A/N: Hope you enjoy :D Next update should be between Dec. 30th and Jan. 5th, because I probably won't be updating on New Year's day, due to lack of sleep.

To anybody with a horrible winter cold like me, I hope you get well soon!

Chapter 38: Humbled

It's hard work, I learn, to catch up in my training. I can assemble a gun in my sleep, but shooting it? Not so much. Shooting it accurately? Even worse. I don't think the problem lies in my new arm, but just in my general lack of skill.

I'm not the only victor getting ready to fight. Copernia from District 5, Seeder from 11, Johanna, and Finnick are also drilling; I know because I've watched from a distance. While we don't interact in any way, I can tell that they're a lot more competent than I am, though, and I can't help thinking that, really, I'm not at all meant to do this.

I understand after a few days that Beetee isn't going anywhere near a battlefield, due to his technological genius. Frankly, I don't blame Coin for keeping him as close to home as possible. He's working on a way to infiltrate the Capitol's airwaves at the moment—it'll help the rebels both learn things and broadcast their own propaganda.

Most of the drills I do are just precision shooting. There are a ton of dummies aboveground in Peacekeeper uniforms that I'm supposed to be "killing." Behind the thin layers of protective armor in the outfits are packets of red liquid that burst when they're hit hard enough. The goal is to burst the vital packets—head, chest, stomach, even the legs in some cases—as quickly as possible, using a minimum amount of bullets. I'm not doing so well.

When I finish with my most recent round of shooting, I pause a moment. The dummies have holes all over each of their uniforms, and the sleeve of one is hanging only by a few shreds of fabric, but I've only managed to rupture one packet. Granted, it's a straight-up forehead shot, but it's only one.

It bothers me that I'm learning how to kill people. Honestly, a year and a half ago, I'd have said that by this point in time I'd be just about ready to start helping full time in the bakery. Frosting cakes, kneading dough. Instead, I'm just about ready to start murdering recklessly.

I have used this phrase in front of others, and all I get are weird expressions. Sometimes I think one or two people in the room might see my point, or even agree with me. But most of the time, it's as if everyone is asking, how can you say that? Don't you understand what they've done? The answer is yes. I mean, a person can't go through an arena and still be blind to the Capitol's crimes. But still—

"They're shipping you out in three weeks? Good lord, you'll be slaughtered." The voice behind me chuckles. "Or maybe I should say that the other side won't be."

I spin around, which is more difficult to do with metal legs than it might seem. "Who-?" Then I see. "Oh. You. Hello." Finnick Odair stands in a combat uniform at the edge of the field. "Are they sending you off?" I know he's good enough to fight.

He shakes his head. "No, I'm just breaking in the suit. I'll be on the same squad to District One as you will be. We can get chummy." He rubs his hands together and grins.

I roll my eyes. "Thanks, but I'd rather not."

He really laughs now, and walks forward. I give him my gun when he holds out his hand. "You can't concentrate on speed right away," he says, squinting to peer down the barrel. "You just aim…" He pulls the trigger, and sends a bullet flying at the sleeve that's still barely attached—and now it's not attached at all. The white material flutters to the leaf-strewn ground. "Once you master that, you can go faster." All at once, the packets on all five of the dummies are split open as an army of bullets tears the air. Red splotches bloom beneath the costumes.

Finnick hands the gun back to me, and I take it. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, thinking that I'll have to move on to another set of mock Peacekeepers now. And I can't even say that I've succeeded. I feel like a child. I start to walk away and then realize that Finnick is still standing there. "Do you want something?"

He nods. "I want to give you some advice… Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it. I want to warn you." I wait, and he continues. "At your interview last year, you let the whole country know what you thought of Katniss Everdeen. Were you telling the truth?"

I can feel myself blushing, and being embarrassed by the blush only makes it worse. I nod. What does it matter? She's not here anymore. Probably dead… I focus on what Finnick says to block out those thoughts.

"She's in the Capitol," he continues. What's he getting at? I know all of this, of course I do. "What they do to people they've captured, especially people with, ah, undesirable ideas and deeds—it's not good."

"I know." Look what they did to me, to you, Finnick, just by chance!

He grinds the heel of his boot into the dirt. "It's worse than whatever you're thinking of. Trust me. If—"

"Why are you telling me this?" I interrupt. Is he just trying to scare me?

"I want you to realize that if we ever get her back, the odds of her being completely sane are not in our favor."

In my mind's eye, I see the room on the hovercraft again—Annie Cresta huddled in Finnick's arms, terrified of the things in her head. But, no, that can't be right. "Katniss is strong," I protest. "She'll be…" I know she won't be fine, but she'll be… Okay? All right?

"I just want you to know," Finnick tells me.

I don't say anything else. I can't. As he walks away, I bring the gun back up to my shoulder and shoot.

Within an hour or two, I can hit almost eighty percent of my targets. The Peacekeeper dummies are all but decimated. During another fifteen minutes, the last before my scheduled training on the shooting range is up, I shoot every single thing at which I aim.

Over the course of the next two days, I increase in speed. I never get to Finnick's pace—not even close, really—but at least I can go into the formal lessons, where I'll learn combat techniques and strategies. Methods of defense and offense.

It turns out that there's a whole wing of District 13 devoted to the various weapons the soldiers use. Then there are several areas completely dedicated to the outfitting, preparing, and education of soldiers to be sent into combat. This last one is where I'll be spending a lot of my time for the next two and a half weeks.

When I walk into the room for my group, 2E—not really sure what that stands for—heads turn in my direction immediately. This is probably due to the way my lurching, swaying gait stands out, even in peripheral vision. I take the first seat I see, grateful to get out of sight. Why does this feel like the first day of school?

One girl, about my age, smiles at me in a friendly way. Her chair is two down from mine, but nobody is sitting in the ones between us. She leans toward me a little, purely out of politeness. "Hi. I'm Satin. You're Peeta Mellark, aren't you?"

I can tell from her name that she comes from District 1. Her immediate recognition of me comes as a surprise. I try not to be irritated as I nod. "Yeah. In the flesh." Why did I say that?

Satin laughs. "You look pretty banged up."

I shrug. I can't think of any way to respond to such an understatement. Instead, I say, "So, are you scheduled for duty anytime soon?"

It's her turn to shrug. "I don't know. Probably not, but then, it's not really for me to decide, is it?" She smiles. "I'll go when they tell me to go, I guess."

"But…" I'm not sure how to phrase what I'm thinking. "Don't be offended, but I thought, with so many Victors, the people from District One were on the Capitol's side." I realize two things immediately after I finish talking. One, that I don't actually know if Satin is from District One, and two, that her presence here, in District Thirteen is proving me wrong at this very second.

"None taken," she says, "but you're wrong. We only win the Games because we train."

"What about all the talk about honor and glory for the Victors?"

She snorts. "We're pretty much required to say stuff like that. I mean, there are some people who really think like that. Creeps. But for the most part, it's play-acting. Although," she says, "I hear they weren't kidding about the luxury."

"Don't you have that already?" I can't help pointing out.

She eyes me speculatively. "You really are from Twelve, huh?"

"What do you mean? Of course I'm from Twelve."

"No, it's just that—well, yes, we've got more than others, but we're not from the Capitol. For most of us, we want the Games over." Satin is holding my gaze. "Do you understand?" I don't blame her for wanting to be sure that the would-be leader of the rebellion isn't prejudiced against her district.

I nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

Satin smiles again. "No problem. I think if you ask around, you might find out some stuff about the other districts that you didn't know, either. Hmm?"

A/N: Weird, choppy ending... hopefully the next chapter will have a more "natural" feel. Please, please review!