A/N- Happy Easter, everyone!
It's not as hard as I would have expected to get my hands on a gun. Not that they exactly give them out, but for me it's easy. I've been working harder than ever since my Reform (well, other than those embarrassing absences) and I've progressed quickly. While I'm still hopeless with a bow and arrow, not to mention niche weapons like tridents or whips, my progress has been sufficient to gain me access to the shooting ranges. I don't imagine it'll be nearly as easy to sneak one out of the Training Center, but I have four or five months before I need to start worrying about that. For now, shooting is proving to be a good distraction.
There's only a gun in the arena about once every ten years, but if you know how to use one when it pops up, you're pretty much guaranteed to dominate. I think it's a worthwhile skill to pick up. Well, try picking up.
I'm not very good at it so far. I'm beginning to think ranged weapons may just not be my thing. While I can hit a target consistently with a spear, that seems to be the exception to the rule. With a bow and arrow, slingshot, or rifle, I'm more likely to somehow shoot myself in the ass. Seriously, if anyone could do it, I could. Even though I'm bad at it, I keep chipping away. It's actually kind of fun, and it helps that people are constantly bringing up the District Twelve bitch like they do at the archery section.
Yeah, I'm really done with a bow and arrow.
My shot clangs off the back wall of the room and thuds through the target from behind. Bracket, standing behind me and waiting for his turn, raises an eyebrow.
"Well, that's… technically a hit, I guess."
"Aw, shut up, retard," I scoff back. He gives me an obligatory slug in the arm and we wrestle for a moment.
He's better than me at unarmed combat, so I end up pinned. Doesn't matter. I'll give him an extra bruise in the sword ring next time.
Bracket gets a hold of the gun and cackles triumphantly. I roll my eyes and jam my hands into my pockets, pretending I couldn't care less. That's what's expected from Career friendships; a lot of bravado and pretending you don't give a shit what happens to each other. Part of that's just the rampant testosterone, but some of it also has to do with the fact that not caring about each other would come in pretty handy in the Hunger Games. Of course, it's impossible (barring some bizarre Quarter Quell) that Bracket and I will be reaped together, but it's all part of the conditioning.
Bracket takes aim and hits the target through one of the outer rings. He's better than I am, but not by much. I snort with laughter and he jams an elbow into my ribs.
"Shut up," he snarls, glaring at me. It only makes me laugh harder. Exactly as it was intended to.
Now that I've mostly gotten over Glimmer, Bracket's actually a pretty cool guy. I just don't mention his dead sister and he doesn't mention mine. It's nice to be able to have a normal time at Training again, instead of skulking around and arguing with myself for fear of someone picking up on my strange behavior. I've missed having friends. And being able to relax. And a lot of stuff I was too afraid to even touch over the last month and a half. My period of apostasy was a lot of unnecessary pain, seeing as it all meant nothing in the end.
The attendant finally works his way down to Bracket and me where we shoot at the far end of the range. It's not a big section of the Training Center, which is part of the problem. There aren't enough people studying marksmanship to justify hiring a full-time trainer, so they only hold classes once or twice a week. This means that those of us who do want to and are qualified to learn have to cram in here all at once, which is about as much of a party as it sounds.
"Let's see how you do, Lightning," the trainer, Mr. Lumens, says matter-of-factly.
We all know how I'm going to do. I take aim and Bracket delivers a slap to my back that almost makes me shoot straight into the ground. I glare at him and he grins. I aim again, glad I didn't actually shoot and embarrass myself in front of the trainer. I get a lucky shot and hit the target in one of the middle rings. I'm pretty pleased with the shot, but Mr. Lumens still has about fifteen minutes of instructions for me.
Which is another reason he gets through us so slowly. The man takes his own sweet time. Then puts it back, contemplates the merits of the lighting in the room, and picks it back up again.
"And if you can remember that, you should be fine. Keeping working on it, Lightning," Mr. Lumens instructs me. Bracket reaches for the gun but I yank it away.
"Like hell! You had it before Mr. Lumens got here. My turn, definitely," I insist.
It takes another few minutes of arguing, but Bracket eventually concedes. Apparently it's not worth his time to argue with an ignoramus like me. Not that he used the word ignoramus; that's way too many syllables for Bracket.
My sudden surge of skill has run out, and I struggle to apply the instructions I've been given. Unfortunately, it's harder than one would think. None of the individual adjustments are hard to make on their own, but trying to manage all of them at once is a frustrating task. As soon as I focus on one facet of my shooting, the rest of them go to Hell in a hand basket.
"Shit. Well, just go ahead and have a go. Clearly I won't be sucking any less today," I say with a sigh, shoving the gun to Bracket. He nods with insincere sympathy and takes aim.
"Hey, Lightning?" he asks, not taking his eyes away from the target on the far side of the shooting range.
"Wha'?" I ask absently, trying to analyze what the difference between his mediocre shots and my bad ones is.
