training: day two

sevilin verrillo, district four male

…

Day one of training was miserable.

Sevilin supposes it shouldn't come as much of a surprise; the atmosphere in the training center wasn't exactly the friendliest, to put it lightly. Though that's the fault of one person, and one person alone, so far as he's concerned.

He wouldn't say he hates Cel - it's more of a very, very strong resentment than anything else. Not hate. Because hating her would mean admitting that she was worth his time, and therefore, his notice, and honestly, she's the last thing that Sevilin wants to deal with before heading into the Games, so it's better all around for him to just ignore her.

(Try to ignore her, that is. He can't actually ignore her. She's there when he wakes up in the morning, walks to the elevator, waits in stiff, unpleasant silence for the lift to go down to the first floor and then back up at the end of the day. Maybe she's not actually with the pack, but her presence certainly is; all day yesterday and he couldn't shake the feeling that she was peering over his shoulder, criticizing his skill as he fired off arrows at the archery station, whispering in his ear that he wasn't any good, really, that he shouldn't be here, that his being here was a mistake, because it's always a mistake where Sevilin Verrillo is concerned, he's an impulsive, unstable, bitter child that doesn't know how to be more than a bitch even after eighteen years of trying to figure it out. And -)

... she's not worth it.

That's what Sevilin tells himself as he follows Cel from their quarters the morning of training day two, keeping a good foot of space between them as they make their way toward the elevator. It's what he tells himself when they finally step into the training room together, and he sees everyone else milling about, the pair from Three and Five still getting chummy with one another over at the fire-starting station, the other Careers all grouped up over by the weapons and chatting amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to his presence. It's what he tells himself when he sees Cel approach the kids from District Nine, the ones she'd been glaring at all through the lift yesterday morning, but something's changed because now they're looking at her and smiling, and the girl's talking to her and the quirk of Cel's mouth is enough to let Sevilin know that the words are friendly and it's too fucking much for him, too much to see her being accepted, being welcomed, when his own allies haven't even bothered to look for him.

And why should they? Sevilin asks himself ruefully, slipping his hands into his pockets to hide the way that his fingers press into his palm and his nails dig into his skin. Why. Should. They? Not like I'm their ally or anything… not like I'm an asset to them, part of the pack, part of the group, not like I trained with them all day yesterday, not like we had dinner together a few nights ago. Not like I'm anyone of note, no, just their invisible little companion from Four who they don't think measures up - deep down that's what they think, I know, I can tell. It's fine. I don't need them to like me. I just need them to be useful.

(Useful is fine. Useful is enough.)

(Why the fuck is everything I do wrong? Why am I wrong? Why does this happen - me, just being brushed off, or tossed to the side, ignored, scorned, mocked - every time that I try to do something right?)

Sevilin's eyes wander back toward Cecilia and her little cabal of Nines. They're sitting together, now, tying ropes and exchanging words, and even though he can't see his District partner's face, he's sure she looks perfectly awful, all frowns and blunt words and not even a trace of congeniality. She's so charmless it's almost funny, but yet here she is, with allies - kind, hard-working allies, it seems, and they look at her, and they acknowledge her, and they respect her, and he…

He's jealous.

So he turns away. Pulls his hands from his pockets and makes his way over toward his pack of Careers, his head held high, a bright smile on his face as he greets them each by name. Varsen. Grey. Maxim. Isabelle. Grey smiles at him and says hello in that demure, almost shy-seeming way that's so unlike how she was in the reapings it's almost puzzling. Isabelle nods her head, still not one for words, and Maxim sighs and shrugs his shoulders a bit.

"Great. We're all here."

"Try to be less enthusiastic next time," Sevilin jokes, and Maxim rolls his eyes, the barest trace of humor settling into his features.

"Yeah, well, we'll see." He brings a hand up, runs it through his hair. "Guess we should probably do something now, right? I'll be with the plants."

He points off in some general direction - not where the plants station is, Sevilin doesn't think, but what does he care, let Maxim do what he wants. Grey looks between the Twos and Varsen and gives a shrug of her own, heading off after Maxim. Isabelle, true to character, it seems, heads straight for the swords.

"And then there were two," Varsen says from beside him, stepping closer - enough for Sevilin to feel the full weight of their gaze as it roves over his body, a certain heat behind it that he's no stranger to.

He smiles. "And then there were two."

Varsen's own grin in cheeky - impish, in a way that Sevilin's practiced smiles have never really been, almost mischievous. Their eyes glitter with mirth as they slide an arm around his back, leaning in so that their lips just barely brush the shell of his ear as they speak.

