.

—-—-—

spare

—-—-—

Torin stumbles, caught lunging to his left while Martina fakes in the other direction.

He catches himself, steadies on one knee. Martina's fingers curl menacingly around the handle of her spear and she balances for just a second, as if sizing up her next move.

Akello is still, standing rigid, the tension in his spine betraying his frustration even as he remains silent.

I know what he sees— I see it, too. Torin has time now to raise his blade and block her swinging attack, plus the stability to brace against her momentum. Martina is left open and just avoids his sharp, sudden jab at her upper body.

"Off your knees, Navarro." Akello's command is booming, as if ensuring he's heard over the din of combat drills, but Torin and Martina are just ten feet away. His forehead pinches as Martina swings brazenly, trying to keep Torin off his feet. "Up. Get up."

Torin blocks Martina's third attack and shoves his sword back against her, pushing her back and onto her heels. His jaw is tense, teeth gritted.

She comes down again, her spear arcing diagonally, long and open and readable— but Torin's not used to defending against a spear with only his sword, and she's taller, has momentum in her favor. His knees are still buckled when she strikes.

The weapon cracks against the wide edge of his shoulder and he's sent sideways. This time, Martina doesn't wait. Her spear comes back along her hip and she jabs sharply into his chest, the momentum knocking Torin back against the floor.

The practice spears are round-headed and blunt. With a real spear, Torin would be dead. Dead or dying, blood seeping from the new hole in the center of his chest. It's clear defeat.

Martina lets her weapon collapse, its end tapping against the practice mats. She tries to look nonchalant, but her eyes seek out Akello, hoping against hope for a lick of praise.

Instead, Akello's focus is on Torin— seeing failure instead of success, where both coexist. "If you aren't going to listen, that's your own damn fault."

Torin turns, frowning.

"You heard me," Akello maintains. "I told you to get up. Can't do shit from the ground. That's the only reason she beat you, because you're choosing to ignore the only person here who knows a damn thing about combat. Go again. And this time, get your head out of your ass."

Torin pushes himself to his feet, jaw clenched and lips pursed. He readjusts the grip on his sword handle, but his chest heaves as though he's had the wind knocked out of him. Even so, he's frustrated. He attacks Martina with a new hunger now, pushing her back, evading her first swing and landing a blow against her bicep.

That's all Akello sticks around for, though. He's seen what he needs to see.

Akello doesn't look at me as he approaches. His body faces me but that's as open as he'll ever be. His eyes track Cas and Aziel, sparring on the mat closest to where I sit, legs crossed and elbows against my thighs, in front of the mess of packs and water bottles.

Cas' forehead glints with perspiration, the back of his shirt plastered to his spine.

Aziel lunges. Cas catches his arm and twists. Aziel grunts and shoves him off, but he holds his shoulder more tenderly as the two circle.

Cas sees it, too. He attacks his right side, forcing pressure on the weak limb. He gets one shot into his shoulder blade and another into Aziel's ribs as Aziel draws back, lip curled.

"Good, Lamot." Akello's praise comes out in a low growl. "Keep him on his heels, now."

Akello, for all his flaws, picks his favorites well. Cas drives Aziel back until he has no choice but to be sloppy, making a desperate swing for Cas' wrist. In the same movement, Cas brings his arm back, unintentionally dodging Aziel's attack while gearing up to plunge his sword into Aziel's stomach.

Aziel grunts in frustration. Akello doesn't say anything as the pair resets, Cas' knuckles whitening around his weapon while Aziel holds his spear handle low and the blade up in front of his narrowed eyes. But as Akello turns, there's the sharp edge of almost-pleasure glinting at the side of his lips.

Akello comes closer towards me, most of his attention on his clipboard, where he jots down basic results and notes. But he eyes me, too, just enough to check that I'm still injured and not out on the mats, where I should be. He stops a few feet away from me, remaining upright. He has nothing to say— I know that much from experience—and it's awkward, even if I know he keeps his mouth shut unless he has something pressing to bring up.

