VIII: Training, Day One.
Varrik Varnett, 18
District Four Male
Varrik is certainly well aware of the expectations that have been placed on him.
Get up early, eat his breakfast like a good boy, be polite to everyone around him, and head downstairs in a timely manner for their first day of training. To a fault, Varrik follows all of this as best he can.
Once the elevator doors open, though, revealing nearly the entirely gathered crowd of teenagers, there's no point in pretending.
Quite quickly, Varrik throws all of that out the window. He knows by the look on her face that Devan is thinking something similar; the grin on her face says wonders about how today is going to go already. He knows they ought to be at least semi-serious about today considering Devan didn't even know she had a chance at being here, but who knows if that'll happen?
Varrik only knows what can happen for sure, and so he makes it happen.
Though Devan seemed so against the idea yesterday, the look on her face is downright amused as he pushes through the crowd closest to the elevator until he's right behind the Seven's, who appear to be one of the more attentive pairs as the Head Trainer prattles on and on about God knows what at the front of the room.
It's not like Varrik was ever going to listen to that anyway.
"Good morning, darling Lexie," he says. "Or at least I hope it's going to be a good one."
Devan chortles behind him—Alexa not so much, and definitely not her partner. To be honest, Varrik is having trouble remembering his name. All those Tristan-types tend to blend into one, unfortunately rather good-looking person after a while. Names don't matter much once you get to that point.
"What did I say yesterday?" Alexa asks, arms crossed over her chest, the perfect image of someone who's either about to hit him or yell at him or maybe both.
It's a good thing Varrik is all too used to people shitting all over his general existence.
"Oh, I don't know, my memory is troubling me." Varrik makes a great show of rubbing at his temple, confused. "Your stunning beauty seems to have thrown me off my game."
He knows exactly what she said. Not to call her that. But her partner had called her Lex, even though she had introduced herself simply as Alexa, so maybe that's alright.
Maybe that's alright from anyone other than Varrik, anyway.
"My sincerest apologies, Lex," he tries. "No harm done, right?"
"Some."
"Well, fuck me, then," he announces, leaning further right to whisper into Devan's ear. "You'll have to be my relationship counsellor."
"You're not even dating."
"We are in my heart," he answers. "I mean, have you seen her?"
"I've had the misfortune to see all of you, yes."
He socks her in the arm and she immediately swings back, catching him hard in the shoulder. She nearly bowls over the person next to her, too, but Varrik pays them no mind. He only pushed his way into this area of the crowd for one reason and one reason only. Sigrid would kill him if she knew that this was what he was up to instead of prioritizing his own life, but frankly Tristan would have a fit and that in and of itself is worth it entirely. He would be all uppity and annoyed like Seven-Not-Lex over there, like someone put a stick up his ass and left it there. Not a good look on him, frankly.
When he leans back over he's shocked—and frankly quite surprised—to find that Lex is staring at him. Not in the way she did yesterday, but Varrik was used to that as well. A too-long up and down, a complete once over. She was wondering. Everyone did.
He was used to it, but it still stung under his skin, buried where no one could see it.
If he kept smiling no one ever would.
"You're not subtle," she says flatly. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Never claimed to be," he announces. "Wait, unless you like that? Then I'm your guy. Most subtle man around, really."
"I'm sure."
"What do you like then? Bad boys? Because I fit that perfectly. You see, I'm bad—at everything."
"If I wanted to be fucking talked to death, I would have just stayed home," her partner says, under his breath but still too loud. It's a V, isn't it? You'd think he would have remembered that of all things.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Devan asks, and Varrik can't stop himself from snorting. Even Lex looks a tad amused, just enough for it to really matter. God help him, Devan is the best wing-woman in existence. He's truly never letting her out of his sight. Not that he thinks he has a chance, really, and he's not sure how long he can willingly hang around before he needs to move and do something else. Lex looks like she's raring to go as well, to get started, but she's not rocking on her heels like he is.
"Learn to take a joke, Veles," she says. Veles! That's it. It's not quite a move to defend him on Lex's behalf—she's still defending herself more than anyone else, but it's nice to see. Lex is closed off, bristling like a porcupine, eager to get going and get away from all of this nonsense, but her words don't always match up. Varrik doesn't think he could take too many more unkind words piled up on his shoulders after the last few months.
"So, what's the plan?" Varrik asks to the general area. Devan shrugs, as expected. They'll figure it out together. Veles looks like he's about to fire back some sort of nasty joke, but stops when the trainer opens the doors with a flourish of her arms and steps aside to let them in.
