training: day three

maxim rafisky, district two male

…

Maxim Rafisky is meant to be a Career.

He's from Two. He's a volunteer, and an Academy graduate (for whatever that's actually worth). But more importantly, he's trained. He's literally trained to be a threat, trained to be a killer, and he put six years of time into building himself up for the so-called glory of representing his District for a couple weeks in total. So, yeah, people call him a Career; Maxim even thinks he is one at times. But he's not the ideal; he never has been.

Partially because he hates training.

There's… well, okay, there are a lotof reasons why he hates it, barring the obvious. It's troublesome… it's a waste of time… it's pointless… it's monotonous… it's depressing. His parents thought it'd be an outlet for his apathy; figured if they couldn't reform Maxim, then the hard-asses at the Academy could, because that's the whole point of having instructors, right? But it hadn't worked; nothing had. Maxim hates training just as much as he did that first day, when his parents sat him down in that office across from Geneva Stone and Aris Devorak and asked them to train our son, please, just take him, fix him for us, make him shape up because right now he's on a fast train to a breakdown and we can't deal with it anymore. He doesn't have friends, he doesn't care about school, he doesn't try with his work, and it's a problem, he is a problem.

They hadn't actually said that, of course, but Maxim knows his parents well enough to figure they'd probably been thinking it. He's always been a mess in their eyes; either too much to deal with or too little to be worthy of approval, never adequate, never respectable. If he hadn't been selected this year - given the old bastard and the hag a reason to acknowledge him - he'd have been kicked to the curb by the end of the week, stripped of his belongings and his surname. His father had never made any secret of the fact that his children were expendable; if they didn't meet his expectations, didn't abide by the rules he laid out for them, they could leave; those were his demands, and Maxim's only options.

So he'd volunteered. He'd fulfilled his end of the bargain - become a Career, become the starry-eyed fame-obsessed wannabe-Victor that his parents had expected him to. Because how else could the story end? With him as an adult, out on his ass in the streets, no friends, no family, no drive and no future?

(With him dead, a needle still stuck in his arm as he rides out a final, shaky, bad trip in some run-down drug den?)

Maxim looks at the other Careers - his allies - and he feels annoyed. He looks at Grey, so assured of the honor she can achieve by winning, so eager to make her father proud, and Varsen, who fits the Capitol ideals of a Career right down to their very boots, and Isabelle, whose thinly-veiled bloodthirst seems to be more than just the work of rumors, and Sevilin, who's nothing but another cog in the machine desperately trying to make a name for himself, and he's perturbed.

Really, you guys don't have anything better to do with your time than this? Training yourself up for a competition that you're probably never even going to participate in, wasting your energy and your time because maybe, just maybe, there's a small - no, infinitesimal - chance that you might end up a celebrity for half a year before everyone forgets you fucking exist? What bullshit.

Maybe he's a hypocrite. After all, given he's spent the last, what, six years of his life throwing himself into training back home? Six years, or thereabouts, and he never backed away from it, never quit, because he was good enough at playing trainee, and he figured he might as well keep doing it - so really, is he any better than the rest of them?

(No. I'm not.)

(But that doesn't mean I have to pretend I like them.)

Which is why, after just two minutes back in the training room, Maxim finds himself drifting away from his allies yet again in search of a quiet space. Sure, he could join them… try to socialize, try to fit in, try to care… but when twenty-three of them'll be dead soon anyway, what's the point of making nice? Alliances can be useful, but they're not meant to be stable. And instability… I've already got enough of that to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.

His own feet drag across the carpet and linoleum floor, boots scuffing against the ground as he meanders about the training room. Everyone else is already back to the daily grind; splitting off into groups and making small talk with each other, trying to get on with things the only way they know how. Maxim can't fault them for it; familiarity's easier to deal with than the unknown. And there's no real harm in pretending things are normal - pretending that this is just another day of training, back in Two, where he's going through the motions just to give his mind something to focus on.

