Introductions VI: Browbeaten
The Art of War
JabberjayHeart
Kariev Ventenez, District 8 Tactician
Staring out of the soot-covered window, Kariev looked ahead at the metropolis of factories that clustered and dwarfed most of Eight's skyline from view.
Even from a young age, Kariev knew that her life was destined for menial labour. To follow in the footsteps her parents, and her grandparents, and their parents… a constant, aching line of harsh conditions, minimal pay, and a sinking, depressive loss of life.
She hated it; she hated the very idea that her future was already carved out for her.
The door downstairs opened and shut. Kariev briefly smelled smog as she climbed from her bead, heading to the top of the stairs.
"Mom?" Kariev called down. She watched as her Mom hung her coat on the tilted rack, face hidden from Kariev's view.
"Hey, baby. Did you do your schoolwork?"
Her voice was saddened and meek. It immediately dropped a pit in Kariev's stomach. "Uh— yeah, I did. What are you doing home so early? I thought your shift didn't end for another few hours."
Her Mom still refused to meet her eyes, only worsening Kariev's worries. Her Mom was a proud albeit emotionally closed-off woman. She kept her cards close to her chest, all in a vain attempt to protect Kariev from the harsh realities.
"I won't be going back," Mom answered her.
Kariev began to walk down the stairs, "What happened?"
"Mr Townsend said that I was missing the quota too much. He had no choice but to let me go, apparently. Even though I took on extra shifts and worked without a pay rise all of these years, he decided I wasn't fit for the job any more."
She didn't sound sad or bitter. There was a tamed fire in her words, a flicker of angered hopelessness.
"He can't go do that—!"
Kariev watched as her Mom slunk into the kitchen, slamming a piece of paper on the counter. Her final paycheck. The final paycheck for a while as jobs had all but dried up, people desperate to take on more than they could just to get by.
It's not right, Kariev thought as she followed her Mom into the kitchen. She stared at the paper. "Did you fight back?"
Mom sighed, "He can do what he wants, Kariev. He owns the factory. If he wants to get rid of me, I can't do anything about it."
"I'll look for a job. I— I'll go down into town and see if I can find something, anything—"
"You're only fifteen, baby. You're too young."
Kariev stood in the middle of the room, helpless, tears welled in her eyes and a lump in her throat. She felt so useless and awful that she couldn't do anything to help out. In a matter of seconds, their lives were ruined by the bureaucracy of corrupted greed and suffocating poverty.
"I'll find a way," Kariev nodded, trying to ignite the same fire that burned in her Mom's voice when she talked about the corrupted system determined to kill them all. "I promise I will."
Her Mom turned around, revealing withered eyes and a sad smile. She approached her daughter, placing her cold hands on Kariev's cheeks. In that instant, Kariev's calm facade cracked as she cried.
"Be a child for as long as possible, baby. That's all I want you to do."
Kariev walked along the cobbled streets with her school books tucked under her arm, dreadlocks swaying in the early morning breeze. The smog-muted sunlight barely made it feel like it was sunrise, but that was one of the few things that she enjoyed about Eight in general. A rare beauty amongst the decay.
She only had one more year of school left. One more until she was destined for the factories (if she was even able to find a job).
Her pants were fading away at the knees, ready to split. Her shirt was just a bit too tight around the collar. Her books were second-hand gifts from a moderately better-off friend that no longer needed them.
Kariev counted herself lucky. She thanked her Mom's tenacity in securing another job, despite an even lower wage. They barely scraped by and as much as Kariev was thankful, she couldn't help but resent her inability to help.
I will help. One more year, and then I can help us both. I can make things better for us.
She watched as the morning people left their houses, heading for their shifts. It was a long walk to school, but Kariev enjoyed the time for inner reflection… even if it turned into inner torment too quickly.
That's when she realised someone was following her.
She briefly glanced over her shoulder, taking note of the broad-shouldered, cloaked man that seemed to be only a beat behind. She quickened her footsteps instinctively. What does he want? She looked over again. He was moving faster.
Panic rose in Kariev as she ploughed down the street… only to run into another cloaked figure. Only this time, it was a woman, her red hair slipping from under her hood.
"Hey, hey, it's okay— there's no need to panic."
Kariev's eyes were wide, bulging, her chest heaving in nervous anticipation. She knew that Eight had a gang problem — mainly anti-Capitol rebels — but she couldn't believe they'd be interested in someone as insignificant as herself.
