"Because there was a hunger in me to see everything and do everything. I wanted to be everyone I saw. I wasn't enough for me."
Haracha Valenti, 16
The teacher drones on through the lesson, and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from dozing off. My eyes are cracked and red, shaking with effort as they force my eyelids to stop in place and not droop down any further. It's all I can manage to keep my eyes peeled open, and while I focus on that effort, my brain wanders off into different places.
It's an important lesson, and I should be focusing on it, Games history is something that every trainee is expected to know like the back of their hand, and that goes double for years with District Two victors-especially with how rare those have gotten lately.
I probably should have caught some sleep last night, but it's hard to force myself to rest when there's so much I could be doing if I just stayed awake a little while longer. Those Capitol "reality shows" about the Games are so much more interesting than the actual history of it.
If the teacher can notice me clearly daydreaming with my distant, bloodshot eyes, he decides not to call me out on it, and the hour speeds by so fast that I'm half-convinced as I stumble out of my desk that I really did doze off at some point and sleep through half the class.
"Yo, Cha!" Ricci collides into me as I stand, wrapping me in a headlock as he half-drags me out the door, ruffling a hand through my hair.
"I could drop your ass if I wanted, you know," I murmur through a yawn.
"You wish." He snorts, giving my hair one last ruffle as he frees me. "What's up with your eyes? You lighting up in class now or something?"
"Just another all-nighter," I say, smacking my lips as I shuffle my feet through the hall.
"Late night training?"
"Uh, yeah, pretty much," I reply.
He shakes his head. "I'll never get how a lazy dumbass like you is the top choice for volunteer."
"Cause skill doesn't mean shit." I yawn. "There's only one thing that matters for who they pick."
"Yeah, congrats, you won the rich parents lottery, your prize: an early grave with all the other dumbass Two volunteers from the last decade."
"I was gonna say all that matters is my charisma and charm, but sure, be jealous."
He laughs at that, a real one. I try to not be offended. "So you gonna agree to volunteer then? Or still haven't decided yet?"
"I'm volunteering," I say, stretching out my arms and rolling my shoulders. "Just not sure if I'll do it this year or skip the quell thing and wait till I'm eighteen."
He snorts. "You're not gonna seriously convince me that your egotistical, narcissistic, stupid-ass is gonna pass up on the chance to win the most epic quell in the history of quells."
"Don't like how much you're tryna convince me to volunteer when two seconds ago you were saying I'm gonna die if I do," I say, rolling my eyes.
The two of us stop in front of my locker as I toss my books in a heap and slam the door shut.
"I dunno, if you die your parents hate your big sis so much they might just pass on their entire inheritance to me instead of her if I keep on mooching up to them."
"Glad to know my best friend cares more about my money than me being alive," I say.
He shrugs, shouldering his way through a crowd in the hall as we make our way to the gym. "Hey, it's District Two. Find me a single person in the district that wouldn't shank their pregnant mom for a few bucks."
"I wouldn't do that," I say. He glances at me with a raised eyebrow, and I shrug. "It would need to be like, a lot of bucks."
"You're a true paragon of virtue." He sighs, slapping a hand on my shoulder. "That's my chosen volunteer."
"Virtuous, charismatic, and handsome." I smirk. "Some people really just have it all."
"Yeah, some people sure do. I'd love to meet one of them someday."
I roll my eyes, ignoring the shit-eating grin he's wearing. "You're sure funny today, huh?"
He shrugs, pushing the gym door open. "I have my moments."
"Yeah, well," I say, grabbing a dulled steel sword from the rack and twirling it in my hand. "Let's see if funny guy can take on a sleep-deprived dumbass who's only the chosen volunteer cause of his mommy's money."
"You're real sarcastic when you're tired, you know that?" He says, snagging a sword of his own and settling into his form opposite from me on the mat.
"Not sarcastic, just an asshole. It's cool you think I'm just joking though," I say, peeling my eyes open and focusing on the blade in my hand.
"His humor is limitless," he murmurs to himself, his carefree expression vanishing in an instant as he narrows his eyes, swinging the sword in front of him.
"You seem like you're in a good mood, so I'll try to not send you to the hospital again this time," I say, slicing the sword through the air once to test the weight then stepping towards him.
He just grunts in response, any sense of humor or fun gone as he settles into his battle-face. Just another reason Ricci, as much as I love the guy, could never be a real Career. Fighting good's only a third of the battle. You're never gonna win if your personality is a damp piece of bread or your fights are boring to watch, no matter how good you swing a sword. That's why District Four keeps kicking everyone's asses, they understand the formula. Victory comes through a balanced combination of talent, charm, and entertaining the audience.
And my talent may be average and my charm -as much as I would never, ever admit- just a bit higher than your average career on my good days, that third piece is something I've perfected better than anyone since Hero Sol.