"Couldn't have asked for better company, myself."

"Oh, Varsen. You flirt."Sevilin chuckles, moving his own hand so that it rests just over Varsen's, their fingers lingering at the divot of his hip. "Are we actually going to be doing any training today? Or is your plan just to get me worked up?"

"Oh, I certainly plan to do that," Varsen retorts, letting their touch linger a moment longer before pulling away, their arms crossed over their chest as they bite their lip. "But there's more ways than one to work somebody over. Let's spar, hm?"

"Not a bad idea for a first date." Sevilin falls into step at his side as they head toward one of the clear training mats, using his elbow to nudge Varsen's arm as he slips past them - all the better to keep their attention where he wants it. "Although it's a bit brazen, isn't it? Asking me to knock swords before we've even really gotten to know each other… and here I thought I was bad."

"My dear Sevilin, if there's one thing I will never be, it is subtle." Varsen walks toward the rack, glancing over the impressive array of weapons lined up upon it before their impish grin widens all the more. "But since you're so concerned, I'll let you choose our weapons. It's the least I can do."

"Is it now?" Sevilin asks, running his fingers along the metal shaft of a spear. He's never been the best with melee; close combat isn't his thing. Bows, throwing knives… those are more his style. Varsen's harder to pin down; they'd been perfectly adequate with everything yesterday…

And adequately perfect at posturing, Sevilin tacks on mentally, unsure why it's really even a concern. (It is, somehow - Varsen being so suave and fun and chaotic, and everyone just fawning over them for it. They're just as unstable as Sevilin is, maybe more so, and yet they're so blithe about it. It's like what other people think doesn't bother them at all - like they're wholly content in their own skin, as a Career, as a person, as entertainment. He can't pin down why it upsets him… Varsen being Varsen, and so shamelessly.)

Maybe it's time to test that careless attitude of theirs a little bit.

"I have a better idea." He turns to Varsen, doing his best to make himself seem just as confident, just as dramatic as they wish to be. "A competition - a throwing competition, to be more precise. Any weapon that can be thrown - javelins, knives, axes - and whoever hits the most targets wins."

"Wins what, exactly?" Varsen asks, and Sevilin smirks. That part's easy.

"Whatever they want that can be done in thirty minutes. No rules. No boundaries."

He doesn't need to say anything more; there's an unspoken recognition settling into Varsen's face, an expression that says more than words ever could. Sevilin's not oblivious; he knows Varsen's into him. Why not have some fun with them?

Varsen must be thinking the same thing, because the way they quirk their brow at him and run their tongue along their lower lip is anything but innocent.

"Alright, darling. Let's do it your way."

noa malloy, district nine female

…

"Y'know, I still can't believe," Aster begins as he and Noa walk alongside each other toward one of the round, metal tables near the edge of the training centre's mess hall, "that we're allied with a Career."

It is a bit funny, when he says it like that - not only because they're outliers, but because they're Nine. Noa's always been inclined to believe the other Districts don't think much of them; the breadbasket of Panem, whose only real use is in cultivating wheat for harvest. Four probably could've had her pick of the lot, and yet… she's considering them.

District Four and District Nine. When's the last time that happened?

Noa's hands tighten around the edges of her tray, the corners of her mouth twitching just so at Aster's comment. She shakes her head, a little snort slipping out of her windpipe, not quite dying before it passes her lips. Aster isn't wrong at all - the scenario is so strange that it's practically unbelievable. Like Four's pulling a wild prank in order to get their guard down; she'll play nice with them until the ball drops, and then she'll pop in to tell them what fools the pair of them were for falling for her ruse. Careers don't team up with outliers. It's a fact. And yet…

Noa trusts her. Against all odds and reason, she trusts Cecilia Perdanez, at least enough to be certain her push for a connection is genuine. She isn't deluded enough about the situation to think that Cel will ever be particularly close to her and Aster - not when it's clear that they wouldn't have been her first choice for allies, were her situation less intense - but Cel's honest.

(And in a place as fake and self-serving as the Capitol, even a little honesty is a breath of fresh air.)

Noa doesn't trust easily. She never has, because she's seen the bad in people a hell of a lot more often than she's seen the good. She had her grandfather, and Beck, and that was about as far as she'd ever let her trust extend back in Nine - not because of Nine, her home district's pretty genuine, all things considered, but people… people are unpredictable. Life is unpredictable.

