Training — Day 2, Part 2

Devrell Sibley, 18, District Four

From where we are at the knots station, I run my eyes over the weapons sitting in their rack on the opposite side of the room, honing in on a lovely spear with a lovely gilt handle. I trained with spears back home, but this is far more extravagant than anything we ever had at home.

"You know, those spears are looking tempting," I say. It's now the second day of training, but for whatever reason, we're still studying survival skills. Sure—survival skills are important, but spending all the time on them is as boring as a textbook.

Cleo looks up from the rope she's working with and sighs. "Just a few hours more."

I give her a confused look. A few hours more? I don't remember anything about that.

"Were you listening?" she says, "We're going to start weapons after lunch today."

"Oh, that." I guess I should've paid attention during our strategy meeting.

I look down at the instructional booklet on important knots—most of these are familiar from stuff we learned in school. But that means that this is an absolute bore now. I could probably do most of these with my eyes closed.

I look up—what's everyone else up to? Lannister and Jasmine are working together again, even though they started the day by splitting up. I'm not quite sure what happened; Jasmine ran into the bathroom and Lannister went after her. Whatever happened in there, the two are climbing the rock wall together.

As always, Alia and Zeus are separate, though I suspect that it's more because of Zeus than Alia. Before she went full-on depressed last night after getting rejected by the Ten guy, we actually had a fine time messing around with the edible insects. As for Zeus… I don't think he's had a full conversation with anyone yet. I haven't even heard him speak a full sentence amidst his grunts and one-word answers, accentuated by his glares. He's sitting right now at the first aid station right now, applying a makeshift splint to himself.

That seems more interesting than this.

When I get up, Cleo looks up. "No weapons yet, right?"

I brush my dirty blonde hair out of my eyes and wink at her. "Don't worry. I'm just gonna hop over to the first aid stuff. Maybe I'll get an actual conversation out of him."

She rolls her eyes but says nothing. With her concerns addressed, I jog over and squat down next to Zeus as he wraps layers and layers of gauze around his leg. He doesn't even bother to look up when my shadow falls over him.

This should be interesting.

"Hey, bro," I say, "What's going on?"

He gives me the "Are you blind?" look as he continues to wrap gauze. Alia had said that the guy was uncrackable, but I didn't think it would be this hard. Now I completely believe her when she claims she spent her entire train ride trying to get him to talk. Welp, I guess I'm Round Two—or even Round Three, if you count Lannister's attempt yesterday.

"A splint, eh?" I say. "That looks pretty secure."

"Yeah."

Success… ish. I got him to talk! "What are you using for the support?"

"A stick."

"You think you could show me how?"

"Do it yourself." He glares at me with his distrusting blue eyes, but I only have his attention for that split second before he's back to his splint. With a gesture, he waves the trainer over, who gives him a thumbs up after a careful inspection. He smiles.

He smiled!

That might be nothing for most people—heck, Lannister burst out laughing within moments of me meeting him—but for Zeus, that's a breakthrough. Now to see if I can crack him open a bit more…

"That's solid, man."

He snorts as he unwraps the gauze.

"I'm serious. You got experience with it back home?"

He shrugs while he frees the stick from its cloth restraints.

"I've had to learn some first aid just in case something happens out at sea."

His leg now completely free from the splint, he gets up and walks away without any kind of response. Yikes.

Zeus — 3; Rest of Us — 0.

A little peeved, I plop back down on the hard chair at the knots station across from Cleo. She gives me a curious look.

"Nah," I say. "No luck."

She chuckles under her breath. "Big surprise."

"He's basically a moving rock. Doesn't really talk. Doesn't react. Doesn't even acknowledge you half the time."

"Hmm."

"He's kinda like you during the train ride here—but you eventually warmed up a bit. I suppose the Chariot Ride fire helped?"

"Just no." Though she deadpans, a faint smile appears on her lips.

"They say stressful situations help you bond faster, you know.'

"Do something productive," she says, voice cold but face warming.

I wink again, grabbing a nearby rope, and I flip to the end of the instruction booklet. I'll need some kind of challenge to keep me sane from boredom.

