Yes!" He was in such a good mood now, Jay realized, unlike the previous night's claustrophobic sadism.

The girl nodded, grinning. "Duly noted."

"So what's the general plan?" Sandy asked. Save for the Avoxes and themselves, the room was empty. "Pick off the weak tributes? Pick off the threats?"

"The threats," Jay said. Then she cocked her head in pensive thought. "But…maybe not: if the weaker tributes band together with the threats, then they'll only grow stronger."

"So maybe we should take out the weaker tributes first," Jean confirmed. "We build our base at the cornucopia, of course."

"We'd all make pretty good hunters, I think," Sandy added. "Except for…" And he pointed to Ambrosia's vacant seat. "Ya know?"

"We could put her on guard duty?" Jay suggested. "Make sure our cornucopia doesn't get raided." In truth, she didn't really think the silver-haired girl was trustworthy enough…yet. But when Jay was done with her, Ambrosia would be her new best friend.

Jean coughed. "I dunno. She kinda sucks. Might take our stuff and run…or just be too useless to defend it."

Jay applied a facade of agreeable laughter. "That's true." Jean was surprisingly difficult to read: most careers were arrogant, but usually they were smart enough to know that overconfidence was a creeping killer. Did he realize this? Did he possess a secret vault of intelligence and higher-level thinking that was just so blatantly outshone by his candid vanity? A nagging part of her thought he did, and she didn't like it at all.

Ambrosia returned, pen and paper in hand. Her message was already written out, and she dangled it kindly in front of Jean's face.

The boy snatched it, reading aloud: "Jean, I don't think you of all people should talk to Cole and Jade about allying with us. Leave it to me." The boy narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'me of all people'?"

Ambrosia merely shrugged, purposefully denying him the bliss of an explanation.

Jean glanced down at the paper again. "And when you say you'll 'talk' to Cole and Jade." His eyes alighted on Ambrosia's glowering expression. "I mean…"

She kicked him hard under the table.

"She's angry!" Jean teased, laughing. "I'm just fooling you. Fine, you can 'talk' to Cole and Jade, happy?"

The girl nodded, though she wanted nothing more than to rip his head off.

Jay watched the banter. Ambrosia appeared confident, not demoralized by her situation or even by Jean's witty—but undeniably cruel—words. However, she did seem emotional. And emotional people needed friends, and someone who would listen to them; Jay intended to be that "friend".

Ambrosia then jotted down something else, wagging the paper between her three allies. "Should we talk about strategies?"

Jay smiled welcomingly. "We were actually just doing that while you were gone," she said. "We intend to pick off the weaker tributes one by one. I suggest we travel in pairs of two at all times while hunting, just in case something goes wrong." Secretly, traveling in pairs of two would—near the final ten—give her the perfect opportunity to kill the other careers one at a time. And their deaths would be so easy to blame on something else—another tribute, a silly accident, a vicious muttation?

"Right," Sandy agreed. "And…and honestly? I really want Willow gone, dead."

"Yeah, you guys got pretty heated last night," Jean remembered. "Actually, mostly just you."

"I know," Sandy muttered, turning red. Then he smiled a little. "I was just…in sucha bad mood, I remember."

"I'll say," Jean concurred, and Sandy rolled his eyes.

Then the boy from Four continued: "But I just hate him, the way he parades around acting like he's the toughest guy in the arena. It's just…annoying. Leave him for me. Please."

Jay nodded, gently patting Sandy on the back. "He's yours for the kill," she promised. But what was he even referring to? Willow had done no 'parading around', nor did he even paint himself as the macho guy he was. Really, Jay saw him as a gentle giant, an obedient—and maybe even timid—follower whose physical appearance could only be attributed to his work in the fields, not to some secret lust for murder and fame.

Heracles then entered the cafeteria, ambling over to the food-service counter in search of a drink.

"Well, time to move out," Jean puffed. Then he pushed himself up from the table, the entire thing moving and screeching beneath the weight of his bulging muscles. "I'll be at axe training."

The others stood as well, slowly shuffling toward the exit and mumbling their intended destinations.

"Aw, you didn't have to leave on my account," Heracles whistled, chuckling at them from the counter.

"We were leaving, anyway," Jean said firmly.

Heracles didn't believe him, but he nodded in compliance. "Oh, ouch. Awkward timing, then."