"Your name is Kariev, isn't it?" The woman smiled, pushing her hood down. "There's no need to be frightened. I'm so sorry for how this looks. My colleague has a habit of seeming… aloof."
Kariev gulped, "Who are you?"
"I'm here to help you," The woman breathed, "My name is Vanya. I'm a recruiter for the Federation. Have you heard of it?"
In an instant, Kariev's stomach sank. "Yeah… I do."
The Federation was an enigmatic system. Whilst the front trained children for the War Games, rumours were rife on their underground, rebellious system that brewed slowly over the years.
"We've been watching you for a while," Vanya continued, "Well, not necessarily that close, but we know that your Mom has been in touch with some of our employees about needing help."
"Did she?" Kariev was incredulous.
"She did," Vanya nodded, "She expressed her plight and we always want to help. In turn, we found you and, whilst you can easily say no to, the opportunity for you to join is there. We're always looking for ways to help everyone out."
"You want me to join?"
Kariev's mind was a whirlwind. Her insecurities flared up, striking her down. You're definitely not good enough. You'll waste all of that time training… and for what? To lose? To die?
But I could win.
But will I?
The raw desire for change, however, was prominent. If she won, whatever the cost, Kariev could make the difference to her life that she only ever dreamed of. I can— I can save us. I can save others.
In a flash of adrenaline-induced confidence, Kariev nodded, not even thinking of the implications and consequences. "I'll do it."
All that she knew was that, unlike many others, she had an opportunity for change.
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
In the week since meeting Vanya and taking her up on the opportunity, their life had already changed so much. Their pantries were full. Their clothes were stitched up and renewed. When Kariev stared into her Mom's eyes, she saw hope that she had never seen before.
"Absolutely," Kariev smiled, "It'll help us so much."
Her Mom's smile was sad but proud, "But what about you? I love you, baby, but you're not the most extroverted person…"
"Mom," Kariev placed her hands on her shoulder, "I can do it. I will do it. I'll be fine, I promise you."
She didn't know she would. But the light that flickered in her Mom's expression was all the encouragement that she needed to push through the claustrophobic anxiety that clutched at her chest.
With her backpack over her shoulder, Kariev headed out for her first day. She recited the directions in her head as she winded down the alleys, promising to stay reasonably off-street.
The Federation's entrance was inconspicuous. An old, abandoned textile factory that was boarded up at the far end of the wharf. Kariev stopped at the entrance, swallowing down the underlying fears.
"Are you new?"
Kariev almost jumped at the voice behind her. She spun, facing the boy that stood there, dark hair swept to the side.
Kariev nodded, biting her tongue. You need to do this, Kariev. Speak! "Yeah. I am."
The boy grinned, "Awesome. I'm Quinnit. I'm a last year, just missed out on the spot, you know."
Kariev was puzzled. "The spot?"
"My team came in second, so we didn't get chosen for the War Games," Quinnit shrugged, "It is what it is. Sometimes, things don't work out. But I get to finish my year up and then onto bigger and better things!"
"Like what?"
"They line up a job for you, depending on your skills," Quinnit confirmed, "I have a fairly nice job coming my way, all things considered. The Federation is kinda like a second family. They look after you even after you graduate."
Kariev watched as Quinnit stepped forward, knocking on the barred door. He rapped his knuckles four times, evenly spaced apart. The door unlocked, opening up.
"What will you be?" Kariev couldn't help but ask.
"A trainer! I'm going to teach the tacticians through the events next year."
Kariev followed the boy inside. The stone halls were vacant of life. But at the far end, noise boomed. The boy walked towards it and Kariev continued to follow, drawn to him. He felt nice; he felt reassuring. Most of all, though, he allowed Kariev to hide from her head.
"This is the main room…" Quinnit stopped at the door, "They've already assigned you a team."
The doors opened again. Kariev saw the fifty or sixty odd kids scattered around the room in little groups. Vanya was right by the door and she smiled as Kariev and Quinnit stepped in.
"Well done, Quinnit. You'll make a great asset next year."
Kariev looked between the two, "Wait— so that was planned?"
"I'm also a greeter for newbies," Quinnit smiled, "You'll be fine, Kariev."
Quinnit left the room, leaving Kariev to spiral in her head. She held the composure on her face, though, as Vanya gently guided her across the room to two individuals. The vividly-dressed boy sat on the table, swinging his legs. The tall blonde girl was leant against the wall, talking to another boy as she twirled her hair flirtatiously.