(Zane never planned to raise Noa. He'd done right by her, of course, and by her mother, who he'd done everything to save, but even medicine isn't always reliable; Noa's known that much since he first began teaching her the tools of the trade, back when she was thirteen. You can only count on herbs, and scalpels, and bandages, and whatever else, as much as you can count on the healer that's using them; Zane's success came because of his geniality, of his empathy, not just his skill as a doctor. And his failures came when he was most emotional about a patient, when the situation was personal, and he couldn't trust himself to so much as think about the possibility of negative outcomes. Trust is everything when it comes to healing.)

(And it's everything when it comes to forming relationships; friendships, alliances… Noa wholeheartedly believes that.)

(But she also knows that there's no room for trust in the Hunger Games.)

She's as concerned as her District partner is, when it comes to the particulars of their situation; Cel's an asset so far as she can see, but when the tributes start to dwindle after the bloodbath… when their number drops from twenty-four to fifteen to eight… her presence will be a threat more than a reassurance. Not to mention the other Careers - like Sevilin Verrillo. Sticking with Cel might mean putting a target on their backs.

"Technically," Noa replies as she and Aster take a seat at a table back near the wall, keeping her voice steady as she shakes her misgivings from her mind. It's too soon for her to be worrying about what might happen, or what Cel joining their group could mean. Training's only halfway through; there's still plenty of time for things to change. "We aren't allies yet. Just… companions."

Aster rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his glass of water. He sets the cup back on the table, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Noa, she's been hanging with us since the elevator yesterday. Pretty sure we're allies."

Noa hums, pressing her lips into a thin line. Maybe we are. And maybe it'll work out - Aster's not much of a fighter, and neither am I, really. We could use someone who knows what they're doing - someone who's trained. Because frankly… neither of us are exactly doing great with most of this stuff. Sure, we've got strength from the fields; plowing, harvesting, tilling. But it's not the same as what the Careers have got. Not even close.

"Sorry," Aster says then, jolting Noa from her thoughts once more. "I didn't mean to… well, make things weird, I guess. It's good if she joins us, right? She's cut out for this stuff. And we're… well…"

"Not." Noa affirms with a small smile. Aster looks almost sheepish at the admission.

"Not to say that you aren't a great ally…"

"Nah, just that I'm shit with a sword." Noa moves her leg to nudge his knee with her own, an unspoken signal that she's just teasing. Aster's just saying what they're both thinking.

"Trying to get away from me already?" Another voice cuts in. Cel sets her tray down across from them, slipping quietly into her own seat, an unreadable expression etched into her features. Aster's back straightens, his shoulders stiffening a touch. He's on edge - they both are, really. Noa can read the tension in Cel's shoulders, the nervousness in her eyes.

Maybe it's wrong of her to admit it, but Cel's nervousness? It's enough to make her own unease calm considerably.

"Only when you make a break for the swords," Noa responds in jest. She turns her attention back to her food, picking up the apple and taking a bite out of it. This whole socialization thing… it isn't her forte. Talking comes easy enough with Aster, but that's mostly because of familiarity; they weren't close, but they grew up together, in the same little cornfield community of Nine. Cel's an unknown, and she's from Four. Noa doesn't know anything about Four, and definitely not enough to strike up a conversation.

Still, Cel seems amused.

"Got some bite to you, eh? You're just full of surprises."

"Good ones, hopefully," Aster takes the opportunity to snark back. "Didn't peg you for the joking type, Cel."

Cel shrugs. "I'm not, really. My girlfriend's the funny one."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Mm. Her name's Daria." Cel pushes the green beans on her plate around with her fork. "She's a sweetheart. Social butterfly, too. Not like me."

"Fine with us." Noa says simply.

Aster chuckles a little. "True enough. Nine's not really the most social crowd."

"Comes with the territory," Noa agrees. "Too much land, not enough people. You get used to being by yourself."

"Sounds lonely." Cel says, and Noa's surprised to recognize that the comment's not just an aside. There's an edge to her words… a sort of sadness in them.

"It can be," Aster acknowledges. "But not always. Solitude can be beautiful too. So much freedom. And that's what Nine has a lot of, where we are. Freedom."

Fields of gold as far as the eye can see. Bare feet padding over tough ground, wild grass flattened beneath them, tickling at her toes. A vast ocean of stars twinkling above her head. Beck's hands at her waist, tugging her down into the meadow grass, and her back hitting the dirt hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. She laughs. Out here, there's nobody else to hear it…

(Nobody but him.)