Jean's eyes were raised in amusement. "Yeah, awkward timing." Then they left the cafeteria, shuffling into the training facility's main, expansive room.

"He's so annoying," the boy from One muttered. "Heracles, or whatever his stupid name is."

"Yeah," Jay laughed. "I'd like to see you get your hands on him in the arena. Try not to break his neck too quickly, though."

Jean simply smiled; this girl was a hoot.

Then Jay began to walk off toward the dagger-throwing station, but first she caught herself and spun around. "Oh, Ambrosia! If you want to train together, don't be afraid to come get me. It'll be fun, I promise." And she smiled heartwarmingly, and the girl from One smiled back.

She held up a paper: "Thanks, I will."

When her allies dispersed, Jay walked over to the knife-throwing station. On the way, she saw Byren fumbling with camouflage paints, alone and helplessly desperate.

"That camouflage looks good," she complimented, passing him by with a gentle simper.

Byren looked dumbfounded. "Th-thanks…" he spluttered, as she continued walking away. Did a career really just talk to him? Let alone compliment him? It took a minute for his emotions to properly register what had happened, but when they did, he simply stood there, alone and grinning.

Jay found Arabella at the knife-throwing station, which was an entirely different room itself. Something about that girl from Eight just didn't sit right with her. The career narrowed her eyes, but quickly blinked away her cutting glare, instead replacing it was a charade of friendly warmth.

"Oh, hello, Jay," the girl said kindly. Arabella's angelic, philanthropic demeanor already proved irksome. Perhaps it was because she was such a high-spirited champion of kindness?

"Throwing knives?" Jay asked.

"Oh, yes!" Arabella smiled sheepishly. "U-um…" She was scrabbling at the knife in her hand, as though clumsily trying to understand which end was the handle and which was the blade.

Jay tapped a finger against her prosthetic arm; she could only imagine using it as a hard-shelled bludgeon with which to disintegrate Arabella's skull. "Here, let me help you," the career said, offering the widest grin she could muster. Then she went to Arabella's side, taking the other girl's hands and curling specific fingers around different parts of the knife's handle. "Here, grip it like this." And then Jay adjusted the girl's stance. "And stand here. Spread your feet out a little more. Shoulders up…" Then Jay backed away. "There, give it your best shot."

Arabella flung the knife, aiming for the dartboard. But the arc of her throw was wrong, and the blade plummeted noisily to the ground, skidding across the tile and gyrating out of control. "Oops…" she said, her tone embarrassed and downcast.

"You'll get better," Jay promised. "Just give it time, and always practice like I showed you."

Arabella perked up a little, the red bow in her hair giving the room some much-needed color. "Alright, well I definitely will. Thank you, Jay, really, for helping me! It means a lot…especially since you're a career. I…you're a really good person."

The dim lights made Jay's eyes dance. "Aw, well…" She scrunched her shoulders together as though trying to dispel the flattery. "Just trying to help."

Arabella left soon thereafter, giggling and tee-heeing her way out of the room. Jay smiled inward: she had shown Arabella the wrong way to grip the knife. She had taught Arabella an improper stance. She had convinced Arabella that she was a nice, trustworthy person. And, best of all, she had led Arabella one step closer to an inevitable death.

Boy, it was nice to be smart.

Byren Sauvy (District 5 Male)

His book was too engrossing to realize the difference in the atmosphere that day at school. Byren was on his thirty minute class break, nestled comfortably in the corner of the library with a stack of lengthy novels for company. No people to bother him, no students to tease him about his unusually high voice, or his pale skin, or his shyness. Just Byren and his book: sweet solace.

He didn't even hear the rising chitter-chatter a few tables over. This novel was a real page-burner: what would happen to the protagonist? Would he save the day, beat out the odds, and defeat his inner demons? Byren hoped so.

"Hey, Byren," a boy called from the table.

The raven-haired kid looked up; it was freckle-faced Renny Fields, and a group of his friends. They were all smiling mischievously at him, the sinister looks in their eyes making him wish he could sink into one of the shadowed declivities of the library and escape this socialization. "Yeah?"

"By-ren?" Renny asked, emphasizing the first syllable.

"Yeah?" he repeated, confused.

"What's your name?" Renny prodded. "BI-ren? BI-ren?"

The boy didn't understand, but everyone at the table was laughing, their hands covering their mouths in childish amusement. He could feel his voice faintly trembling, his falsetto tone even pitchier now. "Wh-what?"