The tributes around him begin to flow in, but he stays put. Veles is gone in seconds. Devan stays with him.
And Lex, well… Lex doesn't hesitate. She's not the type. Her feet begin to fade off with an equal amount of fervor; his own are begging him to move, to provide something for him to do or see or look at that is different than the rest.
She doesn't look back, either. Not even for a second.
"You're a lost fucking cause," Devan tells him. They're the only two people left outside the elevator.
"Says you," he fires back. "You didn't even remember—"
"I told you not to bring it up again."
"Did you?"
Devan smacks him again. "Don't play stupid, stupid."
Varrik throws a hand over his heart. "Oh, not you too. I'm not sure I can take much more rejection today."
She grabs his arm with a roll of his eyes, a grin fighting it's way onto her face as it always seems to, dragging him forward with all the strength she can muster. Varrik stumbles after her because it's all he can do, at least for today.
But tomorrow is another day. The sun will rise again. Even if today doesn't quite work out, Varrik has survived enough days in hell to know that it's possible to survive this one.
Tomorrow it is—he'll try again.
At whatever he needs to.
Velcra Leight, 18
District Three Female
To her credit, Velcra gives everyone more than enough time to settle into training.
And that gives her more than enough time personally to get a good look at everyone.
Yesterday was a little too busy even by her standards, too many people milling around to keep them all straight. With all twenty-four of them packed into one clean, newly refurbished room with only a handful of trainers between them it was easy enough to put names to faces, skills to the people performing them. She had always been a people-watcher. It was easier that way to lure in those who looked like they were more likely to buy from her than not.
Speaking of, Mazzen's finally left her alone, off on his grand old quest to enact vengeance on her for his friend's death. She can't even remember what Otto looked like, let alone if it's the truth or not.
Oh, well. A problem for another day.
Now, Velcra knows she's not the best prospect here. She's smaller than a lot of the others, like someone dropped an awkward stick bug sort of thing into a container instead of an actual person. The stick bug being her, obviously, and the container being this overly large gymnasium. She isn't the person others are going to seek out for companionship.
This job is solely on Velcra's shoulders—she needs people by her side.
And she knows just how to get them.
She stations herself purposefully at the natural flora section, partially to get a good look at the array of poisonous things they have on display, so unlike Three's concrete jungle, but mostly because the Sixes are right across the way messing with spears and swords. They're not messing at all though, not really. They both look deadly serious about the whole thing.
Velcra isn't intimidated by anyone, realistically, but these two would be up there if she had the capacity to feel it.
She waits. The trainer tries to show her things and she smiles at him until he backs off, waggling a vial in his face. As if he believes she has no clue what she's doing. Someone definitely didn't have the luxury to read her file.
Finally, when the pair have spread apart somewhat, both still with weapons in hand, Velcra slips off the bench and makes a beeline for one Callister Dechant.
He's perfect, really. An overall threatening presence that's good to keep close, someone who clearly knows what he's doing. Velcra makes a great show at picking up a spear similar to his, one that she knows is far too big for someone of her size, and smiles in his direction.
"You don't think you could help me with this, do you?" she asks, going for a genuine smile. If you gave her enough time and a smaller spear, Velcra could figure this out on her own, but there's really no use in that, now is there?
Callister watches her and tugs the spearhead free from a dummy's fluffy stomach, spilling cotton across the floor. "You're an odd one, Three."
She keeps smiling. "I've been told that before."
Velcra more than expects him to turn around and get back to the task at hand, so she drags both herself and the spear closer, watching as he arcs it around once again and nearly takes her head off on the backswing. The skill almost makes her falter.
Almost.
"You think you could teach me?" she wonders, leaning far too much into his personal bubble. It gets him to lower the spear, though. That's enough progress.
"There are trainers for that."
"But I'm asking you."
"So I can tell," Callister observes. "Ask anyone else. Even my partner. But not me."
Velcra glances over at his partner, who is staring right back, eyes narrowed. "Are you two… y'know…"
"I don't like the way that sounds."
"Oh, c'mon, lighten up," she urges. "Allies? Yes? No? Give me something."
"Do you deserve something?" he asks, and she presses her lips together. Who is he to think that she's not worth his time and energy? Callister has no idea who she is. Velcra is better than he could ever even dream of.
She takes a deep breath, letting her fists unclench. Not worth it. Callister isn't worth it. None of them are. That doesn't mean they're not usable tools. Anything can be molded with a little work. Better yet, anything can be killed if they don't see it coming.
