training: day one

moses kiwano, district eleven male

…

Moses Kiwano is cracking.

To be fair, Mo figures it isn't much of a surprise - that he's cracking. Breaking. Panicking, or, as many of his classmates in Eleven always liked to say, losing his marbles. It isn't the first time that fear's come to overwhelm him, isn't the first time that he's been struck with terror to his very core, pierced by it, paralyzed by it. Terror and fear were a common occurrence, even back home, even when he was safe in his mother's grasp - he was scared of loss, of grief, of pain, of shock, of risk.

(Risk was the worst, because everything was risky, some way or another. His mother took risks leaving the house every day, risked her safety, risked her health, risked her life as a whole… just like his father, and look where it had gotten him. Dead. Stroke. Gone, forever. Missing. Left me. Left us. Isn't right, wasn't right, wasn't okay. Death isn't okay. None of this is okay. None of this is - )

Mo inhales deeply, wrapping his arms around his chest and shrinking in on himself, back against the shower wall. His legs tremble. His heart races in his chest, the unceremonious thudding keeping tempo in his ears. He wants to scream. He wants to sob. He wants to - to break, really break, I can't take it, can't take it, can't do this anymore, none of it, everything's wrong, everything - I don't understand, don't understand, can't do this, can't deal with it, alone, not alone, can't deal with it alone, Mom, please, Mom, come back, Mom - Iris, Iris, I need you, I need - someone, just can't be by myself anymore, can't take it anymore, not alone, not here, not in the Capitol, why the Capitol, why the Games, why - why is any of it, why am I, why is this happening, can't happen, can't let it happen, you're gonna die, gonna die, gonna die.

He barely notices it when his legs give out from under him, his knees hitting against the tile floor with an almost sickening crack of a noise. Mo crumples in on himself, bracing his head against the wall as his shoulders droop and his torso shakes, wails forcing themselves from his mouth before he can so much as consider containing them. Too much. Much bad. Bad stuff. Stuff here. Here, no, not here. Don't wanna be, wanna go home, wanna be with Mom, no training, no - no Games. His teeth sink into his tongue. Blood fills his mouth, and the taste of it is so strong and so potent that it almost serves as a distraction.

Until it starts to bubble out from his lips and spill right down onto the white tile he's sitting on. Until it starts to leak, like it's coming from an open wound rather than just a bitten tongue, spilling out of him without end, no remorse, no forgiveness, no relenting. And then, suddenly, the red's everywhere - it's soaking him, coating his skin and clinging to his face and the water from the showerhead's too thick, too viscous, it must be blood too, and he's gotta be dying already, he's dying, isn't he, dying, because blood means death, and he can't breathe, and there's no way somebody can live through this much pain, this much fear, the fear, make it stop, make it stop, make it STOP

Can't do this.

Can't do this. Not here, not now, not yet. Later, panic later, can panic later, come on, get up, can't do this now, have to go, have to go or something else will happen, something bad, don't want more bad.

Mo isn't sure how he manages to pull himself out of the shower, how he's able to get his legs back under him and turn the water (not blood, this is not blood) off or walk himself over to the door. He's not sure how he even manages to get his clothing on, the black pants that are just a bit too tight for his liking, the too-thin cotton shirt that leaves him feeling more vulnerable than he had at the chariots last night.

He thinks, with a slight twinge of amusement (or is it bemusement? Maybe that fits better, he isn't really sure. Words aren't so much his thing. He's never been the social sort, never much fit in with his peers, or the neighbors, or even his sister. Since Mo was a kid, he's had people jeering at him, mocking him for his franticness and his sometimes scattered way of thinking, calling him slow, calling him nervy, calling him pathetic. He's heard it all, and most of it pretty often, and he can't lie and say that it hasn't left an impression on him 'cause it has. There's always gonna be people out there, judging him, and that makes people terrifying. Their wandering eyes, their little whispers, their muttered insults, everything, it's all so much, and he hates it, he hates people, he hates being here, he hates the TV in his room and the flashing cameras from last nights and the way the boy from One smirked at him when Sahare had to coax him down off the chariot, like he was thinking about how quick he could sink a knife in Mo's stomach - but now he's tangenting, he always tangents, and that's not so wrong, is it? He's got reason, he's pretty sure, because he's gonna die and -)

He wishes his clothing were heavy instead. Really, the trainers shouldn't be sending anyone into that room without a full set of armor, shouldn't be leaving them open to peril, to mortality, before the Games have even started. What if one of the Careers decides to throw their weapon at him? What if he falls from the climbing net, or burns himself at the fire-making station? He needs protection. Not a cotton shirt and a pair of leggings.