"Felicity, Creon," Vanya spoke. The pair turned to face them. "I've found you a tactician. This is Kariev."
A tactician? A team? Dread sank in.
"I like your dreadlocks," Creon commented, showing every tooth as he grinned.
"She has better taste than you, Creon," Felicity seemingly teased.
Creon laughed heartily, "I'll allow that. I wish I had the hair for dreadlocks. I think they'd make me look daring."
Vanya shook her head, smiling, "I want you both to be nice to Kariev. She's a late starter, but I know you two will warm her up. Besides, it's a perfect fit. Maybe she'll be the catalyst that stops you two bickering."
"Yeah. Our last tactician died," Creon sighed.
Felicity smacked him across the back of the head, "No, she did not! She quit the program. Don't be a dick. It's nice to meet you, Kariev. I'm always appreciative of another girl over another Creon."
"You'll never find another guy like me," Creon was confident.
"Welcome to Team Hotness."
"Felicity named us."
Kariev looked between the two. Both were wearing honest, nice smiles, despite the playful tones in their voices. They looked like they genuinely cared for each other — something Kariev had never had in a friend.
"Good luck," Vanya whispered in Kariev's ear as she turned, "You'll do fantastic. I have so much faith in you."
Kariev smiled, cool and collected, letting it truly sink in. I'm glad somebody does… because I'm not sure I do.
Creon Oremato, District 8 Operative
The wind collided with Creon's flushed cheeks as he ran, his toothy smile wide and adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Get back here!"
Nobody could stop him. He easily diverted through the crowds of factory workers finishing their shifts, practically dancing as he put more and more distance between himself and the scorned baker that he fiddled out of a few pence. He briefly looked over his shoulder as the portly man seemed almost ant-sized down the far end of the street.
I did it! Creon came up to the small, concrete city park and hopped over the fence. He dashed through the battered and broken equipment until he was out on the other side, dashing down the street.
At the far end, Loren and Medea waited, sitting on the brick wall of their family home. As he approached, Medea grinned. "Creon!"
Creon pulled to a halt and keeled over, taking a few deep, long breaths to fill his lungs. He looked back up, unable to wipe the smirk from his face. "Look what I got!"
He lifted the paper bag up into the air. A familiar sight in the window but a rare treat to the breadline siblings.
"Cookies!" Medea giggled, curls bouncing as she swung her legs, "Cookies, cookies, cookies!"
Loren, on the other hand, couldn't help but frown. "Please tell me you didn't steal them…"
"I didn't steal them," Creon was honest. "At least… not entirely. I just perhaps short-changed Mr Simpson by a few pence, is all."
Out of the siblings, Loren's mantle as the respectful, law-abiding brother clashed with Creon's daredevil and reckless streak. Whilst they couldn't be anything but entirely different, their bond was deeper than the surface.
"You're going to get caught one day and they'll ship you off," Loren warned quietly, hoping Medea wouldn't hear.
Creon shoved his hand in the bag, handing Medea a freshly baked raisin cookie that she eagerly grabbed. "Well, I better not get caught then, huh?"
"Creon…"
"Loren…" Creon mimicked, "It's not the end of the world. I didn't realise I was short until I was at the counter. He didn't even count it straightaway, so he was basically asking for me to make a run for it."
Loren shook his head, "He's in the same position as us. He's just trying to survive."
The guilt that came from those words hit too close to home for Creon. He knew that Eight was sinking further and further into the ground. Jobs were becoming tight with every factory closure. Whilst they had the semi-privileged position of two parents working, their cupboards weren't filling up as fast as normal.
Creon swallowed the lump in his throat, "When I get paid for the paper round tomorrow, I'll go back and pay the rest of the money."
"You better hope that he doesn't call the Peacekeepers on you," Loren warned. He helped Medea down from the brick wall, plopping her on the ground. "We better get in. Mom and Dad will be home soon and we haven't finished the chores."
A little downtrodden, Creon followed his siblings into the house. The cramped home provided little to no warmth nowadays. Money was simply just drying up too fast.
It's why Creon stole. Or, in the majority of the cases, did what he had to. He didn't even like raisins; but he knew Medea loved them and it had been so long since she had a treat.
Creon quietly grabbed the broom and began to sweep, eyeing Medea as she plopped herself onto the couch and continued to eat the cookies.
