Training — Day 3, Part 2

Lannister Saint, 18, District One

The lunch room has settled into an uncomfortable silence as we wait for them to begin calling us for our private sessions. It's almost like the Trials we had to endure in order to be selected to volunteer, but back in One, I had friends to laugh off the tension with. I've done my best to band with the rest of my allies here, but everyone's so… serious. Even Alia's staring blankly at the wall.

Well, everyone except Devrell, who's sitting across from me. Even now, he's swirling together all the condiments on his plate into an unappetizing brown. I make a disgusted face. He grins.

"Devrell…" Cleo sighs, though it's not so much an 'I hate you and I'm frustrated' sigh as it is an "I don't have words anymore' sigh.

"You think I'm gonna eat it?" he says, poking at the bits of relish. "Ooooh… Doesn't look great."

She doesn't seem amused. "I know you're going to eat it. That's just what you do." She shrugs. "I don't care either way as long as you don't puke in your Private Session."

"Aww— You care about me," he says, earning an eye roll from Cleo. "But seriously. Should I eat it?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Bet you won't."

He raises a bit of the sauce on the tip of his fork. "How bad can it be?" He licks the fork and instantly drops it, gagging. As the fork clatters on the ground, he grabs his glass of water and chugs the entire thing down.

I laugh, causing him to laugh, which gets Alia laughing, and for a moment, everything seems fine, as if we were just a group of friends hanging out together. But then the speakers tell us that we have ten minutes left and the somberness returns, this time taking Devrell with it. My knee bounces as I look around the room for anything to ease this silence.

I nudge Jasmine. "You ready?"

"I've trained, haven't I? I'm sure I'll be fine." She's smiling, but I hear the strain in her voice. She's only saying this because the others are around.

I give her an understanding nod. "We'll talk afterwards."

Actually, we've been talking, and it leaves me depressed every night. That bit from the train about only one of us being able to see our families again still flashes in my memory from time to time.

Was I wrong to volunteer?

It's what my parents told me to do, and I've never really thought too much about it. But now I wish I did some thinking before I volunteered. Even if I still ended up in the same place, I'd at least be confident about my decision. Maybe talking to Jasmine isn't the smartest thing; I'm sure our mentors would disapprove of our conversation if they knew what we were really doing. As far as they're concerned, we're making out every night.

But I can't not let her speak. Who else here is going to listen to her? It's the least I can do. And even if I can't change our reality, I can at least try to cheer the rest of them up.

I grab a metal spoon off my cleaned-off plate and slip a small silver denarius—my token—out of my pocket. "Y'know, I can bend spoons."

Alia raises an eyebrow. Jasmine smiles. Zeus acts like he didn't hear it. Devrell perks up. "Oooh!" he says, "You do magic tricks?"

"Yeah," I say, "Wanna see?"

"Let's see it!"

I hold up the spoon. "See? It's perfectly normal." I hold it out. "Does anyone want to test it?"

"You've been eating with that!" Jasmine protests. "It's… gross."

Alia doesn't care, and she feels the metal handle. "Yep. It's a regular ol' spoon."

I take the spoon back and hold it with both of my hands in sort of a loose fist. The bowl of the spoon rests on the table, and my coin peeks out from the top. From their perspective, the little bit of coin looks like the tip of the spoon's handle.

"All I have to do is… press down." I grunt as if I'm exerting great force, but I'm just letting the spoon slide down in my hands while the coin creates the illusion that the spoon is actually bending.

Devrell's jaw drops. "How'd you do that?" He picks up his condiment-slathered spoon and attempts to bend it in the same position, but the spoon slips and he just gets his Frankenstein mixture on his shirt. Cleo doesn't even react anymore, though Jasmine winces at the stained clothing.

I shrug as I mime rubbing the "bent spoon," still covered in my hands. After a few seconds, I release the "now unbent" spoon, inconspicuously slipping the coin into my lap. "Ta-da!"

Alia grabs the spoon and examines it. "What's the trick?"

I shrug. "A great magician never tells his secrets."

"I've gotta test this." She picks up her own spoon and tries to bend it. "Ugh! It bends a little, but this clearly isn't right. What gives?"

Cleo's now interested, examining the spoon from a distance. That leaves Zeus as the only cold one left.

"Hey," I say, holding out the spoon. "You want it?"

He ignores the one I hold out, but he picks up the spoon he's been using. With one hand gripping the handle and the other on the bowl, he bends it until the spoon is folded in on itself. "There," he says, smirking.