It's like this is a joke to them, Mo thinks, and his eyes begin to tear up again. My life is a joke to them - for entertainment? For…

… everyone.

Mom's gonna watch. Mom's gonna see me die, her and Iris, they're gonna see it, they're gonna have to watch, they're gonna… no, no, no… that's - that's sick, that's…

(Stop thinking. You won't get through this if you keep letting yourself spiral. You know that, Mo. This isn't Eleven anymore. You aren't in Eleven. Everything's changed. The stakes…)

(I can't do this. I don't want to do this.)

His chest aches. His esophagus is burning. He wants to vomit - needs to, even, the urge is so strong it's practically overwhelming. He can feel his throat tingling, taste the acid on the tongue. Or maybe that's the blood - there was blood, wasn't there, before? He felt it, he saw it…

Mo closes his eyes. There's no air in his lungs, no oxygen. He's still choking. Just not quite as bad as before. But enough. It hurts - his chest, his throat, his head. His entire body is alight with nerves, shrieking in pain that he can't actually describe, and can't rid himself of. But he has to - need to make it work. He pulls the uniform jacket up over his arms, thankful for the additional layer it provides, even though he still feels too exposed and too vulnerable. This is enough. Gotta make do. And I've done that much before, haven't I? Not - not too well, but I have, I think. It's okay. I'm…

The tears slip from his eyes and run down his cheeks, stickier than they have any right to be. Mo wipes at them with his sleeve, sure that he doesn't want to go outside with his face blotchy. He doesn't want to seem any weaker than he already feels. The other tributes don't need another excuse to rip into him yet. He can't give them one.

Maybe I could stay here. Inside. This room's not so bad, weird and flashy, but not so bad, mostly safe, I'm alone, and that's safe. I could ask. Maybe I don't have to go. They can't make me train, right? Or can they? What if they take it as - as me resisting? Being bad? Maybe they'd make things worse… can they be worse? 'course they can, things can always get worse. I gotta go. Okay. Breathe. Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe. Just. Go.

Mo wipes his cheeks 'til they're good and dry, ignoring the rawness in his face from how harshly he'd scrubbed at his skin. He jams his feet into his shoes, reaches down to tie the laces on the front of them, his back aching, his muscles tight. He's as ready as he'll ever be - this is a situation there's no escaping from. No matter how much he may wish otherwise.

cecilia perdanez, district four female

…

On the first morning of training, Cecilia Perdanez wakes with a sense of malaise plaguing her.

It's not illness - not physically, at least. Cel knows what being ill feels like; she's always hated the fogginess that sickness leaves behind, the way fever clouds things over and makes her feel unbalanced, incapable of focusing on anything around her for more than a few seconds. Dreadful thing, being sick. Hampers productivity, causes problems. Nothing good ever comes from it, save excuses for failure. But at the end of the day, excuses are excuses - they're intolerable. Regardless of what extraneous variables may be involved.

Cel's never really been one to buy in to the idea that illness is a reason to slack off. On the few occasions that she'd been the victim of a poor immune system back in Four, she'd forced herself to power through the symptoms to the best of her ability regardless, going about her day as she typically would, attending school, training at the Academy, keeping up with her responsibilities just as she was meant to. If she made a commitment to do something, she followed through, no matter the risk to her personal wellbeing. Her health is secondary to her work; it will always be secondary. Whether it's a case of the sniffles or a gradual onset of visual impairment, she refuses to let physical ailments hold her back. She's better than her flaws. Better than her weaknesses.

So even though her head is throbbing, and her gut is clenching with some mixture of restlessness and anxiety that she doesn't care to analyze, Cel pulls herself out of bed on the first morning of training, dresses herself, fixes a pot of coffee, has a quick chat with her mentor, and then shows herself out the door into the hallway. She may feel exhausted. She may feel restless. She may even feel anxious. But her feelings are just that - feelings. Things to be ignored for the sake of her situation.

She tries not to dwell on them.