"BI-ren," Renny said, emphasizing that first syllable again. "Don't you get it? Like BI-sexual BI-ren?"

The small boy's mouth fell agape, and he dropped his book. He would've picked it up, but he used his shaky hands to cover his rapidly reddening face. Just the previous evening he had told his only friends, Jonah and Evin, his secret. He had been mortified to tell them, awkward to the point where he hated himself for this "abnormality". But now, they must've spilled his secret to everybody. Even if they didn't, Renny Fields certainly would. Weren't they his friends? Weren't they supposed to care about him?

When Byren didn't respond—too flabbergasted to speak—Renny put a hand to his ear and asked, "What's that? Did you say something? Or is your voice finally so high that we just can't hear you anymore?"

A chorus of laughter resonated within the group at the table. Byren put a hand to his throat, as though he could examine the pitch of his voice.

"We've left him speechless," Renny cackled proudly, as though it were a magnificent achievement.

Renny's sister joined in. "Good, at least we don't need to cover our ears when he speaks anymore."

And the table erupted in another round of squealing laughter.

Byren could feel the hot tears welling in his eyes. He was so embarrassed, so tired of being the source of everyone's evil mockery. Why did people always get so much enjoyment out of being mean? What was it about him? What was it?! But he really did himself in this time: forget his shyness, awkwardness, his drastically underfed appearance. Thanks to his "friends", his bullies hit the jackpot.

"You were with Jonah and Evin last night, weren't you?" Renny asked. "I always had a feeling you were more than just friends. So, did you guys…?"

"No!" Byren screeched. He clacked his shaky fingers together, a nervous habit.

"But did you want to?"

"No!" he firmly repeated.

Renny whistled, leaning back in his chair as his group of hyena-faced friends listened enthusiastically to his every word. "I don't know about that. Jonah said you were getting really comfortable last night. If you know what I mean." And he rose his eyebrows up and down a few times, licking his lips.

Tilly, Renny's sister, was squawking like a hysterical bird.

"I wasn't!" Byren said, his voice straining as though he were pleading. Then he stood up, abandoning his books with the immediate intention of leaving.

"Aw, where you going?" Renny asked. "Break's not over yet."

Byren looked so defeated, his shoulders slumping. He didn't even want to speak in self-defense, for fear they would pick on his voice again.

"I guess the kid just needs a little love in his life," Tilly said, her plump cheeks unfurling into a monstrous grin. "Byren, tell me you want me. Tell me I'm pretty."

Tilly was most certainly not pretty—rather, she looked like a frumpy warthog. But Byren didn't want to say anything at all, knowing that any response he gave would only feed the fire.

"No," Renny said, standing up so he could look down at Byren. "He wants me, doesn't he?" He took a step toward the teary-eyed boy. "You love boys so much, so show me what you've got."

Harmonized snickers were batted back and forth across the table. One of Renny's friends whispered, "Look at him cry."

Byren couldn't respond; he didn't even know how. He just let the tears fall as he stared at the ground. Then he shuffled toward the exit without lifting his gaze, trying to pass Renny without further difficulty or argument.

But the freckled boy grabbed Byren's shoulder, pinning him in his tracks.

"Let—let me go!" Byren entreated, struggling against the older boy's grasp. But Renny just held tighter, trying to squeeze the boy's bones into submission.

"Come on, Byren!" Renny insisted. "Tell me that you love me—tell us all how you really feel."

"NO!" Byren reeled back with all the strength he could manage, slipping out of Renny's grip and hurling himself into a large stack of books and magazines. The tower of literature crumbled to the floor, with Byren on top. Renny and his friends burst into laughter, pointing judgmental fingers at the boy as he scrambled back to his feet.

The librarian rushed over in a huff. "Byren Sauvy, you better clean up the mess you've just made!"

But the boy was already running off, tears creeping down his cheeks. As he ran out of the library, down the hall, and out of school, the vast majority of his fellow classmates took the opportunity to jeer insultingly at him, making a mockery of the poor boy. He wouldn't be returning to school that day.

Byren went to the only place he deemed safe: home. He fled to his house—desperate and sobbing—brushing past his mother in the living room.

"Byren?" his mother called as he sped past her, deep concern rooted in her voice. "Byren, what's the matter?!"