Ricci curls his fingers around his handle, circling me with intense concentration. I take a half-step back, and rest the blade on my shoulder, a hand on my hip as I let out a brief laugh. "Come on, should I do this with my eyes closed? All I'd have to do is stick out my sword like this and you'll probably just run into it like the dumbass you are."
He leaps at me halfway through my taunt, attempting to knock the blade out of my hand as I leave it gently extended towards him. I yank it back just as he swings with all his might, like he's some sort of lumberjack from Seven or something. His back is fully exposed, and I roll my eyes as I swat him in the back with the flat side of the blade, pushing him to the side.
Ricci barely catches himself from falling to the mat, and I shake my head. "Dude. Seriously?"
He narrows his eyes, darting at me with surprising speed and swiping at my gut. I'm barely able to bring down my blade to match his, and the two of us lock for a few seconds before pushing off and backpedalling to our corners of the mat.
I cross my arms, shaking my head. "Ricci, you're like 170 pounds dude, how the hell do your swings feel like they're coming from a starving runt from Twelve?"
He snorts, then charges at me again, this time rearing back for an overhead swing as if it's not telegraphed exactly what he's doing a full ten seconds before he's even threatening to hit me.
The fight's so easy that jokes don't even feel right, taunting is good and all, the audiences love it, but only to a certain level. At a point it stops being funny and charming and roguish and starts just making you look like an asshole. A bit too late to start just taking it seriously though, the only way to recover is to make the fight a more even one.
I toss the sword to the ground, bringing up my hands to meet the blade as Ricci swings it forcefully down. The metal stings as it connects with my palms, but I stop it in its place, and waste no time using the surprise to elbow Ricci in the face and rip the sword from his hands. Without wasting time to even switch my handle to the blade, I shove the tip into his gut, giving his belly a little poke before tossing the sword to the side and grinning down at him.
"How was that?" I ask, puffing my chest.
Ricci is still on the ground, gripping onto his nose which is trickling with a slight stream of blood.
"That would not work with a real sword, dumbass," he groans.
I blow a raspberry, kicking him in the foot. "Says who? I've seen Hero do it before."
He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. "Movies aren't real life, dipshit."
"My literature teacher tells us that fiction is the reflection of truth."
He glances up at me with glazed over eyes, a dribble of blood streaming down his nose. "It's crazy how Two manages to keep raising the stakes of just how dumb of a tribute they can send into the arena."
"C'mon, that was showmanship right there," I say, reaching my hand out to him. "It's your fault, you fought like a total dumbass. Anyone stupid enough to swing a sword like that when they don't know how to use it wouldn't be swinging hard enough to even cut my hand."
He sighs, taking my hand and pulling himself up, wiping the blood away with his sleeve. "I was trying to mimic fighting an overconfident outlier who thinks their three days with a sword puts them on a Career's level. If you paid any attention today in class you'd know it's not that uncommon."
"Well then, what's your report, if catching it was so bad what should I have done?" I ask.
He shrugs. "I don't know dude, that's your department, I'm just here to give you scenarios, not teach you what to say." He pauses, then shrugs. "Honestly, it looked really cool and was pretty badass, if you're in the finale go for it, just don't do it earlier or you'll die from an infected hand like a dumbass."
"Fair enough." I shrug. "Well, since my hands would be sliced to hell right now, you wanna grab some lunch and come back later to finish up the training sesh?"
"Yeah," he says, "if my real life nose drops any more blood on this mat then Akali is gonna kick my ass, so lunch works for me."
We set our swords back on the rack and make a beeline for the cafeteria, but I stop at the exit, my hand on the door as I pause and turn back to Ricci, a slight hesitation before I ask the question I've been wondering ever since the quell twist was announced and I was named the chosen volunteer.
"Hey Ricci, all jokes aside, like, seriously, if I do go into the Games this year, do you think that I'll win?"
Ricci stops for a moment, lost in thought before he eventually shrugs. "Don't know, Games are random as hell, I don't think you can ever really be even kind of sure about that."
I nod my head, and open my mouth to reply, but he continues before I get the chance.
"But I do know this. With all this work you're putting in, and the way you're actually using your head to train, dumbass that you are, the whole Capitol will be hoping for Haracha Valenti to snap the District Two cold-streak."
I smile, biting the inside of my lower lip as I nod my head. "Thanks, Ricci."
"Yeah, 'course." He slaps me on the back, pushing us through the doors. "Just don't let it get to your head. You're still a dumbass."
A/N: And in typical David fashion, after a long hiatus of no updates I'm now speeding through and writing at mach 5. Anyways, here's the d2 intro, a big thanks to Micah for the awesome Haracha Valenti, hope y'all liked him. See y'all next week in d3!