I hope it gets better, Creon thought. If only for her sake.
Creon's hands were stuffed in his pockets as he walked down the street. Unlike so many of the residents, Creon's thrifty nature had meant he was a survivor through and through. His skills — at age nine — were better than most teens and adults. His colourful, maroon jacket was a testament to his desire to repurpose almost anything, if only to make life a little easier.
The bakery was at the far end. Creon's nose twitched at the smell of warm loaves of bread as it drew him in. Through the window, he saw Mr Simpson placing them under the counter.
What if he calls the Peacekeepers on you?
Creon couldn't forget Loren's words, though. They resounded in his head, almost tormenting him. He had to do better. He had to be better.
I have to do it. I have to—
Creon pushed the door open before he could debate it further. The little bell above chimed, catching Mr Simpson's attention. When he looked up, however, his cheerful smile fell into a frown.
Creon shuffled on the balls of his feet, hands still in his pocket.
"I'm— uh—"
Mr Simpson crossed his arms over his chest, "You stole from me."
"Well, technically, I didn't fully steal as I paid most of it—" Creon saw the hurt in the man's eyes and stopped himself, "You're right. I did steal from you. I'm really sorry, sir."
"Sorry doesn't pay my bills, boy," Mr Simpson shook his head. There was no malice in his voice. It was dejected, hurt; Creon almost wished that it was anger instead so it didn't hurt him so much, even if he knew that was selfish.
Creon fumbled in his pockets as he approached the counter, dropping the five coins on top.
"Here… that should be the rest of it. You should count it, though. Math isn't my strongest subject," Creon dropped his gaze to the floor.
He heard Mr Simpson drag the coins across the counter, collecting them. He mumbled under his breath and opened his till, dropping them in. Creon waited for the ball to drop — for the threats for the authority to come in — but instead, all he heard was a singular coin being pushed across the counter.
"You gave me one too many," Mr Simpson replied as Creon looked up.
"Did— did I? Am I that bad at math?"
"It would seem so," Mr Simpson crossed his arms over his chest again. His moustache twitched. "That was mighty brave of you, boy. Not many people would own up like that."
Creon smiled shyly, "It helps to have a morally coded brother."
"You'll get there one day, boy."
Creon suddenly felt like a weight was lifted. The guilt eased away and the usual chaotic, exuberant charm returned in his cheeks. "He could teach me a thing or two, that's for sure. I'm really sorry again, sir. I'll do better."
"Just don't steal from me. You can always owe me, or we can work something out. I know times are tough, but we can only help each other through it or else Eight will go to the dogs."
"I better put on my honest shoes!" Creon grinned as he turned, "Thank you again, sir."
As he left, the smog-covered sky felt a little more beautiful than it did on his way in. The streets were less bustled, save for a few people who loitered, no doubt jobless. Creon shoved his hands in his maroon jacket and headed for home.
He passed the same shops, many of which were going out of business. He saw the market, only half-full than it was last time. The same shady-looking man on the corner of the street—
Creon stopped, realising that the man was looking at him. Was he there this morning? Wait, why is he just staring at me like that?
"I saw what you did, kid," The man stepped forwards, revealing his face from under his hood.
"Stranger danger!" Creon yelled, making a run for it.
"Kid! Wait!"
"Stranger danger!"
Creon weaved through the streets, hopping over the park fence and heading down his home. His heart was racing as he looked over his shoulder, realising that the man was nearing him faster and faster. Creon reached his front door and swung it open, slamming it behind him.
"Creon! What are you doing?" Loren complained.
"A man is chasing me, Loren!" Creon slammed his own back against the door in an ill-attempt of barricading it. "He wants to get me!"
Loren's eyes widened, "What the—"
There was a knock at the door, making Creon yell.
"Kid! Kid! I'm not looking for trouble, I just want to talk to you."
"Creon," Loren glowered, "Did you even pay Mr Simpson?"
"I did, I did! I swear!" Creon pleaded.
"Please, kid! It's about the other day! I'm from the Federation!"
Creon's anxiety cooled down. He blinked a few times, looking up at Loren as the pair of them looked completely puzzled. "What's the Federation?" Creon whispered hoarsely.
"Move—" Loren gently pried Creon from the door, opening it up.
The man no longer looked terrifying. His face was podgy, hidden behind a wizened, grey beard and moustache. His eyes, however, were honest and open. He reminded Creon of his Granddad.
