DISTRICT 4
Percy : Garin
The Reaping.
Garin volunteered to be a volunteer all the way back in July of the past year. They had six, by the Reaping, out of the eight they would have preferred, and most were the kids who'd lived in the middle of the ocean and used actual tridents to keep sharks from stealing their catches and the like.
Garin, on the other hand, had never been on the sea for longer than two months at a time.
It had taken some amount of effort, actually, to even get the Victors to agree to train him. He had none of the usual skills District 4 was known for, and he wasn't particularly athletic or even innovative when it came down to it. Percy's best strengths had always been in the mundane sort of office work that let governments keep on running,
That wasn't to say he had no skills. His personal experience—experience wrought during peace, during war, during imitations of both—gave him more than his fair share of talent in manipulation, in understanding. He had good aim, too, or at least that was what was Kalle—the oldest victor at the prime age of 40 and winner of the 78th Hunger Games—said.
"Good aim," he'd told Garin, "but your throw is shit so none of it lands."
It was the first skill, not the second, which had guaranteed him his necessary training.
Some Capitol officials had come to the district for the unveiling of a statue commemorating the 100 years of peace, and Garin (a waif of a boy, even at 13, but one with two parents in the government, constantly listening in, and one who regularly aced every test he was given) had been selected to be an example to them of one of the many good boys and girls who lived to serve the Capitol in District 4.
They had been frightfully easy to manipulate, the officials. They cooed over his hillbilly District 4 manners, laughed at his sincere-looking adoration of their mere presence, and happily went along with feeling noble and caring and wonderful when he leant into their opinion of the districts as poor, miserable places and marveled at every aspect of them.
The entire time Kalle's eyes were on him, watching, watching.
The next day his school told him to report to Kalle's house—he was a career now.
His final months in the district were spent in constant misery. Kalle had a special training regimen for each and every one of them—for the eighteen year old boy (Herve) who'd been in training since he was four and killed his abusive father, for the seventeen year old girl (Maele) who'd lost her entire family in a storm while she'd been in the hospital with appendicitis, for the fifteen year old pickpocket (Caine) who'd been the first to volunteer following the Capitol's announcement, eager to be kept out of the Peacekeepers' prisons, for his fourteen year old daughter (Iva), in training since the day she was born, for the twelve year old (Beale) who had been diagnosed as terminally ill in December and decided his life might as well mean something, and for Garin.
The sheer number of students (more than District 4 had ever had before) seemed to not affect Kalle at all.
He had them up at the crack of dawn working out (both together and apart, depending on the exercise) until they all but fainted from the effort, before spending two or three hours drilling them in everything from edible food to how to get sponsors to general traits of other districts' tributes while they ate better than they ever had before in their life.
Afternoons were for weapons training—Garin was primarily taught how to throw anything throwable by the winner of the 90th Games—and evenings were for sparring in the forest behind the Victor's Village.
By the time the Reaping came Garin genuinely couldn't remember the last time he'd read anything, even a sign, but he didn't care.
He was prepared, he was determined, and this time he was on the right side of the war.
The propaganda video flashed on screen, and Garin took a deep breath, waiting for the first district—District 12—to appear.
It was time.