Over… Under… Left to right… Top to bottom… Through the loop…

Somehow, the tangle sitting in my hands looks nothing like the clean loops in the picture. I furrow my brow, untangle the rope, and try again.

Over… Under… Left to right… Top to bottom… Through the loop…

Wait—which loop? This book is useless!

"Struggling?" Cleo says, breaking through the few shreds of concentration that exist in my scattered brain.

I look up abruptly with a sheepish grin, causing my hair to fall back into my eyes. I'll have to ask for hair gel tonight. "Nah… what makes you think that?"

"Call it a gut instinct," she says, smiling, "You want me to show you how to do it?"

"I should be okay…"

"Not with that worthless book. Let me help." She grabs another rope and repeats the very same steps I just tried to do. "That part was right, but you want to put this loop through this one. Tighten it."

I tug on the two ends, and the mess slides together into a coherent know. "Well, the more you know! How'd you figure it out?"

"Work," she says, winking at me. "We use these a lot down at the docks, but they don't teach it in schools, apparently."

I redden slightly—she doesn't seem to like rich people—but I smile anyway. Even if she doesn't think too much of me right now, at least she's willing to talk. Perhaps she's not as boring as I first thought.

Elena Vogel, 17, District Ten

I draw my knife across the "skin" of the dummy, pressing into the stuffing below. This is almost too easy; it's not too different from what I do after I catch a rabbit. Even the way I study the anatomy charts feels familiar. These tell me the fastest way to kill my competitors instead of an animal, but that's only a slight difference. They might as well be animals to me.

The LED light on the dummy fades away—the wound would've been fatal. Of course it would. My cuts are impeccably precise.

Who would I be if they weren't?

I slide the dummy up to the repair station, where the trainer gives me an exasperated look. He can't say anything against me—he isn't allowed to—but I get the message loud and clear. He's sick and tired of fixing my kills.

That's ironic. They're sick of my kills here, but they love them in the arena.

Deep inside, a tiny flame of anger tickles at my mind. District Ten had so many possible tributes. How did I get Reaped? Pa is a high-ranking official! I've never taken out that trashy tesserae grain that most of these kids were raised on!

Was the Reaping rigged? I can't rule out the possibility. A few months before the Reapings, Peacekeepers came to search the house on rumors of illegal activity. They didn't find anything, but I'm sure they were still suspicious. Oh, if it was rigged against me…

Keep that fire down.

It's not an option to say anything that could ruin my chance at victory, so I'll just have to let it smolder inside.

As I approach the dummy check-out station, the trainer glares at me. Perhaps I'll give the poor guy a break for me. I flash him a smug smile and walk away, waving a "you're welcome" behind me.

But what else to do? I'm all set with plants. I've brushed up on my rope-throwing and archery skills—the trainers didn't know how to help a girl with only one arm, but I proved that I didn't need their help. My one-armed-ness makes both skills a bit of a hassle to set up, removing any chance of using them in active combat, but I can still snipe someone from a distance or ambush them from a secure location.

And that's how I'll win. The trained kids think they're so high and mighty with the way they hunt. They won't be so confident when they find themselves hunted down.

I find myself near the entrance to the Gauntlets, an ominously grey, two-laned obstacle course eight feet off the ground that runs along one wall of the training room, filled with gaps to leap over, bars to slide under, and tilted platforms to run across. I guess it could be fun; my muscles need some stretching anyway after all that sitting and hunching.

Just as I step up to one lane of the course, the girl from Seven approaches the other, surveying the obstacles with a cold, calculated eye.

Ooh, she's a smart one, much like me.

I raise an eyebrow. "I'll race you."

She looks at me uncertainly, but then she narrows her dark eyes, silently returning my challenge.

"I'm not fixin' to lose, just so you know."

"We'll see," she says, her voice much softer than I expected from her lean yet clearly solid figure.

I ready myself to sprint. "You count us down."

She takes a deep breath. "Ready…"

The first stretch involves running across slanted platforms. I've spent days in the mountains alone; this shouldn't be a challenge.

"Set…"

After that is an assortment of obstacles on a flat platform, ranging from bars at eye level to spinning spokes of rimless wheels, and then a series of platforms that requires leaping.