The man smiled exhaustingly, "Are you his Dad?"
Loren raised an eyebrow, "Do I look like I am?"
"Ah," The man nodded, "I saw your moves yesterday, kid. You're really light on your feet, aren't you?"
Loren stepped in the way to cover Creon from the man's view. "I'm not gonna lie, sir, but that's a little creepy that you just watch kids in the streets before you try to recruit them."
Creon's eyes widened, "Don't send me away, Loren!"
Loren rolled his eyes, turning around, "That's not what it's about, Creon. But it's not my place to say."
The man laughed, pulling forth a little card that he handed to Loren. "Let your parents know when they come home, hmm? It could be very beneficial to your little brother. He has the chops, the spirit, the agility that would make him a great candidate for the program."
"Shall I leave out the part where you watched him in the street and chased him home?"
The man awkwardly laughed, "As long as you make my intentions pure, I don't mind. Honesty is the best policy, after all. I will leave you be. Just be sure to pass the message for me, if you don't mind, young man?"
Loren nodded stiffly as he closed the door, "Sure."
With the man gone, Creon relaxed, almost sinking into the thread-worn carpet on the floor. Loren lingered by the door, reading the card, internally disrupted. Creon could read his usually strict brother like a book.
"What is it?"
Loren scrunched his lips, "It's the Federation. They recruit children to train for the War Games and, in turn, they financially help out their families. And if you don't get picked, well— they help you."
"That sounds cool!" Creon's eyes widened in amazement, "Wait, do I do it?"
He couldn't help but think about the help it would give his family. Medea would be able to have raisin cookies every week. His parents wouldn't have to pull that second or third extra shift. Loren could continue his studies instead of quitting to find work.
In that moment, as Creon watched Loren place the card on the table and walk into the kitchen, he realised that it was an answer to a prayer that he never made.
His eyes lingered on the card and he grinned. I'm going to be so cool!
Creon followed the other kids as they all headed for the main hall, cheering and noise echoing through the stone walls. Wendell was at his side, hair pulled back into a ponytail.
"What do you think is happening?" Wendell asked.
"Come on, fancy feet, you should know," Creon laughed, "We're getting a new kid. And there's an announcement, I think. Vanya hardly ever calls us together for no reason."
"If you didn't chase your tactician away—"
"I told you, she died?" Creon shrugged, "I don't know what you're on about."
"You can't keep saying that," Wendell laughed as they walked through the main hall doors.
Creon adjusted his brightly coloured jacket, "I'll reiterate: I don't know what you mean. Felicity says she's dead to us."
"Students!" Vanya's voice boomed over them all, "I want you to stand in your teams. Once our new recruit arrives, I'll make the announcement."
Wendell and Creon fist-bumped as Creon sauntered to the far corner, jumping up to sit on the table. Felicity eventually made her way over, blonde hair swishing, as Arick followed her like a lost puppy.
"Morning, Felicity," Creon gave a little wave, unable to hide his smirk, "Morning, Arick. You might want to cover your neck up a little."
Felicity turned to face Arick, pulling the collar of his shirt up to hide his hickey. Creon couldn't help but chuckle as Felicity turned back around.
"What's so funny, little monkey?" Felicity teased Creon's overuse of nicknames.
"Ha ha, you're so cute, but it doesn't work so well on you."
"Neither does your jacket," Felicity smirked.
The pair of them were complete opposites. Creon vividly remembered the first day he met Felicity. Her wealth over the rest of them was astounding. But, despite her better chance in life, she felt very down-to-earth. And despite their bickering, over the last seven years, Creon had come to think of Felicity as an annoying sister.
"Do you think the new recruit is for us?" Creon asked, but Felicity had her back turned, flirting with Arick as Vanya walked over, a new kid on her arms.
The first thing Creon saw, though, was her dreadlocks. His grin stretched across his face.
Finally, someone with taste. I like her already.
Felicity Arkova, District 8 Artillery
Shit, I'm late… again.
Felicity's arms and legs pumped as she ran down the cobblestone streets of District Eight. She skidded down the alleys and curved through the winding, narrow roads that would eventually lead her to home. Her bag came down hard against the crook of her back, only propelling her forwards more.
The sky above began to darken as the sun settled somewhere on the horizon. As the streetlamps flickered, casting an eerie, yellow glow onto the smog-covered town, Felicity knew that she wouldn't hear the end of this.