"I hate myself!" he cried back, seeking the isolation of his bedroom. He slammed his door behind him, and the house fell into a harrowing silence.

And three years later, he still hated himself. Even his camouflage looked bad. Sure, Jay had insisted he was going a good job, but she probably only said that to keep him from spiraling into the nervous wreck that he truly was. He didn't just need to camouflage his body: he needed to camouflage all the hideous imperfections that defined him. I hate myself.

Byren was frustrated, tired. He was going to die in that arena, and he understood there was very little he could do about it. These "training days" were futile: he could practice with a knife, maybe? It was the only deadly object he could wield with any measurable level of proficiency, but even that was only because he was a tinkerer and often needed to cut things, like rope.

He did have some other talents—starting fires, building traps, recognizing poisonous berries—but his meager list of survival skills made him feel drastically inferior. What could he do with that? Lure people to him with a campfire, and catch them in a trap? And put some toxic berries cleverly nearby so they would accidentally poison themselves out of hunger? Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea. If it weren't completely asinine. He was hopeless, wasn't he?

Byren scouted the training room: Rooper was breaking something apart with a steel-bladed sword, Hydan was reading a medicinal textbook, and his district partner, Fia, was busying herself with trap-building while arguing exasperatedly with a snooping Vivian. Everyone seemed to be keeping busy, except for him.

Perhaps he could try his hand with a weapon? Archery was off the table, considering his debilitating nearsightedness. And swordplay would prove ineffectual, since the weapon was probably too heavy for him, anyway. Maybe a spear?

He was happy to find the spear station completely vacated. The weapon felt strange in his hands; it should've made him feel powerful and dominant, but it only made him feel vulnerable. Maybe because he knew, deep down, that he probably looked like a complete fool?

He tried to adjust his grip, but he dropped the thing and it went clattering to the ground, rolling away. He sighed, picking it back up and maneuvering it awkwardly through the air, all the while hoping that no one had caught even a glimpse of his unsophisticated uselessness. He tried stabbing a dummy through the heart, but instead he missed and narrowly prodded its thigh.

It felt weird, almost alien: stabbing something. To pierce skin—or in this case, fluffy padding—with a weapon intended singularly for murder. He didn't like it.

The spear got caught inside the dummy, jutting out like a lonely needle in thread. Byren tried tearing it out, but the dummy resisted, its face and synthetic eyes glaring directly into the boy's, hauntingly lifelike. It was teasing him, a horrifying recreation of death, that sharp-edged spear lodged firmly into its leg. The boy shuddered; pain, torture, murder—it felt so wrong.

He left the station, ignoring the dummy. Weapons weren't his forte, but he knew precisely what was: books, learning, and knowledge. If he couldn't out-kill his opponents, he could outlast and outsmart them.

Josaline "Josie" Tanner (District 10 Female)

Josaline was getting tired of reading the voluminous tome describing the various flora and fauna that might be encountered inside the arena. "Kieson, let's go practice a weapon."

"One sec," the blonde said, holding up a finger as he quickly scanned the page he was reading. Then he snapped the book shut. "Okay, what do you wanna do?"

"Knives?" the short, spunky girl responded, deliberately selecting one of her strengths.

Kieson whistled a low, sad-sounding chirp. "Would've said sickles, myself, but I guess knives will do."

"No, then, let's do sickles," Josaline insisted.

"Alright, or we could do knives?"

Josaline released a hearty laugh, an effusive chortle that was hard to miss. "No, shut up! We're doing sickles, I've decided."

"Oh, well, I guess you're just Queen Bee then, aren't you?" Kieson hid a smile behind his indifferent visage.

The chocolate-haired girl could've punched him. "I don't even know why you're training with me, anyway."

"Because you insisted I come along with you? You know, you sure do a lot of insisting."

Josie pursed her lips in effort to stifle an imminent grin. "Yes, but it's because you don't listen well."

The boy's eyes lit up, pleased and energized, and he released a low chuckle. "See, I told everyone last night that you were a lot to handle, and they didn't believe me. And now this is what I'm stuck with."

"Oh-h…" This time she did punch him in the shoulder. "Now, let's go train. Stop fooling around."

Kieson sighed and openly shook his head, wondering why he explicitly was the one responsible for carelessly "fooling around".