In his aimless wandering, Maxim's feet find themselves on a path toward the archery station, and he just thinks, why not? It's as good a spot as anywhere else. Sure, he's shit with a bow - he does realize that - and has no real interest or desire in trying to better his lacking skill set, but the shooting range has got a door, and a wall, and honestly, Maxim's not too keen on mingling with the other tributes.

(It's probably mutual; not many tributes outside of his already-allies would be keen on mingling with him. Because they see Maxim, and they think Career, danger, threat. They look at his allies and they call them a pack, a group of wolves whose sole reason for being here is to prey on the weak and snap anyone who gets close up in their jaws before they can blink.)

(They're wrong. The rest of the tributes might call 'em wolves, but Maxim knows better - nobody is more of a sheep than a Career.)

So, he goes over to the shooting range. Gives the trainer a nod just to acknowledge the guy's presence, picks up a bow, then steps through the open door into a too-broad room with padded walls and a high ceiling. He shoves away the urge he has to brood, trying to stifle it the same way he's stifling the soreness of his eyes and the pain in his gut and the screaming in his lungs and his muscles and his bones where his body's getting pissed off at him because he's on a five day streak of not snorting blowcaine or dosing himself with stardust, and draws an arrow out of the quiver. He lines up a shot.

This is fine. He tells himself. Great, actually. Fucking perfect. Brilliant. Wonderful. Maybe I can just hang in here all day and wear myself even thinner and everybody else'll stay the fuck away like the good little tributes they are. Maybe. Possibly.

… who am I kidding, I've probably got five minutes.

Like usual, the pessimism wins out; and, like usual, Maxim's negativity is on point. Because right after he's made one tipsy shot, right after he's got his mind made up about where he's hanging out for the day, even grabbed the fucking bow and put on the fucking vest and got everything set the way it's meant to be, the door's swinging open behind him and someone else is walking in, the even cadence of their footsteps belying a confidence that Maxim's never quite had himself. Worse still, the person - whoever it is - takes up position right at his side, not seeming to care about the proximity between their bodies, clearly intent on disrupting his perfectly designed solitude.

"Do you mind?" Maxim asks, his tone a touch more scathing than it probably needs to be.

All he gets in reply is a scoff, so he sets down his bow, turns and crosses his arms to stare down the unwanted company.

He can't even hide the sardonic smirk that comes to his lips as he matches a name to the newcomer's face. Of course. Who else would it be but Cecilia fucking Perdanez.

"Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" Cel asks, and Maxim just shrugs, too wry to act offended, too over it to pretend he gives a damn.

"Yeah, my mentor warned me off it a few days ago. Something about running off all my sponsors, I dunno."

Cel raises an eyebrow, keeping her gaze solely on him. Maxim snorts, turning away before she has a chance to say anything more.

"Rude or not, it does seem to be contagious." He licks his lips. "Don't suppose you actually came to, you know, shoot things? Not to sound like an ass, but I'm really not feeling the whole forced camaraderie thing."

"Good with me." Cel's posture relaxes as she drops her gear on the ground, picking up her bow. She nocks the arrow, pulls the string back and lets it loose. The shot goes wide, hitting closer to the center than Maxim's, but too far out to be considered even halfway decent. Cel's brow pinches. Maxim laughs.

"Nice shootin', tex." He says, and Cel scoffs.

"You're one to talk, aren't you."

"Sure am," Maxim agrees, picking up his own bow and quickly stringing another arrow. "Archery day at the Academy was a great day for getting coked up. Could get the worst scores in my year and I'd still feel like the fuckin' president."

He fires the shot, and it strikes the black zone, just outside of the target circle.

"Sucks to suck," Cel says, and Maxim knocks the edge of his bow against her elbow, making her own aim unbalanced.

"Really?"

Maxim shrugs. "Like you said, sucks to suck."