At the far end of the packed street, in a small, nestled house, Felicity arrived home. As she pushed open the door quietly, it was all but too late.
"Mom is going to kill you," Maddy's voice came from the top of the stairs, staring down at her twin sister.
"Did you even attempt to pretend to be?" Felicity whispered, casting a glance into the kitchen where her Mom had her back turned to them.
Maddy shook her head, "She isn't stupid, Felicity, I think she knows the difference between us. You're the star, after all."
Felicity closed the door as quietly as she could, creeping up the stairs until she was face-to-face with her identical yet much more mellow sister.
"I thought I could trust you," Felicity teased, walking past her to their shared room.
Maddy followed, "Stop being so dramatic. For the record, she won't kill you. She favours you too much."
Felicity tossed her bag onto her bed in the far corner. "Stoooop," Felicity sighed, "You know it isn't like that."
"Oh, it is. But I don't mind. She has bigger things to worry about with Connor, anyway."
Felicity plopped onto the bed. Her back was wet with sweat; her hair tangled in front of her face; cheeks flushed. It's not like she was out doing something shady and underhanded… unlike Connor most definitely was.
"Is he still not back?"
Maddy shook her head, a sad frown on her face, "He's super late. If anything, Mom is more concerned about that than you and your training."
Felicity was constantly reminded of the fact that she was the only child to be in the Federation. She was also in an unusual position — a bright girl from a middle-class family when the Federation tended to pray on the poverty-stricken — but that was due to her family's deep-rooted ties into the shady, underground use of the training centre.
"Girls! Come down for dinner, please!"
"Don't say anything about Connor," Maddy warned her sister, "She was crying about an hour ago."
Felicity panicked, "Wait, what if she asks if I've seen him?"
Maddy shrugged, "I'm sure you'll figure it out, superstar."
The twins headed downstairs, drawn to the smell of slow-cooked pork simmering away in the pot. The house itself was minimalistic; years ago, Felicity remembered, there were trinkets and framed photos everywhere. Then at some point, it was all gone… much like her parents' spirit.
When her Mom realised that Felicity was home, she turned and smiled. "How was training today?"
Felicity smiled her warm, magnetic smile that won everyone over, "It was good. Uh— I'm sorry, it overran and Vanya kept wanting to push me more—"
"It's fine, sweetie," Mom cooed, "I'm proud of you."
Maddy gently elbowed Felicity in the side, "See, I told you."
"Where's Dad?"
"He's running late at the factory," Mom continued, "We're gonna have dinner without him and Connor."
Felicity naturally tensed. As chaotic as she could be sometimes, she never meant harm. She hated seeing her Mom look so sad and empty nowadays. But Connor… it almost seemed like he wanted to hurt them.
"Sit, sit! Let's eat whilst it's still hot."
Not again.
Felicity knew by the town's clock chiming and the darkening sky that she had, yet again, zero time management skills. The second time in a week. She couldn't even blame Vanya this time; it was Arick and his stormy blue eyes and soft lips that distracted her from the time—
Felicity skidded to a halt as she heard a familiar voice. The streets were fairly empty, most people either pulling extra shifts at the factory or home with their loved ones. It wasn't like Eight had much to offer in nighttime entertainment.
Felicity edged closer to the voice. A group of voices. Laughter.
Turning into the alley, she saw the five bodies huddled together. Four tall, broad ones and then—
"Connor?"
The smallest one was the odd one out. Even with his hood up, Felicity knew his blonde curls from anywhere.
"Connor, what are you doing?"
Connor seemed to shrink, "Felicity—? What are you doing?"
Felicity eyed up the other grown men that surrounded her teenage brother.
A large brute of a man with a facial tattoo took a drag of his cigarette and blew it. "Mind your own business, sweetheart."
"Sweetheart?" Felicity pulled a face, "Stay in your own lane, buddy, I'm not your sweetheart. I'm talking to my brother."
Her heart raced in her chest. Her back was once again slick with sweat. But most of all, her adrenaline spiked in her veins, making her feel near invincible. She narrowed her eyes at Connor, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't.
"Get home. Now."
"Don't talk to me like that…"
"I'll talk to you how I want," Felicity could feel her anger rising, "You're making Mom sick with worry and for what—? To hang around with dumb, dumber and dumbest?"
The facial tattoo man took a step forward, "Watch your tone, sweetheart."
And, unsurprisingly, Felicity refused to back down, marching forward as if to square up a man two times her size. "I told you, dumbest, stay in your own lane."