She presses the button near the elevator doors, waits for the lift to arrive at their floor. When the doors open, she shuffles inside, taking up a position near the wall opposite Sevilin, her back pressed against the stiff metal of the lift's side, the cool surface almost a balm to the heat of her flesh. She tries to ignore the other two tributes at her side - a girl with warm brown skin and long, straight black hair, whose demeanor seems oddly familiar for a reason that Cel can't pin down, and a tall, lean boy with well-toned arms and a mop of unkempt brown hair on his head.

"Morning," the boy says, perfectly civil. The look on his face practically screams mistrust when Cel catches his gaze, but it's not something she can fault; they're outliers, after all. And she and Sevilin are Careers. Some tension is to be warranted.

"G'morning," Sevilin replies, and Cel's lip curls a bit at the sound of his voice. At this hour, just hearing it is enough to put her in a bad way; his tone is grating, even though she's pretty sure he's trying to feign friendliness. She eyes the other tributes, and the girl offers her a strained smile, shifting so that she's positioned in between Cel and her District partner. Protective much? Cel's gaze shifts to Sevilin, and though she can't quite make out his features, she's certain he's got that same insufferable grin on his face that he was wearing at dinner the other night.

… not that it's directed at her. And honestly? Better them than me.

Cel crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back against the lift wall, her focus honed in on the floor indicator just above the door. Saying that the atmosphere in the elevator is 'tense' would be a vast understatement. The outlier boy's wariness, the girl's vigilance, and Sevilin in general. Though he's not bothered to spare a glance in Cel's direction or trade any barbs with her since leaving their suite this morning, the aura of enmity that surrounds him couldn't be more telling.

Or is it envy? Cel purses her lips, humming to herself. The guy's full-to-bursting with insecurity, to the point where it's almost comical. Would be comical, if he weren't her District partner, and if his emotionality wasn't so caustic for the people around him. It's because of Sevilin that Cel's out of allies, after all. Sure, the rest of the pack may not have said the words outright - may not have voiced their dislike for her - but the implications of how they'd both excluded her from conversation during the arrival party and from interaction before the opening ceremony last night made their opinions clear. We don't trust you. We don't want you. We don't need you.

Better for your odds, Nereus had told her earlier that morning as he'd poured himself a cup of coffee, keeping his eyes on his drink even as he addressed her. He took it black, no cream or sugar or excess complements, just the way Cel liked it, and she filed the detail away in the back of her mind as an aside. She's found over the years that you can tell a lot about a person from how they take their coffee; Daria likes hers sweet, three spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream, while her mother's always been staunch that cream belongs in coffee, but sugar does not.

(Sevilin drinks tea. She wonders what that says about his fortitude.)

Nonetheless, as interesting as coffee can be, it was Nereus' words that resonated with her after the conversation. You can't rely on anyone in the arena but yourself. Sevilin's a train wreck waiting to happen, and the kid from One's just gonna egg him on. There's no safety in numbers when half your numbers are wild cards.

(Cel had frowned. So what do I do?

Hell if I know, kid. Nereus responded. At the time, he'd been a little too flippant for her liking, but in hindsight…

Try and find someone malleable. Someone that's willing to concede their interests to yours. A sensible, obedient outlier's probably the safest bet you'd get.)

Cel considers the pair in the elevator. A safety-net outlier. Right. Suuure.

In the years since she started training in Four, she's never once seen a Career hook up with someone from the lower Districts, probably because the animosity is intense. But… it wasn't bad advice, as advice goes. Lot of room for interpretation, and that's exactly the type of stuff she needs from a mentor. She's never been the best at adhering to plans - she's good enough at making them, sure, but actually following through is a different story. Any proposal's got to have a bit of room for change to be implemented if necessary. And when it comes to finding allies, she thinks it's probably better to stake out the competition during training, anyhow. She can get a couple outliers on her side - maybe - or see if she's able to entice one of the Twos away from the pack. They'd seemed reliable enough, the past couple of nights. Not chaotic like Sev and Varsen, or impossible to get a clear read on, like Grey.