Only Annie Wickham was at the station, dabbling in the skill of sickle-wielding with mediocre—or worse—proficiency. It was obvious this wasn't the first time she'd ever held a weapon, but it was likewise apparent that the sickle was most certainly not her weapon of choice. Then again, it wasn't Josie's, either.

The tributes from Ten picked weapons from the rack. Then they fanned out—far enough away from Annie—in attempt to mock duel one another.

"No, stand there," Josie insisted, pointing to a specific point on the ground. "Why are you so far away?"

"I dunno," Kieson shrugged. "Have you ever used a sickle before? I don't need you accidentally cutting my arm off."

"No, I haven't," Josie admitted. "But I better learn, right? Now," she repeated, "Stand there."

Kieson complied, jokingly rolling his eyes as though saying, "What a feisty one."

Josie fiddled with the weight of the sickle in her hand, gripping the handle firmly with the death-squeeze inexperience that one would expect. She was decent with using knives, but sickles were an entirely different instrument, altogether. But they were sharp, piercing weapons—like knives—so they couldn't be that different, right?

"You ready?" Kieson asked seriously.

"Yeah."

Josie made the first swipe, a gentle, reserved swing. She wasn't sure if she was so timid because the weapon was unfamiliar, or because she was afraid of injuring Kieson—but they were wearing suits of body padding, so did it really matter?

Her offensive was a mere prod. It was difficult adjusting for the curvature of the blade, and she found herself stabbing with the weapon head-on as though it were a straight-edged knife. It required some difficult manipulation: leaving a wide enough radius with which to swing in order for the point of the blade to land a decisive blow. And she made the same mistake over and over—her knife-wielding muscle memory a detriment—but her perseverance outshone the growing frustration, so she kept trying.

Their jousting continued for a few minutes. Kieson was simply batting away her assaults with deflective maneuvers, intentionally withholding an offensive of his own: Josie was new to the weapon, and she needed time to learn and feel comfortable before he countered with his own attacks.

Over time, the girl fell into a well-adjusted rhythm. Her swings were more confident, and despite Kieson's easy evasions, the weapon didn't feel completely foreign anymore. She even slowly backed him into a corner once—though perhaps he let her?—making a vicious offensive with somewhat erratic slicing patterns.

"Do people really fight with sickles?" she asked finally. They didn't really seem like dueling weapons; they were certainly no swords, after all.

"Not normally," Kieson said. "Not ideally, at least. But it's always good to learn something new."

Josie ignored his comment, motioning toward the sickle in his hand. "Show me what you've got." Then she pointed one of the dummies lining the wall.

"Do I have a choice?" he whistled smoothly.

"No."

Kieson shrugged. "Well, I see you're undecided." He ambled slowly toward the dummy, not particularly fond of showing off. But in the heat of the moment, he destroyed the stuffed mannequin: a few upward hooks, followed by a cruel-looking grappling slice—where he reeled in the dummy with the curvature of the sickle, effectively pinning the lifeless figure against him and driving the blade through its back—topped off with the embellished flourishes and eye-popping tricks of a seasoned professional. The eighteen year old left only the eviscerated tatters of the dummy's former life in his wake.

Josie's eyes bulged. "Where did you learn that?"

"Oh, you know, working on the farms and such," he answered, as though it were painfully obvious.

"No…no, no, no!" the girl disagreed. "Tell me," she demanded. "There's no way you learned moves like that working on the farms."

Kieson acted unfazed, biting the tips of his fingernails. Then with his other hand, he pointed to the shredded dummy. "I mean, it's not exactly made out of concrete, you know. Just stuffing and some really flimsy plastic."

Josie rolled her eyes, unfamiliar with being challenged; normally her friends complied with her every demand. "I know. It's just, you looked like you've trained with sickles before. Not just use them for work, but actually fought with them…"

But the boy simply spread his hands as though suggesting he had nothing to hide, which Josie didn't believe for a second.

Even Annie looked shocked, her mouth still agape as she stared at the heaping husk of the once-was dummy that now littered the floor. "Josaline's right," Annie said, sparkling wonder in her voice. "That was amazing."

The girl from Ten smiled. "You may call me Josie."

Annie returned the pearly grin. "Oh, thank you."

Josie liked this girl; she seemed happy-go-lucky, and surprisingly carefree considering the circumstances. Annie would probably make a good follower, she realized. And Kieson—if he were willing to cooperate—would certainly be the first of her minions.