Alia groans. "Ha ha. So clever."

"That's one way to do it," I say, throwing up my hands, "I guess you did bend the spoon."

Devrell and Alia begin a heated discussion on the proper trick to bending spoons, even roping in Cleo, who offers her two cents, albeit very non-heatedly. Jasmine nudges me below the table and points to my lap, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. A coin?

I wink discreetly so to not give it away to the others, and she smiles contentedly. My heart swells.

But then the speakers buzz to life again.

"We will now begin the Private Sessions. Jasmine Softwing; District One. Please approach the double doors."

The mood instantly dies. Though Jasmine is trying so hard not to show her nerves, I see it in the way she twirls her hair, hiding her fear behind the facade of a ditz.

I pat her on the back. "Go get 'em, Jasmine!"

She smiles back at me and floats towards the doors without a word. A couple of the other tributes are staring, some with hatred in their eyes, likely wondering how I can be so jovial as we approach a death match. I really wish it didn't have to be this way, but I'll take their hatred.

That's because I'm helping Jasmine, and right now, that's all that matters.

Alia Bernold, 17, District Two

Lannister's magic trick might've taken my mind off of the private sessions for a few minutes, but Jasmine's now in that room, having to prove herself to the law-makers of the Hunger Games. I shouldn't be worried. I shouldn't be anxious. I've trained for this, bargained for this, crushed the competition for this. Me? There's no need to be worried. I'm not worried.

My pounding heart and trembling lip say otherwise.

Get yourself under control, Alia. I glance up at the seconds hand of the clock on the wall as it makes another full rotation. Another minute gone.

The others don't seem as tense; sure, it's somber in here, but they don't look as pressured. Lannister's trying to keep a conversation with Zeus, and he's doing better than anyone else ever did, though to be fair, I haven't tried since our awkward confrontation. Cleo's staring off into the distance, sipping a glass of ice water. Devrell got bored of the silence and started circling the room. I'm almost jealous of how they have the option to chill. They don't have the same high bar that I have.

Andreas scored a 10.

That means I must score an 11. A score so high that in many years, it isn't even awarded at all. I'll have to give my best and then maybe even more.

"Lannister Saint; District One. Please approach the double doors."

He gets up with a good-natured grin. "Welp, here I go."

The way he ambles towards the doors is so… nonchalant. How seriously is he taking this? Ugh—it feels wrong to relax, but my gut tells me that I need to relax.

Devrell plops down beside me. "Hey! What're you thinking about?"

"You're not stressed?" I say, staring at him incredulously. "These are the Private Sessions."

He shrugs. "Maybe. A bit. I'm a little terrified I'm gonna trip walking in, but that's about it."

I smile. That's so quintessentially Devrell, more worried about tripping than about—you know—the actual training score. "Not at all about the score?"

"Why should I? I already beat basically all of District Four." He grins. "So I'm just gonna waltz in, do my thing, and then leave. The score is guaranteed to be high enough."

High enough. "What's high enough for you?"

"I'm not sure… I never thought about it." He furrows his brow. "Nine, I guess? Eight is a little sad; untrained tributes get it every year. Ten's a bit high to hang your hopes on."

I chuckle—if ten's too high, then what am I doing? He gives me a weird look, but I brush it off. "It's nothing. I'm just… aiming for the stars."

"Why?"

Why? "I've got to be better. The best. Maybe it's just my sister. I'm just sick and tired of being 'Andreas 2.0.' "

He looks at me thoughtfully. "That sounds exhausting."

"Winning the Hunger Games is hard work," I say, "And I'm going to put every last bit of effort in that I possibly can."

"No, not that," he says, "Worrying about what others think of you is exhausting. You need to chill."

I frown. "You don't worry?"

"Nah! I don't give a f— —." He laughs. "I think I just gave up on pleasing people when I realized that you'll never be good enough for them. They'll always want more."

Never be good enough. That can't be right. I was clearly good enough to be selected. I'm popular here, according to my mentors. "You still have to put some work into your image, though. How will they take you seriously if you don't?"

He grins. "No one at home took me seriously until I was selected. I showed 'em all up in time."

"We don't have that luxury here. If you're too slow to gain respect, then you get cut." I sigh. "And cut means out. Permanently. You need them to take you seriously."

He sputters, but nothing actually comes out, and he just stares at the ground, considering it.

"Andreas—" The speakers crackle for a moment. "Apologies. Alia Bernold; District Two. Please approach the double doors."