I try to keep my attention on my notebook, jotting down the pointers he's given to Martina, Cas, and the others. But I find myself self-conscious of my note-taking because even if he won't comment on it, he sees it. Both of us are well-used to pretending to ignore each other by now, even if neither of us are particularly good at it.

The only thing we've spoken about this week was my injury, two days ago on Monday. I relayed to him what Aspra had said, lamenting that I needed a couple of weeks of rest. His displeasure was evident. But for whatever reason, he didn't force me to try to do the session.

He's done it before. Pike strained two ligaments in his ankle and did two weeks' worth of sessions with tape blocked around his foot before Akello finally let him sit out because it was so distressing to witness. Aziel's nose was shattered in a fight back in thirteens and it still doesn't sit right. I try to see Akello's indifference as a positive— I can heal fully if he's not pushing me to work through my pain. But I'm not so misguided to not see that his indifference is actually disdain. He's said it to my face: I'm not worth his energy.

At least my back's starting to feel better. I stretch my legs out in front of me, easing into my left hamstring to coax a gentle stretch through my low back. Next to me, Akello sips from his water bottle, scribbling out diagrams in between swigs. Cas parries cleanly, his form textbook even if he lacks some of the strength to block Aziel, who uses his momentum to drag the point of his blade along Cas' stomach in a clean swipe. Cas retreats, edging the boundary circle with either heel.

Aziel, like Martina, misses his opportunity to push Cas back entirely— to keep him on his heels and learn from Akello's guidance. Instead, Cas, given ample time to rebalance, strikes back. His sword swings and Aziel, his focus on blocking the initial strike, opens himself up for Cas to follow up with a sharp lunge at his torso.

Cas doesn't settle for one hit. He's drawn the blade back, elbow tucked close to his side. Aziel raises his weapon up to its base position, spearhead in front of his forehead to protect his eyes, in enough time to counter Cas' first drive. Cas lunges again. The tip drags against Aziel's chest. The next strike hits him hard in the stomach.

"Fucking challenge him, Audrem," Akello grumbles, just loud enough for Aziel to hear.

Aziel grimaces and swings high, where Cas is in place to block. He gets closer, taking two steps up and then making the same motion in a high arc against the angle of Cas' blade. When Cas blocks him, the weapon yields in his hands. Aziel's strength carries his spear against the side of Cas's temple.

Cas tries to regain control, but Aziel swings hard for his skull. It's faster than Akello can react to stop him— the drill's for finding openings in the upper body, not aiming for the head. It's cheap, but Aziel doesn't care. The spear doesn't have a sharp head but it doesn't need serration, just force, to bruise and bloody the side of Cas' forehead. Stunned from his first hit, Cas isn't quick enough to protect himself.

The weapon cracks into his skull. Cas lifts his weapon as if to attempt to block another hit, but instead he stumbles, knees giving way.

"Stop," Akello orders suddenly.

Aziel draws back, his training spear solid in his grip.

Akello's face reads inconvenience, not immediate worry, as he approaches the pair. "Go get water, Audrem."

Aziel lets his weapon fall, its head marred with just a hint of red, and as he comes over to grab his water bottle, a sneer surfaces on his lips. Behind him, Cas tries to push himself to his feet, fingers curling into fists. "Easy," Akello says. "Look at me, Lamot."

Something nasty stirs in my stomach, eating away at my immediate worry for Cas. Akello's tone is all different now, spelling concern and wariness. Where was that when I was hurt?

Akello's voice is muffled as he kneels next to Cas. Down the row of benches, Aziel gulps down water. He doesn't even turn to look at Cas.

Blood blooms on Cas' forehead. I see it from between Cas and Akello's heads, Cas leaning forward and bringing his fingers to his scalp. When Cas eventually struggles to his feet, Akello's grumbling about taking him to the medical bay.

"I can bring him," I say. My lips stretch, nearly splitting from dryness.

