Chalice (D1)
For a district kid, I am surprisingly knowledgeable about the Training Center. For a Career, though, I might as well be a pre-grade.
There's a short introduction by a man named Agrippa, while most of us mill about uneasily. I'm trying to stick close to Diele, but I can tell it's beginning to annoy her. He dismisses us to the training room, and she hurries off towards the Swordplay station with Dylan from District Four.
Okay, I think to myself, it's okay. You're still better off than most of the district kids.
I am quickly drawn to Gull, the other odd one out from a Career district. Originally, I was hoping Lucian would join our little group-within-a-group, but, then again, he wasn't devastated like Gull and me when he wasn't volunteered for.
Gull does his best to show me around, since he is a bit more of a real Career than I am. Most people avoid us, though I don't see how we're so menacing. The Careers are for the most part, polite, but I can tell they'd love to ditch us. The district kids seem to lump us in with the Careers, and the Careers lump us in with the district kids.
Together, we head to the vacant archery station.
The trainer there is very businesslike, sizing us up for bows, giving Gull the bigger of the two. We share an awkward moment as the attendant waits for us to know what to do.
Right. Because we're Careers to the Capitol, too. What little I know of fighting, however, has absolutely nothing to do with archery.
With an exasperated sigh, the trainer shows me how to hold the bow, how to nock an arrow, how to pull the string back just the right amount.
Closing my eyes, I turn in the general direction of the target and release the string. It snaps back and hits my on the ear, eliciting a little cry of pain. My eyes water for a second, but I look up to see the arrow in the neck of a dummy… Gull's dummy.
He's trying valiantly not to laugh.
I sigh, putting the bow down.
"It's useless. I'm totally incompetent," I mutter.
No one really knows what to say, so I pick up the bow, hand it to the trainer, and wander away.
It seems like every other station has someone. I don't feel like talking to people, though. Even the usually-abandoned knot tying station has two Careers… Dylan from Four, and Diele. He's teaching her something very complicated, but her knot sits in a tangle.
Auroch is controlling the knifework station with sheer size. He is easily the biggest person in the room, even compared to Martial. Half a foot taller, and much more eloquent.
I feel bad for all of us. Except maybe Lycra… but that's wrong. It's not her fault how she is. Nonetheless, it's hard to feel sympathy for someone who regularly compares you to a sausage.
A few deep breaths and I feel a little better. I muster up the courage to join the little Ten girl at the almost-empty swordplay station. She is utterly monopolizing the trainer, which I really don't mind.
There is a nice short sword at the station, hanging on a peg. I pick it up. It fits my hand okay, but I don't like the feeling.
For a minute, I watch the Ten girl perform drill after drill with almost mechanical repetition. I assume a similar stance, and try the moves that she is repeating.
Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.
My forearm already hurts, and I can see pain in her face as well.
Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.
She is standing next to me in a heartbeat, her hand on the hilt of my sword.
"You're holding it wrong," she says. "You're only hurting yourself."
I'm a bit taken aback, but I don't yank the blade away like I bitterly want to. She isn't holding hers quite the same way, but, still. I'm supposed to be the one who knows what to do.
"Well, you're hurting yourself, too," I snap. "I can see it in your face."
"That's not the sword," she says calmly.
"Oh," I mutter. "Sorry. I'm Chalice."
She shakes her head, corrects my grip, and goes back to her drills. Over and over again. Slash left, slash right, stab, flip, stab.
My teeth grind together. This grip does feel better.
Diele walks up behind me, and I turn around with a start. The Ten girl doesn't even notice, but continues to precisely execute the pattern. It's clear to me that she is attempting to train herself.
"Found a friend?" Diele asks skeptically, eyeing the girl's size.
"Not really," I sputter. "But Gull is very nice. Can… can I sit with you for lunch?"
I sound so clingy. Silently, I admonish myself for it.
"If Dylan gives it the okay," she says. "Don't worry. I knew your brothers. They were good guys. But I can't promise you anything more than a chance."
She gives me a little smile, turns on her heel, and goes to meet the District Two girl at the spear station. I sigh to myself, feeling useless. I'm a Career, from District One, and the tiniest competitor is already upstaging me.
-x
Holland (D8)
After wandering around like a lost puppy through the first half of training, I'm not looking forward to lunch. There are several long tables set up, each of which probably seats about ten people, and there are twenty-two plates of Capitol food on a counter by the wall.
Of course, the Careers have claimed the adjacent table, leaving the rest of us to mill about awkwardly and wonder whether it's safe to go after the meal. Except for Auroch, of course, who no one questions as he pushes past the rest of us and walks to the other side of the room, settling down to eat alone.
I'm drawn to Perl, a familiar face, and we lock eyes for a second. She seems to get my meaning, and she edges around the Career table to grab two plates. They're obviously having the time of their lives, and she is barely even noticed.
Still, we sit at opposite ends of a long table. No one from the real districts is in the mood to talk much.