Miles around, and the whole world's empty. Wide, expansive… free and perfect and theirs. Just Noa and Beck, and a million pinpricks of light in the dark night sky. She'd fit her hand into his and she'd thought about the future - not too far away, after her eighteenth birthday finally came. She'd always wondered if there might be something more between them than friendship - something more than just platonic love. He was her best friend, but he was also happiness, joy, light. He was Beck. He was wonderful. And she...

"Stargazing." Noa says without meaning to. Cel's attention turns to her, curious. Aster reaches for her hand, probably trying to be reassuring without making it too obvious. Noa can feel the heat rushing to her face, her cheeks coloring. She doesn't know why she said that - too much thinking, too many memories. This isn't the time to be thinking of Beck. This isn't the time to be thinking of home, where she might never return.

"Sorry," she says, choosing not to elaborate. "My head was… somewhere else."

sephtis adeyemi, district ten male

…

Two days into training, and Sephtis and Padma have still not spoken.

Sure, a few words might pass between them as they tied knots and started fires and theorized over the best methods to purify salt water, but talk - real talk - was not something that either of them seemed keen to try. Admittedly, Sephtis is a bit puzzled; Padma's always been good with people, good at playing them, at tricking them, at spinning honey-coated lies into a web so large it could be a full-fledged narrative with her eloquent speech and her pretty face. Her silence, as it were, is something he's not accustomed to; not that she doesn't have her reasons for being silent. Sephtis has made no secret of his loathing for her - even before the collapse of the Cirque, he and Padma were often at odds; they'd been partners, for a time, but even that was a relationship of schadenfreude and thinly-veiled tension, bitterness at its finest. They were not, in any way, shape or form, friends.

… Sephtis had never been one for friends. The few he had - some of the sideshow kids, Blackrose, maybe Shinigami, if he had to put a label to their relationship, although she is… she was… just as snakish as Padma, if not worse - had all wound up dead or gone, seduced away by other performers with better tricks and better tongues, the ones who could express themselves, who could talk to people with such ease that it almost seemed illusory. His audiences were no better. Although Padma had been the one to steal those away, all on her own.

It's not exactly unusual, Sephtis thinks, for him to say that her thievery made his dislike of her all the worse. First she'd taken his audiences, then she'd taken the performers, and then she'd taken Shinigami. Now, she'd even taken the Cirque as a whole, and by doing so, she'd ripped him out of Ten, too; he wouldn't be in the Games if it weren't for her, pretty Padma and her rich-bitch parents. The dress she'd worn to the reaping was probably worth more money than Sephtis had seen in his entire life.

And yet…

Here they are. Allies in the Capitol, allies in the Hunger Games. It's an uneasy alliance, certainly, but at the very least it's a familiar one. How many times did Sephtis have to indulge Padma's presence onstage, or even off, when she'd been sent to his dressing room to sit him down and school him on how to be social? How many times had they gone through a routine together, step by step, Sephtis walking Padma up to the wheel and strapping her hands in place against the wood, Padma grinning at him in that way she always did when she wanted to mess with him, taunting him without saying a word? How many knives had he thrown at her as she'd spun there on the wheel, the both of them reveling in the threat of death and the reminder of mortality that their act was meant to carry? Sometimes, when he finally pulled Padma down, he'd feel practically euphoric about it all, reveling in the high of being in control, admiring the occasional small nicks on her unblemished skin, where a knife had gotten just a little too close to hitting her. Oh, Shinigami chided him for it, but Sephtis couldn't help it, couldn't keep himself from daring, just a bit, letting his knives fly as close as they could without damaging Padma outright. He got a thrill from it.

And whether she'd admitted it or not, it was obvious that Padma did too.

He doesn't think that she realizes it - realizes that he realizes, about her excitement at being threatened, about her obsession with death. But it's there, and it's obvious now in a way that it never was before; ever since that day at the reapings, when Padma strutted up to that stage as proclaimed herself as a volunteer, she's been unnaturally blasé about everything she's faced. The Capitol, the Opening Ceremony, training, the Games themselves; not once has the idea of dying put a frown to her lips, and not once has she seemed perturbed by the thought of killing. Sephtis isn't surprised, actually, because the more he thinks about Padma, the more he thinks she's not the type to be perturbed. That's more his role, actually; he's the one that's meant to be upset, meant to be unsettled.

And he thinks he would be, probably, if it weren't for Shinigami. Sephtis still feels fear - twinges of it, at least - but he's forgotten how to be disturbed by things. He's forgotten how to be hurt by things - by Padma, and her avarice, and her dominance, and her character. The pain she'd caused him in the past is nothing more than a small tickle at the back of his mind now, an occasional irritant in his thoughts, a reminder of envy that comes and goes at whim. He doesn't have the heart to care about what Padma did anymore; he doesn't have the heart to care about the Cirque. His past is gone. He isn't leaving the Games - and Padma might not be, either.