Akello eyes me, the first time he's at least looked me in the face today. After a moment, he nods, his face stoic. "Grab his stuff for him. We're almost done here." At least it's not an argument.

I stow my notebook away and retrieve Cas' pack and water from where they sit next to Khione's and Avari's gear. Cas is quiet, still holding a hand up to cover his head wound. I keep a hand ready to support him, but he's stable.

Our footsteps echo in the empty foyer, the clamor of the combat gym fading behind us, as I walk him towards the training room.

"How do you feel?" I ask, finally, not sure what else to say.

"Fine."

Aziel had turned away almost proudly. Cas may not have seen that, but I did. Akello did. But he won't punish that, no chance. Cas is just lucky Akello decided to care enough to send him out of the gym before he got seriously hurt.

Still, evidenced by the terseness of his answer, there's something more broiling under the surface. He stays quiet, though. I don't want to frustrate him by pushing him to say what he's feeling. Especially not when his head is bleeding.

I almost don't recognize the training room when we go in. Aside from the unfamiliar din that resonates out from its open doors, it's busier now than I've seen it and I find myself almost immediately conscious of my existence in the presence of the older cadets, the 17s and 18s who wrap heat packs around their shoulders or hold an ankle out for taping. But there are familiar, somewhat comforting faces, too.

"Back so soon?" Rhodes asks.

"And look, she brought a baby friend," says Cavara.

"He took a spear to the side of the head a couple of times." I point Cas towards one of the open benches as Aspra perks up from massaging a whitish gel into Cavara's thumb and wrist. Cavara looks on, mildly amused. "And we're not—"

"You boys better get to your session before your trainer comes in and puts my head on a pike," Aspra says to the group of boys pretending to be busy taping their fingers. "And stop wasting my tape. Rhodes, you mind finishing up the wrap here?"

"Not at all."

"Good. He needs the practice," Cavara says, as Aspra washes her hands and draws some gauze and antiseptic out of the drawers on her left side. "Keeps taping my fingers together like I'm gonna be able to club someone with my tape-ball hand or something."

"Seriously," Aspra says. "Out."

"Aww, we've still got seven minutes before we have to be in there," one of the boys says, wincing as he pulls tape back from around his knuckles.

"And you're in my way now. There's kids with real injuries in here." Aspra comes up between Cas and me and I back away. Cas winces as Aspra traces the broken skin on his temple with an alcohol-dipped pad. The cut isn't deep, but Aspra is more concerned with an internal injury. "Look at me," she says to Cas. "Watch my fingertip."

She traces her pointer finger in midair and Cas' gaze follows evenly.

"Name?"

"Casimir Lamot."

"What year are you?"

"Fourteens. Eighty-fifth class."

She frowns, watching his eyes even as her hand drops.

"Do you have a headache?" she asks. "Any confusion? Blurred vision?"

"No."

"Loss of memory?"

"Couldn't tell you."

Aspra gives him a hard stare.

"No," he corrects. "I remember getting hit and everything before and after."

Aspra wipes the rest of the blood from Cas' head and reaches past me for a bandage from the side drawer. "Right, Casimir. When is your group's slot done?" She checks the clock hanging above the exit door. "Six?"

"Six, yeah," he says, holding steady as Aspra presses an adhesive against his scalp.

"Then don't worry about going back to your session. I need you to stay here for a few minutes so that we can continue to monitor you in case of concussion, but so far, you seem fine. Sound alright?"

It's not really a question, but Aspra invites him to agree, anyways. "Yeah. That's fine."

Aspra drops the bandage wrappings in the waste bin, the paper pieces fluttering in midair like loose name slips. "As for you, miss Scout, let's get your ice going."

There's an open table next to Cas' and, stepping around legs and arms of the older cadets finishing rolling out their hamstrings with hard foam cylinders or stretching with elastic bands, I push myself up onto it, rolling onto my stomach, and kick my shoes off. I push a pillow under my chin as Aspra brings a cold pack over and props it onto my back. The initial touch of ice against my spine is shocking, but within a few moments I relax as cold seeps into my back.