"I can help you girls," Kieson said, gesturing toward their sickles. "If you'd like to practice, maybe I could give you some tips?"

Annie appreciated the suggestion, nodding vigorously. Josie was tempted to demand answers first—where on Earth did he get those skills?—but she ignored the hankering and simply agreed to his suggestion. "Yes, please."

"Let's line up," he said, "and you guys can try to replicate my expert, fluid motions."

Josie shuddered at his joking immodesty, falling into line at his left. Annie stood at his right, and the three all faced the same direction, their sickles at the ready. "Now," he began, "Let's just try some smooth, basic motions." And he slowly started slicing the blade through the air, repeating the same maneuver multiple times until his trainees could mimic him with sufficient accuracy.

"Wait," Josie said. "Let's spread out." She motioned toward Kieson. "You're standing too close to me."

"I won't stab you, if that's what you're thinking."

"Annie, let's separate a few feet, okay?" Josie coordinated, feeling the insistent desire to lead and organize in place of Kieson's teaching. The girl from Three simply nodded and complied. "Alright, good. We can start again."

"Is everything perfect now?" Kieson queried.

Josie nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure? I could fetch you a drink?" he suggested. "Give you a shoulder rub? I'm sure there's some—"

"Just go," Josie huffed, trying not to smile but unable to withstand Kieson's humorous—but purposefully gear-grinding—sarcastic wit.

The boy continued with his demonstration; it was fascinating to see his masterful brandishing frozen down to the slow-motion teaching pace. And he was a good teacher, at that—suspiciously too good. He explained the easiest way to defend, the quickest and most effortless methods to disarm your opponent, and, of course, a myriad of sneaky techniques to trick your opponent into a premature death. But why in the world would he divulge such critical tactics to them? Josie and Annie undoubtedly appreciated his guidance, but they were still his enemies. Was he too trusting? Too desperate for allies? Josie wanted to believe he was just a good, fair person, but she couldn't imagine there being no strings attached.

Suddenly an eruptive bellow echoed from across the training room. "Alright, everyone, listen up!" Volt roared. Once he had everyone's attention—or rather, everyone who was within ear's reach—he said, "You idiots don't have many rules you need to follow in here, but can you please not try to kill each other?"

Josie saw the Peacekeeper shoot an incisive glare at Vivian and Elias.

Vivian pouted her lips. "If that's what you thought killing each other looked like, then—"

"Enough!" Volt cut her off, chopping a hand across the air as though it were an axe with which he could quiet the back-talkers. "I don't need you getting snippy with me, girl." Then he turned to face the general direction of his listeners. "And that goes for the rest of you, as well! I understand you're all sad and depressed that you're probably going to die a horrible death…" His voice was now taking on a baby-like quality, the way an adult would placate a child. "But if the Capitol sets rules, you better follow them. Understand?"

After the collective nod, the Peacekeeper added, "Good. Now, get back to training. After all, one of ya will be able to salvage what's left of your petty life if you manage to win the games…" And then Volt waved around his hands, signaling the end of his interjection.

"That's…a bit harsh…" Annie mumbled. Josie just hiccuped nervously, otherwise silent.

Kieson shrugged, chewing on the neckline of his outfit. "I'm sure our buddy Volt just had a rough childhood. Which completely justifies being cruel to teenagers he's never met before."

Josie ignored him. "He's a Peacekeeper?" she emphasized. "A Peacekiller, maybe," she cracked.

Kieson stared at her blankly. "Please, never try to tell a joke again."

"Shut up," Josie moaned. "Just go back to teaching us…"

END OF DAY 2

Chapter Question: (answer as many of the following as you want)

1. How do you like Jay's strategy? Outwardly nice, but inwardly sinister and ever-plotting. Do you think this will do her good, or lead to an eventual downfall?

2. Is Byren too soft for the games, or do you think that, after everything he's been through, he isn't as completely hopeless as he thinks he is?

3. Do you think Josie's "leader" personality will do her good, or serve as a drawback? Would she make a good leader of a several-tribute alliance?

Author's Note: Hoowee! That was a long chapter, and it's only the FIRST of the training days. The other two training days are split up over four chapters, so by the end pretty much every tribute will get their own personalized "section", plus a roughly equivalent amount of screen-time. Lots more character backstories to introduce (and later expand upon) and character alliances and friendships to build! Let me know what you think!

See you soon!