Felicity reached out, grabbing Connor by the elbow and yanking him forward at the same time as a meaty paw wrapped itself around Felicity's wrist. Blinded by adrenaline and still reeling from her indestructible desire to pummel the crap out of something, Felicity reacted. Her knee shot outwards, connecting with the man's groin.
As he crumpled to his knees, Felicity whipped her hair back and smiled, "Ah, the perfect level for such a small man. Connor, get home now."
She yanked Connor out as another man stepped forward, only for Felicity to instinctively bring her elbow around to collide with his face. The sound of his nose cracking was rather satisfying.
Felicity was the top of her artillery class for nothing. A pretty face, small waist, and elbows that could break a nose, apparently.
"Does anyone else want to try it?" Felicity breathed heavily, chest tight. "No? I thought so."
She turned around and pushed Connor out of the alley, much to his protest.
"What do you think you're doing?" Felicity berated him as he stumbled ahead.
Connor pulled his hood over his head tighter. "I was just talking to them… they get me…"
"They get you?" Felicity's anger quickly turned into empathy, "Connor, they're grown men. They don't get you… they want to get you in. You know who they are, right? You know they're a gang?"
Connor didn't say a word.
"Hey—" Felicity grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around, "Talk to me. What's really going on?"
"Why do you care?" Connor scowled, "You're too busy training to go and die, and that's all Mom and Dad seem to care about."
Felicity frowned, "That's not true… they love you…"
"They love you!" Connor almost screamed. Tears pricked at his eyes, anguish in his face. In that moment, Felicity's emotions crashed. All she wanted to do was hug her younger brother. But the minute she opened her arms, he recoiled. "No, no! You don't get to do that! You don't get to comfort me when you're the one leaving us!"
"Connor, I—"
"I hope you die," Connor's voice dropped as the tears poured down his face. Felicity's heart shattered into a million pieces.
"You… you don't mean that…"
Connor didn't answer. He turned around and walked ahead faster and faster until it turned into a run, leaving Felicity standing in the street, heartbroken, not fully realising the weight of her own choices.
Felicity stared up at the calendar on the wall. At the end of each week, a name of a team was written and crossed out, eliminating them from the choosing. Each week, Team Hotness reigned supreme or just got by.
One step closer…
"Are you thinking ahead?"
Felicity turned to Vanya as she approached, "Oh, I'm just working out how many more weeks we have."
"We have six teams in the running and two will be eliminated this week. So, I would say, about three weeks."
The words sank in like an anchor dropped to sea. Felicity nodded, her useful lusty zest muted by the realisation that they were so close… and she just couldn't tell any more if that was a good or bad thing.
"Are you concerned?" Vanya tucked a piece of red hair behind her ear, "I was speaking to your Mom and—"
"Nope," Felicity shook her head. I'll process it later. "I'm just preparing myself."
Somewhere down the hall, she heard Creon's laughter resounding against the stone walls. If she squinted just enough, she was able to see a flash of Kariev's locks swishing as she no doubt awkwardly made Creon's silly joke feel greater than what it was.
Their little mish-mash team. So different, so awkward, so… surprisingly cohesive.
Vanya smiled, "And are you ready?"
Felicity gulped. As the artillery, the physical strength, she had to be the most calm and collected. She couldn't let her emotions best her when Creon and Kariev's trust was in her to do the deed — to kill for them. She had to do it for them, for her family, for herself.
Yes, I am. No, I'm not. "Absolutely."
District 8 — The Federation
An abandoned factory that still emitted a gentle plume of smoke, the Federation was the beacon of light for the district in tough, decimating times. In response to taking in children in order to train, the Federation was able to support and fund those less fortunate to make it through the coming year.
It was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things; a price that many of the children chose willingly, if only to help out where they could.
A year and a half before the War Games, the group was chosen from the second to last years from an event known simply as the Tournament. Knockout rounds that would eliminate a team biweekly until only one remained.
In the final stage, as three teams remained, only one would win.
Felicity paced back and forth in front of the calendar, an unusual bundle of nerves. Their team had done so well, winning or at the very least getting second in nearly every event. From watching Creon scale a wall the fastest to Kariev coming in second in a match of wits.
Felicity glanced down at her bandaged, slightly swollen knuckles. Her own feat.
"You'll burn a hole in your fancy feet if you keep doing that," Creon said from behind her.