(Though she's not entirely sure she'll be able to trust them with her health, when it comes right down to it. One slip up in the arena - one episode - and she'll be left vulnerable. That vulnerability is a weakness, and Twos tend to be bloodhounds. I can't give them a reason to think of me as prey. I can't let them see my failings. Nobody actually wants a disabled ally in the Hunger Games. Disabilities are undue challenges, problems. If Two so much as gets a whiff of my true reason for being here, they'll cut me off. They're a shaky bet. But…)

(They'd be more skilled than the outliers, if others are anything like these two. More valuable an asset, for sure. And I need strength on my side. Unless…)

There's a ding! from the ceiling as the elevator doors slide open, and the others begin to file out of the lift. Sevilin goes first, probably trying to put as much distance between himself and Cel as possible. Smart move, she wants to say, because at least he's not foolhardy enough to pretend she's not putting a target on his back the second they're in the arena. The outliers are next, and Cel finds her attention lingering on the small, red 9 emblazoned on the arm of the girl's uniform as she steps out. District 9. What do they do again? Whack wheat in grain fields?

… well, she is supposed to be keeping her options open. She falls into step behind the girl, giving her a nod as they step into the training room.

"Good luck with training." Cel says, trying to ignore how odd the words feel in her mouth.

The girl's smile this time seems a little more genuine. "Thanks. You too."

katarzyna belikov, district five female

…

If you had asked Katarzyna Belikov where her life was headed a few days ago, 'the Hunger Games' would've been one of the last things she'd have answered. She's not a Career. She didn't volunteer for this. And even with the obscene number of kids that get reaped outta the Districts every year, she'd always thought her chances of being picked were pretty slim. Sure, she's taken a bit of tesserae - who hasn't? - but compared to Kiril? To most of her classmates, even? The odds were in her favor.

Well, at least until they weren't.

Katya chuckles. She figures it's pretty foolish of her to not at least consider the possibility that she'd get reaped. Nobody's ever really safe, where the Games are concerned; the Capitol's an equal opportunist, after all! Everybody that doesn't wear eccentric costumes or have a few thousand bucks to their name's got a solid chance of ending up in the Games at some point. Some more than others, but tesserae clearly only plays so big of a role. She's here, even if she doesn't want to be here. Even if she wishes she was literally anywhere else but here.

(There's no point getting her panties in a knot about it.)

"Tributes! Attention!"

An overly-loud and overly-coarse shout rings throughout the room, causing most of the tributes in Katya's vicinity to immediately still. Keyword being "most." Katya can't keep herself from huffing at the head-trainer's call to order, her posture slumping as she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her pants, seeing no point in letting a couple loud words make her rigid. She knows what she's here for. Everyone knows what they're here for. They're gonna spend a few days messing around with plants and ropes and sharp pointy things, and then everyone's going to go on their merry way (not) into the arena. Into the Hunger Games. Where they're going to die.

Yeah. Exactly. No point in playing along when you're already a statistic in a death toll.

The trainer steps forward. She's a severe looking woman, with a severe looking haircut that doesn't exactly flatter her face. And if Katya hadn't already been sure that the bitch was a peacekeeper, the heavy white uniform she's wearing is a dead giveaway. Like insult to injury, honestly - Katya would've been able to make an educated guess without the evidence staring her in the face. Only peacekeepers ever talk like that, all loud, sharp tones and military cadence, making themselves vocal even (especially) when there's no reason to. They're good at asserting themselves where they aren't wanted. In the streets, in the classrooms, in their children's lives.

(She'd never met anyone scarier than Vojislav's father. He wore his badge like it was fucking jewelry, and did the same with his baton. Katya only met the guy once, right after the second OD, when he'd come to "collect his son" from her own 'rents clinic. She still remembers the way he'd sneered at her partner - you godsdamned worthless junkie - before grabbing him by his arm and hauling him out of bed before he could even protest. She still remembers how she'd tried to get between them - looked the bastard in the face and said, plainly, you can't talk to him like that, how he'd looked at her like she was a fucking ant, like she didn't matter, wasn't even worthy of a name.)

Her own parents were tough, but at least they weren't militant. Just self-righteous, obsessed with their image, obsessed with their work. People have standards, Katya, they'd always told her, and you need to abide by those standards, uphold them, and surpass them whenever you're able. Nothing less than excellence is acceptable.

(Nothing less than perfection is adequate.)

Katya doesn't hate them. She doesn't, really. It's more of… well, a strong dislike, mostly based on the fact that they didn't see her as their daughter so much as an investment. She's not sure if they ever really loved her, or if they just wanted a mini-me that they could raise in their shadow and then try to live through vicariously once they were too old to keep up with work. But then, that's just the culture in Five, isn't it! Toxic at its very core. Too much emphasis on productivity, conformity and structure. Too much emphasis on assimilation. If you don't assimilate, you get ostracized at best, whipped at worst. Because Five doesn't want thinkers, it wants workers. It wants slaves. And that culture's exactly why Katya's ended up where she has, both literally and metaphorically. It's what put her in the Games, and in the deadzone with morphling and weed and pills on pills on pills. It's what made her parents turn into unfeeling drones who didn't give a damn about anything other than their reputations, what made them turn her out and snub her the second she decided to go against their wishes. Because children, especially children in Five, aren't supposed to make decisions for themselves, much less the ones that Katya has.