"Go."

I spring forward onto the slope and sprint across it, relying on friction and my momentum to keep me from sliding off onto the black foam eight feet down. I keep my sight firmly on the obstacles ahead. Judging by the sounds of the Seven Girl's footsteps, she's slightly ahead, though not by much.

The flat platform rapidly approaches ahead, and I leap off the slope, landing with a roll to duck beneath the first bar. That smooth transition put me ahead of the other girl; now I'm in front as I leap over the spinning spokes and roll below the bars.

A smile creeps across my face as I cross a red line and enter the last portion of the Gauntlets, platforms separated by gaps. I land on the first one without a hitch and briefly pause to catch a gulp of air before I'm leaping onto the next one. The pressure is now on her to catch up.

In the corner of my eye, the girl appears, now just ahead of me. I grit my teeth. Elena Vogel doesn't lose.

Faster. Smoother. Cleaner.

We're about to reach the end, but she's still ahead. For a moment, she looks back, mis-timing her last jump. She lets out a small shriek as her foot slips and she falls down to the foam below.

Poof…

The impact sounds as I land on the finishing platform of the course, earning intimidated glances from across the room.

You've proved your value.

Still, it doesn't feel quite right. I won because she messed up, not because I was faster. That's not good enough. Now I know what to focus on for the remainder of my time here.

Elena Vogel wins fairly—after all, you haven't proven your superiority until you win purely by being better.

Rina Alcott, 18, District Seven

The finish line of the Gauntlets is right ahead—I've managed to pull ahead. I chalk it up to my better physical form. Considering the physics of the situation, having two arms is better for tasks that require balance and jumping. Beneficial. I can already imagine the confidence on her face faltering, and I smile.

This isn't you. This is you reflecting her.

But if I don't reflect her, then all that's left is weak, shattered Rina. No one gets to see weak, shattered Rina—not even myself.

I shove off one platform, calculating the ideal landing time to preserve momentum.

One leap more.

Is she still right behind me? I whip my head back to check, but my foot hits the platform wrong. My heart sinks.

I miscalculated. Not beneficial.

The corner of the platform grates against the sole of my shoe, sending shudders through my body as I skid off the edge, barely catching a glimpse of the Ten Girl's smug face and her brown hair waving in the air before a wind rushes past me.

I'm falling.

In the split second that I'm suspended in free fall, I catch Cedric watching me from a nearby station.

Not Cedric.

I faceplant into black foam that softens my fall, but I still hit it with an oomph that winds me, wiping out the faux confidence I tried to absorb from that girl. She's probably looking down at me now with her haughty eyes.

You big failure.

Choking back an angry sob, I push myself off the foam, my fingernails digging into the blackness that jeers at my mistake. Footsteps approach. Has she come to rub it in my face?

"Are you okay?"

The voice crushes my spirit. If it were the Ten Girl, I would at least have strength to mimic. I could spit in her face and refuse to be stared down by her stupid, stupid one-armed figure.

But this isn't the Ten Girl. It's Cedric. When I speak to Cedric, it feels like my defenses have been ripped away, not willingly like it is with Fallon back home, but violently like a tornado rips a tree up by its roots. To reflect him would be to lay bare all of me, and I don't think I could stand looking at myself.

It takes every last bit of resolve left in me, but I must project strength. "I'm fine."

"You're clearly not fine."

Just let me go, will you? There he goes, sending another axe through my mirror defenses, leaving broken glass shards all around me. I look away. "This is none of your business."

"It's very much my business. You're my District Partner."

"We still have to kill each other."

I shove the reality in his face like a bucket of cold water, and he falters for words, giving me a moment to collect the pieces of me. Deep breath. No tears.

I hope I look strong enough.

My thoughts now in order, I scramble off the foam and leave Cedric behind me grasping for words, but it isn't long before I hear his footsteps pursuing me.

Be strong. Stop running.

Mustering all my strength, I whirl around and stare him straight in the eyes. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

It strikes me that his warm, brown eyes aren't angry, or frustrated, or even demanding. He averts his eyes for a moment, but then he returns the stare with equal resolve.