Following Perl's example, a few of the braver tributes are grabbing their lunches. The thirteen girl from District Ten stalks over to a different table with her food without looking anyone in the eye, and Skiff from Eleven sits just two seats down from me.
He looks a bit conflicted, like he's wondering how to start talking to me, so I decide to help him out.
"Hi. I'm Holland, from Eight," I say as brightly as I can, trying to muster up some cheerfulness to make him comfortable. I could use a friend.
"Skiff," he says quietly, poking at the green beans in some sort of sauce that make up a quarter of his plate.
I stare at my food for a few seconds, feeling awkward.
"Um… the beans are good." I'm just grasping at straws.
He shoots me a somewhat mean look.
"They should be. We grow them in Eleven."
"Okay, you know what?" I snap, more than a little annoyed at his indifference, "If you didn't want to talk, you shouldn't have sat there. Excuse me if I'm not giving up on life!"
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I flush with embarrassment and stress. I would never have blown up with so little provocation anywhere else.
"Sorry. Stress, you know…" I mumble.
"No, it's okay. Seriously. I'm the same way. Can you believe the Careers?" says Skiff, looking, if anything, even friendlier than before I yelled at him.
"Umm… no. They are a bit more raucous than usual," I stammer, caught a little off guard by his kindness.
Indeed, they've escalated from their loud and annoying talking to loud and annoying fighting. Two of the District One girls are standing up, and the blonde one is screaming some pretty insulting things. Skiff scoffs in their general direction.
"Idiots, every one of them," he mutters, resuming his meal. I'm a bit more reluctant to stop talking; I've missed having guys my own age to talk with, and there don't appear to be any forthcoming.
"So, how old are you?" I ask, which sounds stupid after it's left my mouth, but doesn't seem to phase him.
"Fourteen. But I'll be fifteen in a few months," he says over a mouthful of chicken in a clear orange sauce. "You?"
"I turned fourteen a few weeks ago," I reply, eying my own chicken and wondering about its integrity.
"Then I guess we're both near the bottom of the age spectrum."
I nod, licking a tiny bit of the sauce off my fork. It seems okay, so I dig into the chicken.
"Yeah." I choke out through mouthfuls, "There's just us, and the thirteen in Ten."
He scoffs again. "Girls."
"Huh?" I ask, looking up.
"She's a girl! They shouldn't let girls do these games. Look at her, she's tiny."
I decide against mentioning to Skiff that the District Ten girl isn't that much smaller than he is.
"Lighten up. See the Career girls? They know what they're doing," I add, feeling a little defensive for the sake of my sister, even though the likelihood of her seeing Skiff's comment is minimal.
He just takes another bite of chicken, chewing slowly.
"You're from Eight, right?" he asks, swallowing carefully. "How is it there?"
"Well… there're a lot of factories. My parents are teachers, though. Why do you ask?"
It's weird to be explaining my district to someone, even if it's a pretty pitiful description. He shrugs.
"No reason. I've never been out of Eleven." He gives me a questioning look.
"Oh," I say. "I've never left Eight, but my dad went to a meeting in the Capitol once. He's pretty much in charge of the school system."
Skiff nods, laughing under his breath.
"My dad mends shoes."
We're quiet again, and in that calm, we can hear the Careers, unfortunately, much better.
"Hey! Get your paws off my hair!" shrieks the blonde from District One, as the only District Two girl yanks her off her feet by way of her ponytail, dodging a blow that probably would have broken her nose.
"Just sit down and eat," bushy-hair girl sighs, dragging the One girl into her seat.
Across the table, the tallest boy from District Four has his head in his hands.
"All of you sit down. For the love of god, sit down."
"Look at that," I mutter to Skiff. "They're not even nervous! Heck, they're already fighting."
"I know what you mean," he says gloomily. "And it looks like they're the only real alliance, too."
We scan the room. No one else really seems to be sitting together, and only a few are talking, like Skiff and me.
"Well, hold on," I say, pointing to Skiff's female district partner and the girl from District Five. "It looks like the girl with the unpronounceable name is allying with…"
I trail off, realizing I don't know the District Eleven girl's name.
"Sorrel," he says. "She and Husk have really taken to each other. I wouldn't be surprised if he told her to find a friend."
"Did he say that to you?" I ask, a little surprised. Perl and I only have one mentor between us, and he's not been all that helpful. It feels more like us caring for him. More accurately, Perl caring for him and me trying not to get in the way.
"Implied it," Skiff says, unabashed. "But I didn't want to."
"And yet, you're talking to me," I say, smiling. "Was it my dashing good looks?"
"Possibly your charming personality," he deadpans. "No, this is completely your fault. I never intended to talk to you, or anyone. I don't really want to get to know anyone here."
I understand that, but I don't think I could do it. I need people. I like people, and, for the most part, people like me.
"But now you're trapped. You can't exactly un-meet me, can you?"