"- use your time wisely, if you know what's good for you. Dismissed!"

She barely catches the tail-end of the trainer's speech. Barely even notices the other tributes, who were so scared out of their wits by the head bitch in charge earlier that they pretty much turned into statues, starting to disperse, heading out into the room to examine their future prospects. Katya doesn't move immediately. She doesn't really care to. She's tired, and stressed out, and yeah, kinda lazy too, so y'know. Resting for a few seconds sounds good.

To her, that is. Not to wannabe-peacekeeper head trainers, apparently.

"I said dismissed, tribute," the woman speaks, and Katya sighs, waving a hand at her absentmindedly.

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

She straightens up and makes her way over to a fairly innocuous looking station with some sort of thick netting layered across the walls, and a few handholds scattered about on top of that.

"Morning," the trainer posted off to the side greets her, and Katya gives a half-hearted wave. "Care to try your hand at climbing?"

"Not really, but 'snot like I've got anything better to do. Might as well start with this."

The trainer's casual smile slips into what Katya would probably call a grimace. Ouch. Guess he didn't like that. "Right… well, step on over here, and I'll show you how -"

"- to not fall off the nets? Isn't that just… well, common sense?"

Katya spins around to face the newcomer before the trainer has a chance to respond to their question… and immediately grins at the sight she's greeted with. Tall, pouty lips, thin brows, dark skin - first day of training and she's already hitting it off with a cute girl. What are the fucking odds? Kiril would be so jealous, too - she's totally his type. Have to rub it in his face when I get h-

…

Moving on.

"District Three, huh?" She asks, sticking out a hand. "I'm Katya, District Five. Care to take a tumble off the wall with me?"

"Pretty sure the point of the exercise is to stay on it," Three says, eying Katya's hand uncertainly, her nose wrinkling just a bit.

"What, do I have cooties or something?" Katya asks, but nevertheless takes the hint and pulls it back, resting it on her hip instead.

Three looks her in the eye with a stare that's intense enough Katya's sure it's meant to be unsettling, although perhaps that's just how her face is. RBF is a thing.

"Don't be silly. Cooties aren't real." The girl shifts slightly, finally averting her eyes and giving a little shrug. "I just don't like handshakes."

"Hey, nothing wrong with that," Katya responds, leaning to the side in a way she's been told makes her look very devil-may-care. "Got a name, Miss Doesn't Like Handshakes?"

Three crosses her arms, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. After a long a moment, she inclines her head a bit, giving Katya a nod.

"Wallis. Three, but you already knew that. It's on my uniform."

"That it is," Katya says, glancing back toward the climbing net. "You got any practice with this shit?"

"None. You?"

"Not really. I can barely make it up the stairs to my boyfriend's apartment without practically airing out a lung."

"You should probably see someone about that."

Katya snorts. "Good one."

Wallis blinks.

"Oh," Katya says. "You… weren't joking."

"I've been told that I sometimes don't read social cues very well." Wallis says, the resting bitch face still holding strong. "I'm glad you found it funny, though." Her gaze flits to the netting, then back to Katya, then to the net again. A smile - Katya thinks it's a smile? Just a very small one - tugs at her lips."You still want to - how did you phrase it? Take a tumble off the wall together?"

"Oh, hell yes," Katya nods. "How about I race you to the top? Winner gets the loser's dessert at lunch."

"Alright. It's a deal."

A/N: And that's a wrap! First day of training, very glad to be here. These chaps may be a little shorter than the intros were, just a heads up for y'all; pre-Games are a bit of a hassle for me, haha. I'd love to hear your opinions on the characters and the potential alliances that may be shaping up so far… theories/predictions give me life! A HUGE thank you to everyone taking the time to review or DM me to discuss the story, I truly appreciate it so much! Next training chap will be up in one to two weeks, and then we'll be moving on to some frequent updates as NaNoWriMo begins. Thank you all for being patient and reading the story! Stay safe.