Felicity paused, "Sorry, I'm just… this is it."
"It sure is," Creon sighed. Kariev was silent as she glanced between the two. "Any pep talk? Wise words?"
Kariev chewed on her bottom lip, "We can do it?"
Creon smirked, "That'll do it. Come on, guys! We've always been the best. There's no way we can't win."
"Right."
"Yeah, right," Felicity's words just didn't seem as light as normal. The three of them just stared silently between each other, as if waiting for someone to really goad them forwards.
But it seemed that neither of the trio wanted to.
A heavy pause. "We want to win, right?" Creon spoke up.
Another heavy pause. "Yeah…" Kariev muttered.
Felicity crossed her arms, "It would mean an even greater stimulus for our families. It would make a huge difference to both of yours, wouldn't it?"
Creon nodded tersely, "It could change our lives permanently."
"Can we win?"
Felicity and Creon both looked at Kariev. "What do you mean? I thought we covered we can—"
"I don't mean in the event," Kariev shuffled from one foot to the other, "I mean… the War Games. Can we win that, as a whole, together?"
The sinking, voiceless dread was evident on their faces. Nobody wanted to be the one to echo their thoughts. Nobody wanted to be the one that casted doubt onto them as a whole. In the Federation, their team was the best. Would they still be the best in the War Games? When a loss wasn't just a sad moment, but the last moment?
The door down the hall opened and Vanya stepped out. "Team Hotness? It's time."
The main hall had been transformed into that of a relay race. The far-end stands held the remaining classes, watching with delight and cheering for their favourites.
The course was quite simple in design — from Artillery to Operative to Tactician. First team to win, well… won.
Felicity flexed her knuckles as she stood alongside the other two artilleries: Wendell and Iman. Further ahead, she saw Creon and over him, Kariev. All she had to do was complete the obstacle course.
I can do this, Felicity pumped herself up. I want to do this… don't I?
In a flash of encouragement, Felicity did what she had to do. She clambered through the gauntlet, slamming her elbows into Iman and Wendell as they drew near. She looped through the tires, crashing through the door into the hallway and back in again. At the far end, as Wendell came closer, she made sure to break his nose if only to propel herself into Creon for the tag,
I want to do this… don't I?
Creon didn't have time to think. Felicity had worked hard to keep their team in front. He spared her a glance — as she iced her bloodied knuckles — as he scaled the wall with ease. His opponents were nowhere near him. He hit the floor with grace, sprinting ahead and leaping over the hurdles. By the time he reached the med station, he was finished with his dummy before the others hit him.
I want to do this… don't I?
I have to do this.
Creon tagged Kariev, swallowing down his anxiety as he watched his friend share a shaky smile before running ahead.
I want to do this… don't I?
For them, I should. But for them, I shouldn't.
Kariev's mind was a haze as she reached the computer and began to type, putting her singular year of learning to the test. Her fingers blurred across the keypad, successfully answering questions that she surprised herself in knowing.
And then came the first wrong question. And another. And another.
The weight of the world came crashing down around Kariev as she realised that her mistakes cost time. Her opponents were soon next to her. All she could hear was their computers confirming each and every right answer. Behind her, she felt Creon and Felicity's hopes piling upon her shoulders.
If I lose… we don't have to go. If I lose, we don't have to die.
If I lose, I fail them. I fail myself. I fulfil my own worst nightmares.
Kariev started to get her answers right.
I can't lose.
I have to. But I can't.
"And we have our winners! Team Hotness, you have completed the tournament and are our selected team for the War Games!"
Kariev's eyes widened. As she stood up, she realised that every pair of eyes were on her. Vanya walked across the hall with Creon and Felicity in tow. Kariev smiled shakily, but inside, she was devastated.
She chose her own self-importance over the team. She doomed them to their deaths.
"Well done," Creon mumbled, forcing a smile.
"We did it," Felicity nodded, "We're going to the War Games."
Kariev's shoulders sank. Her eyes dropped to the floor. "Congratulations to us…"
A/N: Oh hi! Is this a surprise update that none of you expected?
I hope you all enjoy the vibe from our District 8 team. Why should everyone want to go into the arena? Not my little steampunk, Victorian fantasy of a district. Some people need to bring the traumatic angst to the party.
I pass my baton to Em. Hope she enjoys it :)
Let us know what you think of Kariev, Creon, and Felicity!
Next up is District 3; Em's final district!
~Olive & Corey.