His skin is tingling. His fingers shake when he reaches for another arrow, the skin ice-white, the nails almost purpling. His mouth's dry. He feels sick.

"I am…" he mumbles, and his tongue feels swollen against his teeth. "... so not high enough for this shit."

Cel turns to look at him. She seems… surprised. Maybe surprised, actually, Maxim can't tell - she's hard to read, even harder than Isabelle, who seems to have a permanent scowl on her face and a permanent agony in her eyes. Maxim hasn't pressed her to talk about it - why would he? It's none of his business, even if he finds himself curious, even if he finds himself wanting to talk, wanting to try and make some sort of kinship with his District partner, despite how pointless it would be to do so. There's something about Isabelle that he connects to, something in her moroseness and her sadness and that anger bubbling beneath the surface that just resonates with him. Maxim can't describe it. He just knows that he's felt… aimless for so long, and foolish, and all sorts of drained and miserable and worthless just for existing. And for some unfathomable reason, he thinks that maybe Isabelle gets it.

… and maybe Cel does, too.

"How long?" Cel asks, and the bow falls from Maxim's fingers, clatters against the hard linoleum at his feet.

"Six days," he says. "I think, six - seven, eight, whatever, before the reapings. Feels like longer - and yes, I do know it's my own damn fault, so I'm not gonna go all woe is me on you or anything."

"Didn't think you were."

"Sure you didn't." Maxim gives a dry laugh, rubbing at his eyes. "Whatever, I'm a drug addict. There you go, there's my secret out. Let's get back to the part where you were mocking my shooting or something, yeah?"

He waits for Cel to say something - waits for her to move, or turn away, or make a jab at him again, anything more than the silence and the staring that she's doing now. But she doesn't move. And she doesn't speak.

Maxim presses a hand to his temple, runs it back through his hair as he tries to shake his sickness off.

"Whatever, be weird about it, then -"

"I think you should join us. Me and the Nines."

What?

"Sorry, but, are you punking me? 'Cause it sounded a lot like you just asked me to be your ally."

"I did." Cel says calmly. Maxim laughs.

"Okay. Right. Wow. You're not serious."

Cel blinks.

"... you're serious." He did not see that one coming.

"Do I seem like the joking type to you?" Cel asks him. Maxim shakes his head.

"I just told you I was a drug addict. And now you want me as an ally?"

"Is it really that absurd an idea? You're trained. You've got more skill than a lot of the tributes here could even hope to have, barring your terrible aim. You're a Career. But not like the others; not as cocky, not as vainglorious. Because you're struggling."

"I'm not-"

"Do you really think," Cel continues, "that the others won't toss you aside the second they realize you're going through withdrawal? Do you think they won't pounce on your weakness?"

"Like you're any different," Maxim snaps back, almost vitriolic. Cel turns away.

"I am." She pauses. "I would be. I won't say I know what you're going through, but I can empathize with it… in my own way."

You can empathize?

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm sick too." Cel's tone is bitter, more bitter than Maxim's ever heard it. She reaches down, gathers up her things, and makes a beeline for the door, setting her bow up on the rack before she reaches for the handle. "Join me or don't. It's your choice. Just… think about it, alright?"

The door opens. Maxim can feel his heart beating out of control, desperate to leap out of his chest. A part of him wants to follow her - wants to leave with her, right now, ask her what she meant, ask her why she cares. But he doesn't move. He stays there, rooted to the floor in the archery room, with his shaking hands and dry mouth and overwhelming confusion, a single tear slipping from his left eye.

It was supposed to be simple - volunteer, join the Careers, die in the Games. I had everything worked out. I had a plan. There was nothing confusing about my plan. And yet…

I feel more lost now than ever.

wallis jenkins, district three female

…

Wallis hates loud noises. Always has, always will; it's one of her character flaws, she supposes, being averse to certain sounds and pitches, and moreso, being so forward about it. Most people, her mom always said, prefer to keep mum about their dislikes and their concerns; they set them aside, shove them out of their head.