Let him think what he wants. Velcra can use that to her advantage.
If he wants coy, she can play at that. She can play at any game.
"I think you can at least give me a chance," she tries. "You and your partner both. Where's the harm in that?"
She could throw up at the thought of acting like this for much longer. There's going to be hell to pay for this one day. Velcra wants nothing more than to rip his throat out where he stands, spear be damned. She'll do it with her bare fucking hands.
Callister turns back to another dummy and knocks it clean to the floor with a hit to the neck, stabbing it in the throat before it's even settled to the ground. He's not shooing her off, which is a good sign. There's at least a part of him willing to hear her out, or he's just too nice, which she's doubting. Perhaps through it all he just doesn't care about her presence and is simply ignoring it.
That won't work for long.
"Think about it," she suggests. "You two, you're the muscle. I can be the brains behind the operation."
"We're an operation, now?" he asks.
"We could be."
"Cal?"
Velcra's head whips around. It's not even something she typically appreciates, but even Velcra can't deny that the Six girl has people staring at her for a reason. "Oh! Hello. Ilaria, right?" she sticks out a hand. "Velcra. District Three. Cal and I were just having a lovely little chit-chat."
"So I can see," Ilaria says slowly. "What about?"
While Callister was cold, Ilaria is blatantly apprehensive. Her posture is defensive, several feet between them as if she believes Velcra is poised, coiled, ready to strike like some sort of poisonous snake.
She's not wrong, really.
Velcra can already think up such a grand tale in her head. So many things can be said about the fantastic trio they would make, the progress they would see come forth from their working together, the steadfast, comfortable relationship they could form.
Even if none of that is strictly true, it still brings a smile to Velcra's face.
After all, she's been given a chance. And once you give her one…
Well, that's all Velcra really needs.
She holds out her hand until Ilaria shakes it, feeling her strong grip falter a bit when Velcra squeezes back as tight as she can manage. "I just think we're meant to be, is all."
There is no shortage of peculiar looks on their end, but that's something Velcra can work with. Odd is sort of her forte—her expertise, if you will. Across the room, Mazzen pauses in his quest and watches her, something nervous to his eyes.
Isn't that such a delightful sight to see?
"Us three against the world," she claims, loud and clear. "What do you say?"
Armina Fontes, 17
District Two Female
She is all too content to keep her head down.
That's not the strategy that wins games—not games of any kind, she knows, but it's the one that's going to work best for her. At least for now. Besides, Milo is drawing enough attention for the both of them, egging on trainers and laughing about it like he has nothing better to do.
And maybe he doesn't. It's not like she's providing him with much entertainment.
Armina picks up a few knives in each hand and positions herself in front of the target, listening to the sound of Milo whacking things somewhere behind her. It's not the most comforting of signs, but at least he's easy to figure out, so she's found no concealment anywhere in him—he likes her, he seems to trust her, and that is that.
She didn't expect it to be so simple. She didn't expect to like him much, either.
It appears that everyone is a different person than what they're saying.
Armina has practiced with knives well enough in the past few months and other weapons when no one is looking. It's best to stick with the knives for now and keep herself in her lane.
Out of nowhere, Milo goes sailing right through her line of sight to retrieve a fallen axe. "Don't hit me!" he shouts in her direction, before he takes right back off with an axe in each hand. That's not a worrying sight at all. She waits an extra minute to make sure he's really gone, until there's no one around but a trainer, carefully observing, and a girl at a target to her left, who throws a knife and misses each time, the scowl on her face certainly befitting of her situation.
The Armina-before would offer to help her, take a step over and position her hands the right way so she would have a better chance. The Armina-before was left in Two.
But she's staring. The girl looks over, still with that scowl. "Can I help you?"
Should she?
She doesn't want to.
"That's a double-edge," Armina tells her. "Instead of the handle, keep your thumb flat on one side and the rest of your fingers on the other."
"Believe me, I know what it is," the girl insists. She throws the knife in her own grasp, and misses spectacularly. She can see the rising anger in her, the way her chest flushes red as she goes to retrieve the fallen knife.
Armina moves over to the weapons rack and picks up a few similar looking knives, returning to her station with a blade gripped tightly in her palm. She sends the knife flying and watches it stick in the target one ring off the center. The girl watches. Armina does her best not to stare back, this time, firing off knife after knife. Some of them are further off than others. Some of them are nowhere close to perfect.
But they're still good.
Just mind your own business, she tells herself. That's what you're good at. It doesn't matter if Armina-before would be nice. You're not her anymore.