On my right side, Cas leans against the wall, looking murderous.

"What's up?" I ask, over the loud chattering of the other trainees.

"Akello goaded him," he says.

"Aziel?"

"Yeah. He's been making comments all day. That last one just cinched it."

I push up onto my elbows; the stretch isn't as harsh as it was last Friday, when I first injured myself. "Aziel shouldn't have aimed for your head."

"Akello shouldn't have pushed him."

It's a lost cause. When Cas is caught in his frustration, there's no dragging him out from it. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

"No need to be sorry," he sighs. "Wish I'd blocked him better, regardless."

"It's all still new," I say. Most of our weapons training the last few years has been focused on same-weapon offense and defense— easier to teach, and easier to police. In the last several weeks, though, as we near 15s, Akello's approach has included finally combining our weapon work so that instead of pairing swords with swords, knives with knives, our hand-to-hand work has become less predictable. Or, in other words, more chaotic, as we try to counter weapons we're not used to with weapons we're still only moderately proficient with.

"Yeah. Sure."

One of the girls bumps against my legs, poking just off the table, as she leaves. The group of guys are still here, too, avoiding training and relying on Aspra's attention to fixing Cavara's wrist tape to help them remain unnoticed. I'm mostly here after sessions, when the room's already cleared out and gone cold in their absence. The room may be cramped and busy now, but there's energy, too. There's warmth.

At least, until Valerius appears.

I've never spoken to Valerius. Even so, tension ripples through my body.

The training room goes quiet, too. Valerius remains in the doorway, eyes narrowed, voice eerily low. His gaze settles on the remaining older boys, the ones Aspra told to leave. "In the gym," he says coolly. "Now."

They quickly follow him out. He lets them go ahead so he can turn back and frown at Aspra. "I should not be missing half of my boys at the beginning of a session when we're a week out from selections, Aspra."

"Take it up with them," she says. "I told them to leave multiple times."

"I don't like that they spend half the afternoon in here, regardless. I've told you not to coddle them, it's not going to help—"

"I'm not coddling," she maintains, fire in her tone. "I am keeping them together as best I can in the midst of their training. There's a difference between coddling and picking up the pieces that you're leaving them in."

Valerius freezes, caught off-guard by her audacity. "Pardon?"

"They're in here because they need care." Aspra closes, wrapping the last bit of tape around the bottom of Cavara's wrist. "Cavara, you need to leave like yesterday. Go to training."

"Yes, ma'am," Cavara says, sliding off the table and stepping quickly around Valerius.

"There is no care in that arena," Valerius says, stepping forward. "You are doing them a disservice—"

"I am not doing anyone a disservice by making sure they're healthy enough to keep going through the brutal regimen you put them through. We've got kids with overuse, severe muscle strains, broken ribs. If those aren't fixed now, then you don't have anyone to send to the games, Valerius."

There's yelling in the hallway. It's not uncommon with the ferocity that goes on in the main gym not too far from the training room, but the desperation and panic are unmistakeable and it even gives Valerius pause as he opens his mouth to reply.

"I'll kick them out of here earlier," Aspra levels, just as Easton appears behind Valerius, "but I'm not letting them stay hurt."

Easton flanks a pale fifteens boy with a towel wrapped around his hand. Domitius. I've seen him in the gym some days—of course, the fifteens and sixteens share our time slot, and there's only about sixty to eighty people per class. But I've always seen him looking savage, not so weakened. Even Valerius steps aside, noticing the seriousness in their features. "Aspra—" Easton starts.

"Just get him in here," Aspra says. They push inside, Dom stumbling, Easton barely keeping him upright. Aspra and Easton lean him up on one of the tables. "Valerius, we can talk about this later. But now's a bad time."

"He took a blade to the forearm," Easton explains to Aspra. "Just dicking around with the real weapons. We've got his hand in the towel but it's bleeding like a bitch."