"No reason to rub it in," he mutters, and stuffs another piece of chicken in his mouth. I can see that he's covering up a small smile.
We spend the rest of lunch eating and conversing, but mostly eating. What else is there to do, really?
-x
Lucian (D2)
"I can't stand her!" Demetra fumes, skewering a dummy at close range. "I hate you all!"
Her words are directed at Dylan, the unofficial leader of the Careers. She doesn't know that I'm listening, and would doubtless not care if she did.
"Look, Demetra, please put the spear down," he pleads, and I notice that she has retrieved her weapon, and is waving it in his face.
"You're all idiots, and you'll get me killed before the bloodbath is out! I'm sick of it!" she shrieks, poking him in the chest with the dull spear point. "Don't tell me what to do!"
This is an interesting turn of events. As far as I can tell, Demetra and Diele are on at least neutral terms. Though I am probably the worst possible judge, I would think that loose friendship might bind her to the group.
"Diele," Dylan says in an even tone, pushing the speartip away from him, "please talk to her."
"Don't you dare try to reason with me!" Demetra warns, as Diele walks over. "You're the only one I don't hate yet!"
"Okay, calm down," says Diele. "No one's forcing you to do anything."
"Damn right they're not!"
"Maybe this isn't going to work out," she sighs, looking to Dylan for affirmation. I think. Or maybe it's just a look. I can never tell.
"No, I guess not," says Demetra, throwing her last spear with such force that it embeds in the wall. She's missed the dummy, but nobody points that out. "I quit!"
With that, she storms off.
I can't say I'm not relieved. Dylan and Diele, however, look worried.
"What do you think she'll do?" Diele asks tentatively.
"At least we've got Martial… and Lucian," Dylan replies, noticing my vicinity. "Everything is going to work out. She was throwing a wrench in the pack, anyway. And the Twos don't like her enough to break off with her."
Hmm. No, I suppose I don't. The Career base is far more secure, and far less aggravating.
"Think we can get rid of Lycra, too? She's not exactly helping," Diele mutters, picking up her own spear and chucking it at a dummy.
"I don't think we can afford to lose anyone else so early," says Dylan.
The two are businesslike as they throw spears, talking a bit more about pack dynamics. Most of the relationships they discuss have gone under my nonexistent radar, so it's interesting to hear what's going on from someone who actually understood any of it.
The Training Center doesn't have a specialized weapons station. They're still ruminating about Auroch when I decide to find something worthwhile to do.
Demetra is sulking at the edible plants station, so I avoid that. Gymnastics is too easy, and being dominated by Lycra and Rippel. Most district kids are just sort of milling about, occasionally trying something, but never staying for too long. I have half a mind to join them. I have already learned everything I ever will.
My aim may be impeccable, but I will never be able to use a bow. I may have good balance, but that does not extend to a spear.
I spend half an hour at the Ranged Weapons station, where a pile of slingshots, what look like throwing stars, and two bolos sit in a heap.
Yes, I can shoot with a slingshot. Perfectly. But unless I can find myself a gun, my sense of aim is useless. And what are the odds on that one? The only other people who would know how to use one are Demetra and Martial- and I have doubts about Martial's capability with a ranged weapon.
I also know that he would not mind killing me with one, or with anything. Martial wants me dead over my experiment with his mental capabilities… two years ago? He accepted the lie that I was interested in a girl, but still seemed to retain his own will.
That much is obvious. I had wondered about his mental illness- it is easy to tell that he has one. But my experiment left me with a broken leg, an enemy, and no real data.
I have to sigh. A slingshot would be of no use at all against him.
One benefit to my condition, whatever it is, is that, though pain may be difficult to fathom, it is much more obvious in the faces of others. Perhaps it would be more worthwhile for me to simply watch my competition?
Putting down my slingshot, I decide on that course of action.
The girl from Ten is the first one I notice. Her face seems perpetually contorted, as she repeats drill after drill with a knife. I walk quietly over, observing that she has no source of discomfort. She leans almost unnoticeably inward, and her unoccupied hand strays occasionally to her stomach.
Interesting.
Auroch's face registers nothing. He manages to block everything out, viciously striking blow after blow to a dummy with a huge knife that I doubt I could lift if I tried.
The tributes of District Eleven are an interesting bunch. The boys are resentful, and the girl is oblivious to it. She blithely strings a bow, completely ignoring them, until the District Eight boy introduces himself to her, and then drags one of the boys away.
I could watch people all day, but understand none of them. And I do, leaning on a pillar that supports the Training Center.
When it matters, I will know them better than they know themselves. Nothing as shallow and unreadable as emotions. I will remember what makes them hurt. And I will use it to my advantage.
Their weakness is my gain.
-x-
Have you noticed how fast I'm publishing these? That's 'cause I was writing them when I should have been doing reapings.
This update's question: Which tribute do you identify with the most?