Wallis doesn't; Wallis can't. She knows people in Three like to keep their issues private - her mothers certainly do, most of the time, as do Brett and Lexus - but it's always seemed so contradictory to her. Problems don't get fixed unless people are willing to acknowledge them; nothing can be solved without a process, and discussion is part of the resolution process. Which is why she's always made it a point to just call things as she sees them; the Careers are problematic, the clanging swords in the training room are annoying, the faulty button in the tribute centre elevator is a nuisance, and the flashy screens they put up in Three's quarters are inane to the nth.

She told Kyrell as much this morning, when it was just the two of them in the training room - they'd come down early at Metris' behest, though their mentor hadn't really given much explanation as to why she'd wanted them to do so - and he'd just scoffed and shook his head a little, mumbling a sharp quip of "right, it's all terrible. Why not just do away with the Capitol altogether, Jenkins?" under his breath, before moving over to the knot-tying station.

Wallis left him alone after that. She doesn't know why her District partner seems to take everything so personally - it's not like she was saying anything that wasn't true, and he'd been the one cursing at the floor indicators in the elevator after their button wouldn't light yesterday. Annoying might not even be the most apt term she could've used. Which she called the kid out on - you're still in a tiz about it, aren't you? Just take the stairs next time, it'll save you a lot of trouble - only to be met with more dismissal. Not too unlike what happens back home, with her classmates and her coworkers. Not something unusual, even, but that doesn't mean it didn't upset her.

Metris, her mentor, took her bluntness as standoffishness; Wallis knows because she'd said as much, right to her face that first night after they got off the train.

"You need to work on your attitude problem."

Wallis remembers blinking. "What attitude problem?" She'd asked, perfectly serious, because as far as she's aware, her attitude is what it's always been, and neither of her mothers ever called it a problem in the past. Well, Mercedes said once that she had some adjustment issues, and pointed out that not everyone appreciates honesty the way Wallis does, but Rita told her it just made her special. Three needs more people that are willing to speak their mind! She'd often say, and Mercedes would chide her about being a softie, and they'd fall into that push-and-pull banter that Wallis sometimes thought was arguing (but wasn't.)

Anyway, case in point: Wallis doesn't know what to think at the moment, about her attitude, or her mentor, or her District partner. She feels like she should have some idea of how to approach the situation - she's never been bad at coming up with plans or implementing them when it's necessary - even wishes that she did, if only because she feels scrutinized and awkward and it's not a welcome feeling. A familiar feeling, yes, but not welcome.

Just like the noise isn't welcome. Chairs scraping on the floor and black-soled shoes scuffing them, skin hitting rubbery mats, knives scraping against metal, the almost-whistling friction sound of hands driving sticks into the ground… it's all too much and too present and her head is full-to-bursting with the cacophony of the training room, the cacophony of the Capitol, the cacophony of Katya, still talking without end.

… no. Katya's fine, actually - better than fine, even, to Wallis' surprise. The Five girl is wild and loud and the literal embodiment of chaos, but she's nice, she's pleasant, she's fun, and she doesn't make Wallis feel ashamed of her words. Not to mention they work surprisingly well together; she's got more muscle to her than Katya does, and quicker hands, but the Five girl's got charisma, and she knows what she's doing most of the time. She's a good painter. And she knows first aid - that had thrown Wallis for a loop.

Nice mesh of skills. We're compatible, she said to Katya after they'd finished up at the medical area earlier. Katya beamed.

Hell yes, she enthused. Think we could give the Careers a run for their money?

Don't know, Wallis answered, just being realistic. But we make a good team. I think.

Katya chuckled. Aw, Three, are you getting soft on me?

Not yet, Wallis said, and then, back-tracking. Okay, maybe a little. But I'm not sure I'd call it 'getting soft.' I think it's more like… 'getting familiar.' Familiarity breeds affection. Doesn't it?