Aspra steps back to grab for supplies, ignoring Valerius who, to his credit, hasn't immediately fled at the sight of blood. I see his brow pinch in— is that concern?— before he vanishes, off to start his own sessions. Rhodes grabs onto Dom to steady him, keep him from slumping over. Instead, the boy gags over the side of the table. "How bad are we talking?"

Easton peels the wrap back just long enough to reveal the dangling fingers amidst a gaping gash along his lower arm. But the sheer amount of spilling blood doesn't hide the angle at which his hand hangs, all but entirely detached from his arm. "Pretty bad."

Dom wavers, faint with shock.

"Stay with me. You're alright," Aspra insists. I'm morbidly intrigued, eager to watch, but her eyes flicker to Cas and me. "You two, I need you out of here now. Casimir, if you start to feel worse, go see a medic tonight if you've got one nearby. We can check in tomorrow, but—"

It's clear where her priorities are. She gets to work, Rhodes and Easton shielding Dom from our view. I slide the ice off my back and then stand still, unsure where to place the half-melted pack.

"Here," Rhodes says, stepping away to take the cold pack off my hands.

"Thanks."

I slide my sneakers back onto my feet and we leave quickly, me resisting the urge to check back over my shoulder for another glimpse. I've seen what there is to see: a brutal injury that by all means should be sickening, but it's oddly intriguing, mostly because it's the sort of injury they'd normally shield us from, even as the rumors persist. Word gets out and the best Nell will probably ever say is it's not so bad, just he decided he wasn't cut out for this. But I'm not entirely sure that's his choice.

What happens to Dom now? He's only in Fifteens— he's got a few years left even if recovery takes months. But that's if his hand is salvageable. And even then, if he heals back to full strength, is it too late? Will he have been left too far behind by a training schedule that doesn't stop for any of its trainees?

I wonder how long it would take for that to happen to me. Even if I were comfortable asking him for help, Akello wouldn't help me individually when he sees my injury as an inconvenience for him. It's on me to stay caught up with my fitness and skills as much as I can.

And that's why resisting going back to training is so hard. Because the longer I miss, the further behind I fall. But if I start too soon, I don't know how long it would take to recover again.

I wonder if Cas already feels the same.

"How's your head?" I say, as we come out into the foyer, the glimmer of sundown playing on the floors of the entry hall, deceptively auspicious.

"Better than what we just saw."

At least, he's thinking about it, too. I just don't know to ask him what I want to ask. That is, if we're replaceable. If one injury is enough to set us back enough where what's left of Akello's responsibility over us would vanish into unworthiness. Maybe not for Cas— he was top ten last week. But whether it's legitimate or not, I certainly feel unimportant.

I take a breath just as a melody of rhythmic motion and sharp orders swells from the open doors of the main gym. I pause in the center of the foyer, watching through the doorway as the seventeens and eighteens run their warmup routines, their bodies so powerful and controlled, motions clean, weapon work seemingly flawless. Strong. Unbreakable.

"Scout."

"Sorry." I tug myself away.

The evening outside is warm and golden-hued, the sun falling as dusk approaches. Avari's standing with a few of our fellow fourteens, jerking to attention when she sees Cas coming. "Hey," she says. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," he says, then continues, "but there was this one guy who came in—"

"Don't," I say quietly.

Cas pauses. "What?"

"Just— don't talk about it." If it were me, I wouldn't want people finding out I got hurt through gossip. Never mind if it will probably all be out by tomorrow. I don't want to be responsible.

Avari frowns, her brow furrowing. "What?"

Great. Avari's not the only one looking at me, but I sense a question in her expression: what are Cas and I keeping from her? "Someone just got hurt. It should be private."

Silence stretches. Avari watches me carefully. I can't tell if it's fear that we're leaving her out of something, or simple curiosity; she's gotten harder to read lately. "Sorry," Cas says, and the tension relents. "I'm alright."