You were never her, if you're being honest with yourself.
Though she could certainly do better—she knows this for a fact—there's no use in showing off her true capabilities. Not here, not right now. Really, if she gets lucky, no one will ever have to see that side except a select few.
Then again, she hasn't exactly been lucky in the past.
She can't help but wonder what her sister would really think of all of this. What she did think of this, before they got what was left of her charred body and then shoved it into an urn. They never talked about it, not even when it was announced.
Maybe that was why she had no idea…
"You still on planet earth?" Milo asks, appearing to her right out of virtually nowhere, still waving around that damn axe. She's supposed to be the quiet, withdrawn one, okay? He's not supposed to be quiet, ever.
And he's not supposed to ask.
"Sure am," she answers, going to collect her knives once again. Milo is still waiting when she returns.
"Eleven's staring at you," he tells her, jerking his head towards the girl at their left, still working on her stance before she readies herself to throw a knife.
"So?"
"So. Is she any good?"
"She can hear you, you know," Armina says. The girl—from Eleven, clearly—is staring again. Just when Armina thought she was getting away from it. People staring is her worst nightmare, especially now of all times. They might just look too closely.
"I'm having an off-day," Eleven snaps, knuckles white around the knife like she wishes she could stab Milo with it.
Would Armina blame her? Not really.
"You trained at home?" Milo asks.
"Every-day."
Armina seriously doubts that. She's too defensive and resistant to help to be that good, but who knows if they should be giving her the benefit of the doubt. She knows why Milo is asking, too. The thought of having anyone else close to her almost makes her nauseous.
"She's trying," Armina says quietly. "That's more than most people."
"Maybe you should work on her, then."
"What?"
"C'mon, you're not blind. Everyone else is scared of us. That Two reputation doesn't go away. She's willing to talk to us—that counts for something."
"Since when are you the smart one?" she asks.
Milo slaps a hand over his chest. "Ouch," he responds. "Since when are you the mean one?"
Since never. She's not. Or at least she can't be, because that's out of place. Armina is the nicest of people. Was, anyway.
Before she can ask him exactly what he's thinking Milo is off again, feet squeaking obnoxiously along the floor back to the next weapons rack. He's right, though—no one else is coming near them. If Eleven has the confidence alone to stand near them and try to hold her own, that means more than actual skill does. So Armina waits. She's good at that, at least. When Eleven next looks at her she takes a few steps closer, until they're nearly side-by-side. She doesn't have to like her. It doesn't even really have to work, if they try for a bit and make no progress.
"I'm Armina," she introduces, swallowing down the lump in her throat. "And you are?"
"Casimira."
"Well, Casimira—"
"Casi is fine. I was wondering if you would be worth it."
She blinks, trying not to let the confusion show too heavily on her face. It's not a look she likes very much on herself. "What do you mean?"
"A lot of people here aren't."
Oh. So Armina is good here, then? She didn't make a mistake walking over like she had any right to, trying to be something she's not? She forces a smile on her face, nodding.
"Just an off day?" she confirms.
"Just an off day," Casi echoes.
They're both staring, otherwise silent. Silence doesn't suit Casi well. It's a nice balance they have going on between them already. She reaches forward, slowly, and tugs Casi's fingers around the knife's blade until they're in the right position. Much to her surprise, she doesn't immediately get chewed out for making such a correction.
She swallows down the dry, slightly amused retort. Is it getting better now?
That's not Armina.
"Well," she says instead. "Let's make it a good one."
Hosea Valdez, 18
District Ten Male
The worst part is Hosea knows exactly how he ended up here.
Or is it the fact that he doesn't regret it?
He knew exactly what he was doing when he filled out that form and mailed it off, keeping it a secret from everyone around him, his mother and most importantly Galvin. There was never a second where he had doubted what he had done.
Sitting here in the gymnasium, alone since Lisse skipped off with Penelope, he can't find it in himself to be dramatic about it, all woe is me because, statistically speaking, he is probably going to die.
He hopes that Galvin doesn't feel bad about it if he does.
Not many people here are moping—they know what they signed up for, after all. Hosea is glad to call himself one of those people. At least he's doing something rather than sitting around on his ass waiting for other people to do it for him, and he's doing without alcohol in his system. That's practically a miracle in and of itself.
The alcohol would certainly help, though. His hands are shaky. He doesn't know if that's from the withdrawal or he's just that terrible at tying knots, his fingers too big for any sort of delicate intricacies.
It's not like he's an addict. It's probably not that.