They got my name wrong. They f— — got my name wrong. With determined fire rushing through my veins, I get to my feet and stretch. "Hey—thanks."

"For what?"

"That helped." It really did. Though he hasn't changed my mind—and he never will—it helped to put in words and tell it to someone else, even if that someone else will eventually be my direct competition.

"I don't see how," he says, confused, "But you're welcome."

I roll my eyes at him and take careful, confident steps towards the double doors, where two Peacekeepers are waiting, one on each side. They swing open the doors, and the training room is on the other side. This time, it's for real. I take a deep breath and step in.

Up on the balcony, the Gamemakers sit, watching me with smiles on their faces. Good—they're happy to see me. But is that because of me, or do they just see Andreas?

I clear my throat. "Alia Bernold, District Two. When I'm done, you won't get me confused with my sister ever again."

Bryson Fields, 13, District Nine

Waiting sucks when you have nothing to do. I look back at the clock after what feels like forever, but it's only been five minutes. Right now, the District Four girl is in there, so that means that there are… ten more people that have to go before it's my turn. If each one takes up all fifteen assigned minutes, then I still have to wait for two and a half hours.

Two and a half hours.

But both District Threes were only in there for less than ten minutes. If we say that each tribute takes only ten minutes, then I still have… an hour and forty minutes.

An hour and forty minutes.

I groan.

Barrett, sitting right beside me, looks up from arranging his silverware neatly on his plate, watching me with concern in his eyes. "You okay, buddy?"

"Don't call me buddy," I say for the millionth time in the past two days.

"Sorry. It's a habit," he says with a sincere smile, "That's just what I call anyone younger than me."

"It sounds like a dog name."

He frowns. "I'm not callin' you a dog, if that's what you're thinking."

A few more moments pass, and they call in the District Four boy. I rest my head on my arms over the table. Maybe I'll try to take a nap. I close my eyes, but my nerves are on edge and my brain is racing at a hundred miles per hour.

Cling!

My eyes shoot open and I'm fully alert, my blood pumping, my lungs sucking in short breaths. It takes a moment to realize that it's just Barrett, who accidentally knocked a fork off his plate.

"Dad gum it!" Barrett says, "Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare ya." He's now added his bowl and cup to his dirty dishes arrangement, and he's trying to figure out where to put the used napkin.

I nod, slightly blushing from embarrassment. "Who's in there right now?"

"Still the Four boy."

I sigh. "I wish District One and District Nine could switch names. Then I'd go first and get it out of the way."

He chuckles. "That's an interesting idea."

"How did districts get their names anyway? It's not like any of the numbers are tied to our industry."

He shrugs. "Beats me. I'm stumped."

Stumped. That's how I feel about him. I've spent the past two days trying to figure out why he searched me out on Day One. It's not like I have anything to offer, and especially not to him. Come to think of it, his eyes have been on me since the Chariot Rides, when he waved to me while we were waiting for the horses to move. What gives?

He places the napkin in the cup, and he pushes back from the table, satisfied with the visual composition. That's just weird—and almost obsessive. Maybe he's a high-functioning psychopath who's decided to target me. I give him a funny look, and he shrugs. "Gotta keep things in order, right?"

"It's just dirty dishes, though."

"You ain't wrong," he says, "But it makes life just a tad bit easier for the Avoxes."

I hadn't ever thought about it, that the Avoxes have to clean after us. Those don't sound like the words of a high-functioning psychopath. Those just sound like the words of a really nice person.

Speaking of psychopaths, now that I think about it, my escort sounds very much like a psychopath, as do all the Capitolites I've heard speak. They talk about being "so sad" over the death of a tribute, but you have to wonder what they even mean by sad. They clearly aren't sad that an innocent person died. When I enter that arena, will they jeer over my death? Bet on how many bones I broke? Daydream about—

"Bryson," he says, pulling me out of my thoughts, "You're not fine."

"Not your business," I immediately snap. His face immediately falls—if only I could rewind time! "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's fine," he says. His brown eyes are still as warm as before, and they linger on me for a moment before he speaks again. "You know, it helps if you tell someone about what's stressin' you out."

High-functioning psychopath. High-functioning psychopath. High-functioning psychopath…?

I gulp. "I- I'm just… nervous; that's all."

" 'Bout what?"

Do I say any more? I suck in a deep breath, but when I release it, the words come tumbling out. "I don't know what I'm gonna do in there—I'm so much younger than everyone else! What do they even want from me? Am I just here to die?" Bile begins to rise in my throat, and I choke it back. "I don't want to die!"