"You still miss Glimmer?" he asks.
I can't help the confused, skeptical look that instantly covers my face. This is like teenage boys, or Careers. We don't ask each other about that maudlin, weepy stuff. Really, he's just treaded into very forbidden territory. Most of the guys would start ribbing him for that as soon as it punched its way through their piggy little brains. I'm willing to cut him a little more slack, but he honestly ought to change the subject now.
"Not really. Hey, how tightly are you holding it there?" I ask him, trying to move the conversation back into safe territory again. Unfortunately, Bracket doesn't take the hint.
"You sure? I mean, you were pretty shaken up for a while there. Like, when you started shouting on that stage. You looked crazy, you son of a bitch," he says, face screwed up in the unpleasant memory.
"Wasn't about Glimmer. I was just… a little crazy and a lot pissed off about Silk. You know," I said.
"Wait, what about Harkmer?" Bracket asks with a frown.
"She died. And I was pissed and crazy. Crazy pissed. Pissin' crazy. Got it?" I say, trying to be as clear as possible with him.
"I guess," he mutters, but he's clearly not persuaded by my insistence. "I still miss Glade, sometimes…"
I can't help but stare at him. This is so not a conversation I want to have with anybody, much less another guy. "Look, Bracket. I dunno what emotional shit you're trying to pull here, but don't. Our sisters were both idiots who deserved what they got. Get the hell over it and act like a man, before you're branded weak. You do realize you'll never get rid of that stigma, right?" I say, trying to be forceful and practical.
Who would have thought a week ago that I'd be the one lecturing other people on toughing up? Not me.
Bracket looks disappointed. "But, Lightning. You seemed so upset. I thought for sure you'd understand. I mean nothing in Reform could make you-"
I slam my fist into his jaw. It's not meant to hurt him, just to shock him into shutting up. It does the job nicely. I've found people don't adjust very well to combat when they're getting all sentimental over the halcyon old days, and Bracket is no exception. Instead of getting to his feet and trying to whip my ass like he normally would, he sitting plop on the floor and stares at me, a little stunned.
"Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about. I don't care, you hear me? You shouldn't either. Be a Career. I don't miss Glimmer. You shouldn't miss Glade. Just go into the Games and win. Nothing else matters."
My speech serves a triple purpose. First, because I mean it. Second, I don't want to hear him talking about Reform. It was Hell, but it worked and that's all that matters. Doesn't mean I like anyone rehashing the memories. Third, to show everyone who's listening that I'm as loyal as they expect me to be. If I ever want to have open access to the guns, I'm going to need them to know that I won't do anything wrong with them. Although I will, since murder of a Victor is a pretty crime, but it doesn't really matter. They don't need to know that.
"Fine. Fine, whatever," Bracket mumbles. He helps himself up off the ground and takes aim again, not looking at me. It takes a while, but we eventually move back into easy conversation.
The months pass in much this same way. I spend superficial time with the guys at the Training Center, building relationships that are more fun than they are meaningful. I continue to suck at ranged weapons, but have decided I should be able to score a hit on Everdeen's head from the edge of the stage. I spend a painful couple of hours a day with the young kids. Perfection, the really fat one, drops out, but the rest are getting whipped into shape.
San begins to attach himself to me, apparently drawn to the fact that I can claim a handful of functional brain cells, unlike most Careers.
Eventually, I'm given a pass to the weapons stockpile. It's almost too easy to steal one and slip away with it. But then again, what would I do with a gun? I'm the perfect Career boy. Sure, I'm violent, but I'm also perfectly loyal to the Capitol. I wouldn't do some like steal from the Training Center. I mean the Reform took care of all those sorts of problematic traits.
Even while they're grossly mistaken, they're not. They won't appreciate what I'm doing, but I don't see it as a contradiction to my Career lifestyle. In the contrary, I think letting Everdeen escape would go against everything I've been taught.
She has embarrassed my family. She's taken a huge personal price from me. I hate her. Hate is only good for destroying. So, since I hate Katniss, I destroy her. What other logical conclusion is there?
I slip through the door with the gun still hidden under my shirt. Queen is making out with her boyfriend on the couch again, and I grimace. Honestly, is there nowhere else they could do that? Like, at his house? Or in another dimension? I don't say anything though, because I don't want to attract attention to myself just at the moment, and they're wrapped up in each other enough that I'll probably slip by under their radar unless I insult one of them.
I close the door to our room behind me. No Illy or Riches, so I slip the weapon out from under my shirt and stow it quickly under my mattress. As long as Ma'am doesn't come in and start flipping beds again, I'm probably safe.
I sit down on the bed and rest my chin in my hands.
Less than two months until Everdeen and Mellark come to District 1 on their victory tour.
Less than two months until I can kill Everdeen.
Less than two months until I fulfill my final purpose.
Less than two months until my life ends.