Oh, for sure. Like, the more you know somebody, the easier it is to like them, flaws and all. Most of the time, that is. But like, my partners, for example; if I just met them at random, I'd think they were the most annoying people ever to walk the streets of Five. But I know them, so I know why they act like they do, you know? Like, it's the time we've spent together that's made our relationship work.

Katya smiled. Kinda the same with you. You're a weirdo, but I like you - because the more we've worked together, the easier it is to appreciate how genuine you are. You're candid and obsessive and kinda a control freak at times - hey, I know you are not about to protest that after the fuckin' fishhooks - but you're real. You aren't trying to put up a front to deal with all that, and honestly, that's pretty choice of you. Major props, Wallis Jenkins.

Wallis lets her eyes wander to her ally's animated features as she speaks, her bright eyes, the grin that absolutely lights up her face, her manically-gesturing hands, and a warmth settles into her chest as she watches her. Katya's interesting, in a way that she's entirely unused to; she's brazen, loud, rebellious even… and she's fun. Wallis doesn't think she's ever met anyone quite as fun as Five's self-proclaimed "wicked wild child." She's sort of… endearing.

(I'm happy I found you.)

" - and me being the sensible one, mind you, I told him it was impossible. An alligator in District Five? I mean, c'mon, there's no way it was anything more than some sort of weird fuckin' urban myth made by a few guys taking the piss with us. But Kiril had his mind made up; he dragged me and Voji down to the park late one night and had us slip through the gap in the bars over the sewer tunnels to go gator hunting. Kid never passed up an opportunity to do something stupid when it struck him."

Katya laughs, and Wallis finds that the sound has a pleasant ring to it - despite being more raucous than what she's usually comfortable with. A smile comes unbidden to her own lips as she crosses her legs, sitting casually in her nest perch with her hands at her sides, fingers casually tangled in the netting beneath her.

"Anyway," Katya continues. "Being that we weren't supposed to be there, 'specially after dark, shouldn't have been any surprise someone saw us waving our flashlights about and summoned out a PK. The real irony was that the PK who found us was Voji's sister - and oh man, she was not amused. Woulda dragged him back home by his ear if she thought she could make it work. By comparison, me and Kiril got off easy."

"You didn't get arrested?" Wallis asks, genuinely curious; most of the peacekeepers she's met have been... disciplinarian, to say the least. Harsh, cold… well, there's any number of words she could use. The ones that did security at the plant where she and Mother worked were definitely not the type of people it was good to cross. Not that she'd ever had any problems with them personally…

"Oh, stars no! I mean, a bit of slapping around, but nothing so bad as that. We were just kids running around after curfew… nobody thought much of it at all. Well, aside from my 'rents, but they'd been out of the picture a few months by then, so…"

Katya trails off. Wallis shifts a bit, not having expected that turn; for as much as they've spoken the last two days, Katya hasn't really mentioned her parents outside of a couple side comments on how disappointed they are with her life choices. Wallis gets the impression it might be a sore subject.

"Their loss," she replies, wondering a moment too late if maybe she should've been more sympathetic. But that's just the thing - sympathy isn't one of Wallis' strengths. And from what she can tell, Katya's better off without her parents anyway, with how unsupportive she's made them out to be. It's not a bad thing to cut people off when there's not room for them in your life.

Katya seems pleased with her answer, if her renewed grin is anything to go by.

"Damn right."

Wallis smiles a little. The expression feels weird on her face, because it's not something she's too used to doing, unless she's excited - but it seems to fit the situation. This is comfortable, the listening and the moments of companionable silence; normally, Wallis finds lengthy silences a bit offputting when there's another person involved, usually because the other person has made it offputting. It's nice to just… enjoy a silence with someone. Katya's quiet, but she's not distant, and she's not trying to coax Wallis to continue their conversation. It's refreshing.