Yet they're still playing along. Pretending that they care, pretending that they have a chance. Because they're performers. The Capitol wants a show, and they've been cast in the role of tributes. It's not so hard to be a tribute, really. In fact, Sephtis thinks being a tribute is easier than being boy, or freak, or murderer, or part of the Cirque de Noir in general.

It's certainly easier than being Sephtis Adeyemi.

He turns his attention back to the balm that he's been working on; it's meant to be some sort of healing salve, good for taking care of wounds, soothing the burn of them. Sephtis thought it sounded rather silly - soothing the burn - and that's probably to be expected, since he's never noticed much burn with pain. Oh, he knows there's supposed to be one… other people talk about aching, and scalding, and stinging, with such animosity that Sephtis finds it hard to believe they're exaggerating, but he's never felt anything like an aching, scalding, stinging burn. Just numbness. Crowley told him it was dead nerves, some sort of physical ailment, and not one that made him special in the least. Shinigami insisted otherwise; she'd called it charming, in that condescending tone that she often employed when offering out praise. Sephtis had always enjoyed her compliments, loved them, even, because any scrap of praise he'd been given was enough to turn his mood as a kid. He'd never gotten much of it, of course. Not like Padma.

…

Sephtis squashes that thought, crushing it against the inside of his skull, until the flame of rage that's started to spark within him once again is shaped into a dying ember. Envying Padma won't get him anywhere. Loathing Padma won't get him anywhere. In this unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar foes, Padma, his once rival, is also his confidant. She's his partner. And in a way, she always has been. Ever since they met, two impossibly short, bloody years ago.

"It's good, you know." Sephtis says, hating how honest his voice suddenly is, how much the vulnerability just sings in the words that he's decided to speak. "That we're here together."

"Well, well." Padma sing-songs, her own tone just as sugary and silver-tinged as it's always been. Audiences always found her alluring; called her voice hypnotic, even. Sephtis isn't certain he'd go that far, but she does have a sort of… charm with her words, really. A sort of charm that's good for an actor… and that's good for manipulation. "Sephtis Adeyemi, enjoying my company? I never thought I'd see the day."

"I don't," Sephtis enunciates, "enjoy your company, Padma. But even I can appreciate that our… mutual acquaintance…"

"Partnership, you mean," Padma interjects. Sephtis shuts his eyes, trying to ignore the dullness settling into his skull.

"Our shared professional history," he restates, just to keep her from pushing the issue, "is a boon for this sort of thing."

"The Games?"

"An alliance." He pauses, dragging his teeth along his lower lip. "And… yes, the Games. We're at an advantage."

"I wouldn't quite say that," Padma disputes, although she inclines her head to him. "Though I suppose your knife-throwing skills might come in handy. So long as you don't just choose to throw them at me, of course."

"Of course," Sephtis echoes. "Because Capitol forbid I have any reason to do so."

Padma stills.

"I know you blame me, Sephtis." She says. Sephtis doesn't so much as a make a noise of response. "I can't fault you for it, either."

What?

"You blame yourself, too." Sephtis realizes, the pieces finally fitting into place. Padma shrugs her shoulders a bit, fiddling with a stem of valerian root that's clasped between her dainty fingers.

"Don't be silly," she tells him. "The Cirque was a welcome distraction, but it was never my home - as you were always keen to acknowledge."

"But you miss it," Sephtis says, more pointedly. This time, Padma's the one who keeps her lips sealed, the pair of them falling back into an awkward silence as they resume their work. Sephtis' eyes fall to his scar-covered hands, trying to ignore the chill that he feels at the back of his neck. Maybe he's misjudged Padma - not entirely, but about the Cirque. Maybe she actually…

It doesn't matter, he reminds himself. Cirque du Noir is gone. It's dead. Whatever it was to me, whatever it was to Padma, neither of us are going back to it. But to Ten…

Maybe one of us really could go back to Ten. And if we do… maybe, just maybe, there's a chance at salvaging a bit of what is lost. June's alive because of Padma. Some of the others might be, too.

The Underground wouldn't just let their work die.

A/N: And there's training, day two. Lot faster than the last couple, thankfully, and again I'm sorry about all the gaps between updates. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to all of you who are reading. I hope that y'all are staying safe and doing well wherever you are. Until the next!