Or perhaps more.

"This…" he says, "This isn't healthy, you know?"

I look away to stare at the ground, the walls, the other tributes, anywhere other than his probing gaze. The silence gnaws at me. I can't speak for fear of spilling everything out, yet my skin crawls as I feel him waiting for a response.

A third voice appears. "Hey—District Seven, right?"

It's the boy from Five. Cedric turns to him, looking away from me, which gives me a moment to gather myself again. Once again, my weakness is covered by a well-timed distraction.

Thank you.

"Hey," Cedric says, a little jolted. "This is a bad time."

"We don't have a lot of time," the boy says unflinchingly, "I'm Hass, from District Five."

"I'm Cedric." He glances at me, but words catch in my throat. I wasn't prepared. He smiles and goes on. "My District Partner is—"

"Rina," I say, my vocal cords apparently working again. Cedric raises an eyebrow. I ignore it.

"So what do you want?" Cedric says.

"I have a proposition." Hass clears his throat. "You know how the Star Alliance wins half of the time?"

"Yeah," Cedric says, still a little annoyed that Hass barged in, "Just get to the point."

"It's a coalition. We take down the Star Alliance early, before they have a chance to dominate the supplies. I've already got the Elevens on board; I still have a few others to ask."

A coalition? Theoretically, this idea could work wonders, but weighing the relative strengths, we'd need at least seven or eight people to match the strength of the Star Alliance—if not more. Thankfully, Hass' focused energy is something I can latch onto and mirror.

"You'll need more help if you want this to work," I say, forcing the words on, hoping that they sounded confident.

"Exactly why I'm coming to you two. You guys and District Eleven are the strongest ones out here."

I run through the possible scenarios in my mind. This coalition would be beneficial in gathering supplies, but it also increases the chances of dying at the Cornucopia—detrimental. If it works and I survive, then it's astronomically beneficial to my survival, but failure could potentially hand victory to the Star Alliance on a silver platter. That's neither beneficial nor detrimental. If I'm dead, whoever wins won't matter to me.

Cedric and I look at each other. "It sounds a little far-fetched," he says. "Like praying for a miracle."

"Isn't that what we're all doing anyway?" Hass says, "The odds are already firmly stacked against us. Why not take a risk?"

Cedric looks to me, and I nod. The boy's optimism is creeping into my thoughts. Though my gut tells me this won't work, I find myself reflecting his wishful thinking. "Let's give it a shot."

Hass breaks into a genuine smile, and he engages Cedric in a conversation as he leads us to meet the Elevens.

What have you done?

Is it beneficial? Possibly. It's taking on some extra risk early game to hugely reduce risk in the late game. In the worst case, I'll just have to bail—and it'll be just as if we never had a coalition. On the scale of detrimental to beneficial, I'd place this near the middle, slightly skewed towards the beneficial side.

Still, it frustrates me that I just can't place Cedric. Yes, he seems to intentionally try to shatter my defenses. Yes, he won't hesitate to expose me to the world. Yes, sticking around him instantly raises my risk of breaking down. None of this is beneficial.

But at the same time, he rushed over when I fell. He constantly intervenes when he has nothing to gain. He's always talking about my health—and judging by his eyes, he isn't lying.

Is it possible that he could be beneficial?

Anetha Layton, 18, District Eleven

Delusioned boy Hass is finally on the move again, having scuttled away to rope the District Sevens in. He's there across the room right now, talking to the guy, who looks more than happy to join, and trying to convince the reluctant girl, who's standing aloof with her arms crossed.

That means that we have a chance to talk strategy.

"He's finally gone," Naaman growls.

"He's kinda like a dog, ain't he? We feed him a bone and now he won't stop following us around."

"Preach!" he says, "I doubt he has a single idea what everyone else is thinking. He seriously thinks we're all gonna play nice to help each other out?"

"Just like a little dog. Cute and excited and thinks he knows what's going on, but he knows nothing." Almost like you, I mentally add, except you're not cute at all. You're a mangy dog that resorts to scavenging and thievery.