"Tributes!"

A call comes up from the training room below them. Wallis stills in her place on the climbing net, almost freezing at the sudden and jarring shout. She can see the head trainer walking toward the center of the room, her head high and her steps measured. Something's going on.

"Should we go down?" She asks Katya, and the other girl just shakes her head, her usually bright expression undercut by an evident seriousness.

Wallis looks back down to the trainer, leaning closer to the edge of the net to try and gain a better view of the situation below.

"Do you think this is typical?" She asks Katya this time. It's not like either of them have been in this situation before - tributes set for the Games. It's possible there's more to the whole affair than she'd originally assumed.

"Tributes, attention!" The trainer calls out again, clapping her hands together, and Wallis flinches a little bit at the loud thwack emitted by her action. "I have an announcement to make."

"No shit," Katya murmurs.

"Tomorrow, you will arrive at no later than zero-eight-hundred hours to this room, for a skill evaluation implemented by our Head Gamemaker. This is an experimental training session, in which each of you will be called upon to demonstrate your aptitude before a small panel of Gamemakers for no more than about fifteen minutes. You may continue training as you have up until this point, however your training will be monitored closely, and you will be pulled aside individually at some point during the day by one of the trainers, who will escort you to the evaluation room."

Wallis swallows, a lump building in her throat at the trainer's words. She has no qualms about demonstrating her skills - such a request is simple enough - but before the Gamemakers? With little to no warning given beforehand? What exactly is she meant to do?

A hand touches her shoulder, and Wallis startles, snapping her head to the side with her teeth clenched, fully prepared to reprimand Katya for grabbing her without warning. She doesn't like being touched. Not even by her family. It makes her feel unbalanced. And Katya should know better, she ought to, and she's -

- confused. Wallis sees the conflict in Katya's eyes and can't help but wonder what it was that made her reach out in the first place. Worry? Uncertainty? A desire for reassurance? Whatever it is, her ire's quickly cooling. And the gesture…

It's not unwelcome.

"It's alright," Wallis says to Katya. "It's just a test - we've both done them before, right? This won't be any different. We demonstrate what we've learned, and we proceed to the next challenge. Unexpected, but straightforward enough."

Unexpected, but not a setback - because we can't allow it to be one. Not with the Games just two days away. Not when we're headed into the arena.

merrick aldaine, district six male

…

Merrick Aldaine does not fancy himself a rebel.

He's sure that comes as a surprise to some people - Six has its fair share of delinquents, and Merrick's never really minded counting himself among them. He's got no love for conformity, no love for the system or the harsh realities that it embodies. When you grow up like he did, you get used to being shoved to the side, stepped on, told that you don't matter, you are nothing, your life is worth nothing by all the silver-spoon assholes that live up in Hightown or Union Square.

Little people don't matter. Poor people don't matter. They don't have voices. And they don't have power. It's as simple as that; Merrick's never tried to pretend otherwise. Sure, sometimes it bothers him… and sometimes he lashes out. That happens when you get called bastard, whoreson, junkie, freak, on a regular basis; you start to internalize it, you start to brood, then the brooding stops and all you feel is anger. Rage. Hatred. The anger builds, and it builds, and finally you can't contain it anymore, so you lash out; you get in fights, involve yourself with the quote-on-quote "wrong crowd" because maybe they aren't good for you, maybe they don't have your back, but they're from your side of the tracks and they get it. You start rolling. You throw a few punches, take a few more.

Sometimes, when the feelings are really bad, you hit that point where living doesn't seem worth it. You come home to upset, half-starved siblings and a drugged-up mother passed out on the floor of the bathroom and her latest boyfriend crashing on the couch and you lose it. Your mind, your stability, your sense of direction… everything just disappears underneath a layer of melancholy so thick that it's smothering you. So you try to escape. You quit coming home. You drink. You rage against the machine, because there's no point in not, when you have everything to gain and nothing to lose. You start talking a bit too freely. You start letting yourself slip.