"I don't want you to die too."

The words catch me off-guard, leaving me sputtering. "B-But you! T-There's only one Victor!"

"We'll figure that out later," he says, his voice somber. "Here. Lemme give you a bear hug. It'll make things better."

I frown. Bear hug? Isn't that what kids get?

"Come on," he says, "Ain't nobody too big for a bear hug."

"O-Okay…"

I lean over, and he wraps his sturdy arms around me, squeezing me tightly. My brain protests the pressure, but the nerves have worn out my body and so I don't resist. He bends his head down, and his beard rubs against my forehead—all of us other guys were shaved and treated with chemicals to prevent continued hair growth, leaving only him with any kind of facial hair. At first, it made him look intimidating, but as it tickles my forehead, it feels safe.

It feels like… Dad.

I blink, and a little bit of moisture runs down my cheek. Darn it, Bryson. I wipe it away. "S-Sorry."

"It's fine to cry," he says.

I shake my head. "I won't. Not here."

I close my eyes and just let the warmth melt away the worries that trap my mind. In the background, I hear them calling for the District Five girl, but it's a blurry haze that feels far, far away from this unlikely shelter I've found. After a few moments, he loosens his grip and allows me to sit back up. "There. Feelin' better?"

I nod, rubbing my eyes. No more tears. That single one was too much. If I break down here, I'll be immediately dismissed as a hopeless kid. Still, I have to admit that he wasn't lying; it does feel better, almost as if a lump in my chest or a weight on my shoulders disappeared.

But what's he trying to do? We're in a death match here, not some extended field trip. I look at him again, and he's still smiling. Smiling. That smile drives me crazy. It's warm—and that's why it doesn't make any sense! Who does that in a death match?

Suddenly, footsteps approach, and a third voice enters the picture. "Hey guys."

I whirl around to face an unfamiliar boy. "Whatcha want?"

"Woah, woah." He puts his hands up in exaggerated shock. "I come in peace!"

"Then howdy it is," Barrett says. "What can we do for you, buddy?"

There it is again. Buddy. Perhaps he really does just throw that word around.

"I'm Hass, from District Five."

Hass. Orysa told me about him yesterday night; she and her ally agreed to his coalition. He seems friendly enough, but it's unnervingly smooth.

"I just wanted to invite you guys to join our anti-Star Alliance coalition," he says, "We'll gang up on them at the Cornucopia, and then you're free to go. We just want a more even playing field."

"Who's this 'we'?" I say.

He beams, as if he wanted me to ask that very question. "The Sevens, Eights, and Elevens, plus the girl from Three, your district partner, and me."

Barrett nods slowly, impressed by the numbers. "I reckon it's a decent plan."

"So you're in?"

I nudge Barrett. He glances over, and I give him a concerned look. He turns back to Hass. "Give us a moment, will ya?"

Hass walks over and sits down by the Elevens and the girl from Three. The way they're watching each other is all I need to see to know that I don't want to be anywhere near them.

"What do you think?" Barrett whispers.

I shake my head. "I'm pretty sure this is a bad idea."

"Why's that?"

I subtly point at their table. "They clearly don't even trust each other. Why should we trust him?"

"I'd really prefer to give them a chance first… but I see your point." He glances back at them for a moment and nods. "I also want you to know that I value your input, y'know?"

He gets up to go let Hass know that we won't be joining them—he thought it'd be rude to "wave 'em over just to reject 'em"—and it strikes me that I'm not half as worried anymore.

What have I discovered today? Barrett's probably not a high-functioning psychopath, though I shouldn't ever rule out the possibility. He's obsessive about organization. He gives an awesome bear hug.

But more than that, he seems to care about my opinions too. Somehow, that means more to me than the rest.

Zeus Strikon, 18, District Two

There's something incredibly soothing about cold water. I sigh in contentment as it falls out of the showerhead onto my hair, from where it runs down my back and my legs before it disappears into the drain. Perhaps it's because all my showers back home were cold—we didn't have running hot water in the house. The other kids always teased me about it until the trainers in the Academy forced us to take cold showers after training. That shut them up quick. Maybe this is why I love the cold water so much; it reminds me of home.

Mom.

Is she doing okay? Is she worried about me? Of course she is; she didn't want me to volunteer. She didn't even know I was the selected volunteer until I stepped onto the Reaping stage and announced my intent to volunteer. I never even said a proper goodbye—I could only leave her a note. She was bed-ridden and unable to come to the Justice Building. This is the biggest risk of my life—it could either save or doom both me and Mom.