Regardless of what it is, the two other boys at the table are making landmark strides compared to him. Hosea likely should have left this table long ago. By his memory they're Nine and Twelve, respectively, occasionally comparing their knots side-by-side to the ones in the book and taking pointers from the trainer. While Nine sometimes seems uncertain of the trainer's advice, he takes it all to heart with a smile up his face, chattering his way through it until he gets to the last step.
Twelve is more hesitant, often having to loop back through a few steps before he can get the knot correct. He always looks so thrilled when he gets it right, though, a smile on his face that he shares with the whole group as if wanting them all to know of his success.
Hosea, to his credit, smiles back and nods every-time. It's sort of heart-warming to see people just sitting here so casually, two kids younger than him who seem to be getting along well enough even if Twelve is talking slower, carefully compared to Nine.
They're not allies, he doesn't think. They came here individually.
Hosea isn't about to butt in and ask, though he wants to.
What he's wondering more-so is why the two of them are here. Not here as in the knots tying station, but the Games in general. At a first glance they both appear to be normal, well-rounded kids, though Twelve occasionally interjects with stories that seem a little too suspect to be real. For them to be here, something must have been seriously wrong.
Or maybe they were just the opposite of him. Maybe they didn't think it through.
Hosea could protect Galvin from this, but not everyone.
Even if he wishes he could.
Hosea finally finishes the knot he's been working on for at least ten minutes now, and Nine leans over to give him some pointers on how to quickly undo it, evidently uncaring for the fact that they haven't even been properly introduced. The kid is just too nice—he really does seem like just a kid, to Hosea, despite their meager difference in age.
How many others are just like him? Frankly, he doesn't want to know. That's too many variables to think about, too many innocent kids dying.
And Hosea can't throw himself to the wolves trying to save them all.
"Are you alright?" the one from Nine asks. He finishes unknotting his rope, looking up, and tries his damnedest not to look upset about the prospect of all of this.
"Peachy," he answers. "Why?"
"What he's saying, I think, is that you look like my escort when she realized she had a twelve and fifteen year old to work with," replies the other one. "She said she needed a drink and we didn't see her again."
"So do I," he mutters under his breath, though not quietly enough to escape detection. Nine laughs, muffling it with his rope-filled palm.
It really wasn't a joke, though.
Hosea pulls out from the bench and clambers to his feet, abandoning the rope where it sits. "You look more serious than I expected," Twelve observes. "Wait, are you serious? I can help you!"
He's already leaving, though. No need to get a kid involved. Twelve, however, chases after him, leaving a crestfallen Nine sitting at the table somewhere behind them. Hosea forces himself to keep walking; he's made a decision about what has to happen, even if it's a silly one.
"Hold on," Twelve says, panting after him. He grabs a hold of Hosea's arm, not nearly hard enough to stop him.
Hosea stops anyway.
"She's kind of a ditz, our escort," he says. "Not to be cruel, but it's the truth. I know she has a flask on her—I'll convince her to give it to me. Or else I'll just steal it."
"You won't."
"I will!" he insists. "Once I stole the most popular kid in school's book bag and it took him nearly a week to figure out it was me. And by the end of this week…"
They'll be in the Games. Both of them could be dead. It won't matter if either of them get caught being foolish, because they've already been sentenced anyway. Hosea looks the kid up and down, wondering where the hell such desire has come from to help. It's not even desperation; it's almost as if he just wants to prove his own words right.
As if he can.
"Why are you doing this?" Hosea asks.
"Just trust me, alright? Give me until tomorrow."
There are no long term repercussions in his eyes, or perhaps he's just not thinking that way. It doesn't seem like it. Is it worth something happening to this kid just so he can have a little drink? Not really.
"If you need help, you know where to find me," Hosea offers. It's not like he wouldn't risk it. The kid has spunk, but who knows if that'll be enough to convince a supposedly ditzy escort to hand over alcohol to a minor?
"Sure do. I'll see you tomorrow!"
He's gone before Hosea can even ask his name or what he's getting at here, what either of them gain from this besides something to drink. It comes to his attention that the kid didn't even get further than that—didn't ask for his name, either, and didn't ask for anything more than a quick, casual meeting the next day.
But if he succeeds in his task? Well, Hosea likes a bit of a daredevil.
They might just have to have a bit of a talk.
And training at long last. Probably my favorite part, but I do have a tendency to enjoy the vast majority of the pre-Games in general.
Besides that, not much to say. Thank you to everyone who reviews, comments, and/or shares their thoughts with me in any way as always.
Until next time.