"I've got to catch the train," I say, before Avari can speak. For some reason, I don't want her questioning me or intruding on what Cas and I saw. For better or worse, that's something only the two of us, not any of our other friends, experienced. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

I start down the driveway, painfully aware of the tension I'm leaving in my wake. That wasn't my intention, I have to remind myself. If I were Dom, I wouldn't want anyone talking about my injury before I'd even had the chance to announce it myself, especially something that severe. Personally, I wouldn't want anyone talking about my injury, period. But Akello does it anyway, just for a moment when he decides to start caring about it, just to belittle me. To remind me I'm somehow lesser because my body couldn't manage a broken testing system.

I roll my shoulders back, the stretch carrying down my low back. It's still stiff, but not sharp. That's improvement. I'll take it.

The station isn't far from the Atheneum, just a few minutes' walk down a set of stone stairs that have been here at least since before the Atheneum was built and probably since before the District even existed. They're worn but still sturdy. They have to be. The station, on the other hand, is more of a metallic roof and a single back wall than any true construct, but as it's mainly used for getting to and from the Atheneum, its structure doesn't matter much, especially to the majority of cadets who live nearby. For kids from Castra Batava or Orraon, or Naissus like Cas, home is just a mile or two back through the trees.

I lean against the side railing, my arms crossed against my chest, as I wait. There's about a dozen of us here— the rest either live nearby or are staying for extra training. But even if I know their names, I don't know them. And so when the train arrives with a sharp screech, I board and take a seat in the middle, knowing I'll have the row to myself.

I set my bag on the seat next to me, keenly aware of my muscles tensing, my cheeks flushing.

It happens every time. As hard as training is, as cruel as Akello may be, that much is confined to the stone walls of the Atheneum. The train picks up again and creeps away from the steps up to the Atheneum and within minutes open district spreads beside us, yellow fields of grass, pointed crags and rocky landscape keeping the forest from spreading uncontained. I'm the one inside the glass and yet, it seems like the landscape is what's confined, unreachable.

It's the same scene I see on my way up after classes, only in reverse. Instead of giving solace, the fading crags make me fearful. Training is cruel, but it's still an escape from reality. In the in-betweens, I don't always know what I dread more.

I take a breath and stretch my legs in the space in front of me, testing how far I can tug my calves and hamstrings before my back starts to ache. I just keep seeing Dom's nearly-severed hand, the thick red stain in the towel, his grey, slick skin contorted in a grimace that revealed as much pain as it did fear…

I jerk my legs back as a sharp pain stabs into my back. Idiot. And now my neck is flushed, too, at the few cadets who have looked over, mildly inconvenienced, at the smack of my shoes against the train floor. Okay. No more of that.

It doesn't matter how long this takes. I'm not letting one injury deter me. Not one like this, where I can control, to some extent, how long it plagues me. I'm lucky that that's all that happened. As comfortable as the training room is becoming, I don't want to end up like Cavara, stuck there every day because of a mistake she made however many months ago.

It's like I'm staring my fate in the face. Fail, or fly?

I can feel my chest constricting even as I force myself to grit my teeth and breathe. Fly. Because who am I if I don't?

agreatleap. weebly .com

Happy Saturday! Me again, dropping a second chapter still somewhat later than intended, but two weeks between I and II is far better than the two months between the first two chapters of TMDHTM. Improvement!

Not a ton to say here, besides that I hope you enjoyed this second sort of introduction to the story. I'm very much eager to get into the bulk of this story— I am quite proud to say I have the full thing planned in a fifty-page outline and I am positively chomping at the bit to get into the juicy stuff.

I'm just about done with my second week of classes. Being on the quarter system means I already have midterms next week, which is a damn shame because I don't know a single thing about neuro yet. I started coaching this week as well— fourteens, ironically enough, and I love them but they are definitely babies. Cavara made some points. Otherwise, just trying to vibe while my country slowly melts down around me. Panem no longer looks that bad honestly.

Let me know your thoughts if you're so inclined, and I'll see you in a bit with the next chapter!