I have to admit, though, Naaman's stupid face is a little more bearable now than it was on the train. Ain't this an interesting turn of events? Somehow, Hass' obliviousness makes all the difference.

"So you finally agree we should ditch?" he says.

I hold in a guffaw. This boy's still salty for being roped into this whole thing. It's so tempting to rub it further in his face, but I'm better than that. "Nah. Breaking it now would get people on our backs."

He glares at me. "So you're sayin' that we shouldn't have joined this thing in the first place."

"Don't you put words in my mouth," I say, "I said nuthin' of the sort. Worst case, everything falls apart and we gain nothing. Best case, the Sevens and whoever else he invites will help defend us at the Bloodbath."

"You really believe that?"

I can't hold back the snark. "If it annoys you."

His hands ball into fists. "If it weren't for Seeder—"

There he goes again. Every time he gets mad, he makes some rash comment about killing me in the Arena. I don't doubt that he's physically stronger, but I can't let the facade slip. "Believe me," I say, "I'd whoop your sorry a— —."

"You—"

"So what's the strategy?" I say, interrupting him. There's just something so satisfying about pressing his buttons. Maybe it's because he's the scum of the earth and he fully deserves it. I say it's his fault. He says it's mine. But if we trace it all back, he's the one that started it.

He growls again, but he doesn't pursue the subject—so I won't either. "This is a coalition, not an alliance, so we don't actually have to talk to them, right?"

"But we're gonna have to be friendly if we want their support in the Bloodbath."

"We don't need their support."

"Trust me," I say, "You're gonna want it. If the guy from Two comes after you, I'm gonna grab my stuff and get outta there."

"I'd do the same."

"Then I'm glad we're on the same page—we'll have to chat them up."

"But they're our toughest competitors next to the Star Alliance," he says.

"Exactly," I say, "We chat them up to lower their defenses. If by some miracle we're still alive after the Star Alliance goes down, we'll kill them before they kill us."

"You're actually gonna try to take down the Star Alliance?"

I shrug. "Maybe. Let the others go first, though. The moment anything goes wrong, I'm out."

"I told you—you're a liar too!"

"Shut up, you—"

"Back to strategy. They're coming back over."

I take a deep breath. He's right, and I hate it. "We've gotta be ready to cut them down."

Naaman doesn't have time to respond before the trio are within earshot, and his fake smile goes up.

That frickin' fake smile. He was wearing it that day in the shop. By instinct, I straighten up and lean back in my seat, crossing my legs to appear at ease even though my heart is racing.

Remain calm, Anetha. Don't let them intimidate you.

The boy, walking and talking with Hass, has a slightly annoyed look on his face, but his eyes seem kind. I saw him rush over to his district partner earlier when she fell off the Gauntlets; he seems like a decent person. The girl trails behind, arms crossed and face set in a neutral expression, save for the way she glances around erratically. Though it's not very noticeable, I've spent enough time in front of a mirror examining and fine-tuning my own facial expressions to recognize that small sign of nervousness. Perhaps we're not all that different.

Don't get attached, Anetha.

I play back my last moments in the Justice Building to focus myself. Ambrose. Tiarella. My poor Ma was still stuck in bed, and I haven't seen her since before the Reaping. To get back to them, all four of these tributes have to die. I'm fine with Naaman going down to make way for me. Hass is a naive player; I won't have many regrets. The Seven boy seems genuinely soft on the inside—he won't make it even if I tried to protect him.

But the Seven girl. That one look at her dark eyes was all I needed to know that she's just like me, trying to convince herself and everyone around her that she's strong, that she's capable, that she's a Victor.

Too bad only one of us can make it.

A/N Whew—I wrote most of this yesterday and then realized that I had written Cedric instead of Rina. Oh well. Let's hope the next update happens sooner. Friday/Saturday seems doable.

(Optional but Fun) Questions of the Update: What character do you relate to the most? Which character do you wish you were more like?

Personally, I relate to Cleo the most—she's got feelings and opinions, but she hesitates to express them because she doesn't want to rock the boat. I wish I were a bit more like Cedric, more straightforward and less obsessed with the way others see me (though I don't want to go as far as he does).

Thoughts?