Merrick's slipped; not like some of his friends have, not enough to be disappeared, but enough that he's got a couple nasty scars on his back from being latched to the whipping post. Dissent, is what the peacekeepers said when they'd taken him back home bloodied and beaten, and his mother had the gall to ask what he'd done, to pretend that she cared. Provocation. Disturbing the peace. Malfeasance.

Merrick doesn't fancy himself a rebel, but a lot of people in Six do. His classmates, his teachers, the Peacekeepers, his brother. They think he's a dissident because he had the… what, audacity?... to say that things were shit, and to say it loudly. Which is ridiculous; people say things, especially when they're drunk. It doesn't mean they're treacherous. It doesn't make them criminals.

His mentor disagrees.

"What the hell do you mean you aren't going to training tomorrow?"

"'xactly what I said," Merrick replies with a shrug. "It's bullshit. I'm not going."

"And what, you think that's just gonna fly? You think the Gamemakers'll be lax with you, let you sit this one out because you think it's stupid? No, Merrick. They'll call you a rebel. They'll punish you for it. Is the wounded pride worth the consequences that could result from-"

"From disobeying the Chief Assholes in Charge? Sure! What are they going to do to me anyway, Alvina? Kill me?"

He laughs. There's nothing the Capitol can use to punish him because they've already condemned him to death. There's nothing the Capitol can do, because he's already lost everything he has to lose - he didn't have all that much to begin with. Their threats are no good anymore. He's dead regardless of what he does tomorrow; and if his choice to fuck with the Gamemakers speeds up the process, good. Merrick has known since the moment he set foot in the Capitol that he had absolutely no interest in playing along with their Games.

The Chariots. Training. Alliances. Interviews. Every single part of the pre-Games is absolutely pointless; some sort of half-hearted attempt at distraction to make the tributes less inclined to think about their overall situation, the truth of which was simple: they were here for entertainment. And that's it; full-stop. Each and every one of them - trainers, tributes, mentors, escorts, stylists - is here to aid the Capitol in putting on a show, whether they want to or not.

"Honestly, they should be thanking me," Merrick continues, pouring as much dry humor as he can into his caustic words. "Everyone here's a slut for drama, and I'll be giving them exactly what they want. Someone to whisper about. Someone to hate. So if someone asks you, just tell them I'm doing it for attention. It's what they always say, anyway."

Alvina grimaces. Her cheeks are flushed, her skin blotchy from how heated she is over the argument; Merrick almost wants to temper his words, say something else to try and assuage her. He doesn't, of course, because he's not the type to do that, even when he wants to be; it's better to be the asshole that nobody cares about than the person nobody cares about. At least if he's an asshole, he can pretend that the lack of concern is deserved - that all of the insults and the enmity and the abuse is fine, because he was asking for it, anyway. Being hostile is easy, and it's safe. Means he's free of attachments, free of concern, free of guilt.

… most of the time, anyways.

"Merrick…" Hana's voice cuts through the haze of contention that's colored their conversation, a soothing balm against the deep cuts made from their argument. She sounds… not sad, quite, but… sympathetic. Sympathetic, and Merrick hates the way it gnaws at him, because he didn't ask for Hana's sympathy, he doesn't need it, and he doesn't deserve it.

"Don't you dare," he starts, whirling on his District partner, "pity me, Hana."

"I wasn't -"

"You were." He accuses, all sharp edges against Hana's smooth-sided comfort. "If you're going to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for yourself."

You shouldn't be here, he wants to say.

It isn't fair, he wants to elaborate.