Well, sort of. Mom was doomed unless I volunteered and won.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

"Zeus?" It's Skarn, knocking on the door. He's technically Alia's mentor, but our victors don't compartmentalize like that.

"Mmm?"

"Hurry up. The scores will be out in a minute."

Training Scores. Do they even matter that much? It's just another obstacle between me and home. Alia's always making a big fuss out of these things—this will leave a good impression, gotta impress the sponsors, they have to take me seriously—but the sponsors have probably already made up their minds anyway, and the remaining ones want personality from the interviews. In any case, I'm pretty sure I did alright.

They're calling me again, so I get out of the shower, throw on some clothes, and hurry into the living room, where our mentors, Skarn and Andreas, and my district partner are waiting. I note that Alia is sitting on the furthest couch possible from her older sister. She breaks her intense stare at the television when I enter, looking me up and down. "Interesting choice of clothing."

Like I care. Of course she'd judge my clothing choices; she's always so… image conscious. I snort and sink into a velvet beanbag. At the Academy, I'd be reprimanded for bad back posture. None of that matters here.

She brushes it off and goes back to watching the screen. It isn't long before the announcer with dumb pink hair begins to announce the scores. I glance over at the mentors, who're also watching intently. I'd be willing to bet that they care more about the scores than I do—they're the ones that have to deal with sponsors and the other mentors.

"District One: Jasmine Softwing — 10; Lannister Saint — 9."

Interesting. Who would have expected soft-spoken, smiley Jasmine to get the higher score of the two? Perhaps she's much trickier than I gave her credit for.

"District Two: Alia Bernold — 10. Wasn't that what her sister scored years ago?"

Alia curses loudly and leans back into the couch, glaring at the television and her sister.

"Get a hold of yourself," Skarn says. She sighs, but she doesn't argue.

"Zeus Strikon — 11."

I feel their eyes on me, and I shift uncomfortably. Do they expect me to say something? Then they'll be left hanging; I have nothing to say. I have to admit, though—Alia's frustrated face is a tad bit entertaining. She came into this expecting to be the very best, to have everyone's full attention, so that she can cause the most stir when she inevitably leaves the Star Alliance. I take it that she doesn't like to share the spotlight.

"Eleven?" Andreas says, "Well done."

I just shrug. Alia curses again, and Andreas glares at her.

The rest of the scores go by as we sit in smoldering silence. Andreas is annoyed at Alia, Skarn is embarrassed by the two sisters, and Alia's just mad at all of us, shooting daggers from her eyes at us, one after another. The other scores aren't particularly surprising, anyhow. Cleo scores a 9, and Devrell gets a 10. The girl from Five is the low scorer, with a 2. The girls from Seven and Nine score 8s, and the boy from Ten scores a 10. It's a high score, but no one's surprised—we tried to invite him in. I don't blame him for rejecting, though. People are naturally cruel, and I'm sure the Star Alliance houses the worst of the worst.

The moment the broadcast ends, Skarn hurries out of the room to avoid the imminent family conflict. I head for the kitchen for a snack, and I've barely left the room before the squabbling begins.

"Get yourself together!"

"You don't understand!"

"I don't need to understand to know that this isn't the Bernold way to behave."

"That's easy for you to say, Ms. Capitol Heartthrob. Everyone loves you! I wish… I wish you weren't my sister!"

There's a thump—someone threw something—and Alia comes stomping into the kitchen. She stops and stares at me as I pull out a bag of chocolate-covered raisins.

Her jaw drops and she covers her mouth. "I'm sorry— I didn't realize you were here and—"

"Whatever."

"Excuse me?"

I raise an eyebrow and pop a raisin into my mouth. "Whatever."

"Ugh!" she groans, stomping out of the kitchen and leaving me to snack in peace.

That girl, always so worried about her own shallow issues that she doesn't realize that some people in the world are actually suffering.

Oh well. She can do whatever she wants; I don't care. In a few weeks, I'll be the one back in District Two.

She's just trying to win because she wants the title. I have a momma to save.

A/N What a beefy chapter! Happy Fourth of July! *screams in American* Yeah, yeah; it's technically not July 4th anymore in my time zone, but it still is in most of the U.S.

(ObF)Q: Which character are you most attached to?

I can't answer this one because I'm attached to all of them. They're all my kids now (especially my boy Barrett!). Don't worry; I don't determine placements based on my preferences. (and so I cry…)

Thoughts?