(Please don't leave, he wants to tack on, and those words are the ones that echo in his head every time he throws himself into a fight, every time he says something cutting so that other people will leave him alone. Please don't let me cut you out. Please don't take my words the way I want you to, don't mistake my venom for anger. It's fear, really; just not the way other people show it (not the way Maren shows it.) Don't think I hate you, because I don't. I'm trying to protect myself - I'm trying to protect both of us, Hana, because getting yourself involved with someone like me is a sure way to get yourself fucked over. I can't let you care about me, I can't let you even feel sorry for me. It's not that I don't want the comfort, or the concern, but that I can't accept it.)

Hana's eyes are shining.

"It's okay if you-" she starts to try again, and again Merrick cuts her down before she can try and bridge the gap between them, try and unearth his vulnerability.

"Are you still talking?" He says shortly.

Hana freezes. Alvina takes a step back. For a moment, it feels as if the air's been pulled right out of his lungs - no, not just his lungs, the entirety of Six's quarters. A coldness begins to creep into Merrick's chest, and he shakes his head at the pair of them, his mentor and his District partner, both standing there looking hurt and concerned and upset with him, choosing one last sentence from his arsenal to make sure they understand that they are done with him.

"Upside of dying - I won't have to deal with either of you."

He turns his back on them and walks toward his room, trying to ignore how much it sucks when Hana doesn't so much as try to say goodnight to him. She's said it every night since they left Six - just like she's greeted Merrick every morning since they reached the Capitol. Three times now he's walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at the counter, two cups of tea in front of her with a soft smile on her face. Three time's now she's seen fit to greet him with a sunny declaration of "Morning!" and a slightly softer "How'd you sleep?" that he's not once chosen to answer. He knows it's decorum, not actual care, that leads her to say the words - knows that she's being polite, trying to make nice with him because she's a decent person, and far too good for the fate of the Hunger Games. But he'd never asked for her kindness; she'd just given it to him, along with her concern. Why? Because they're both from Six? Because she thinks he's worth something - conversation, sympathy, understanding, livelihood?

Whatever the reason… she won't be making that mistake again.

Merrick's seen her allies; the skinny little guy from Eleven and the goofy pair from Seven, who seem to have smiles permanently plastered onto their faces. They're good matches for Hana; empaths, not realists, feelers rather than thinkers. Kids that'll be missed by their families and Districts, kids that deserve to live. Not royal fuck-ups with a chip on their shoulder. Not Merrick.

He and Hana are like oil and water: they don't mix.

Merrick isn't sure exactly how he gets his door open, nor how he strips himself of his training clothes and slips into bed, the too-soft linens around him a rare luxury of comfort. He's slept a lot of places back home; friends' couches, empty train cars, street benches, gutters. Most were comfier than his own bed - because when you're cold or anxious or exposed, you don't really have time to ruminate.

Here, he's got nothing but time; time to sit, time to think, time to reflect. Merrick doesn't want to reflect; there's nothing pleasant in his memories, and nothing worthwhile in his future. Even if he wins… which he won't, but even if… he doesn't really want to go home. His mother's got her own life, and Kyan and Sabine… he loves them, he does, but he's not the sort of brother they need, no matter how much he's tried to be. It's because of him that Kyan's heading down a path to delinquency, because of him that Sabine's gotten so jaded and withdrawn. Maren's to blame, sure, but Merrick's no better in the long run, no matter how much he's tried to convince himself otherwise over the years.

It's better if I don't come back.

He's got two days left before the arena. Two days left to sit around and reflect on the shitstorm that's his life. Two days left to brood.

Not that it's a bad thing, Merrick thinks. Maren's spent eighteen years brooding; he's well within his right to spend a couple days feeling sorry for himself. Especially if they're the last days he's got.

A/N: Training, day three - and holy shit is she a thicc one! I kinda got carried away with Maxim's POV and then just had to keep the momentum going, so here we are… hopefully it was enjoyable.

What do y'all think of the alliances shaping up so far? Any opinion changes on the characters? Just one more day of training… and then we're into the interviews. Hope everyone's doing well and staying healthy. Thanks for reading!