.

—-—-—

youth

—-—-—

"You're real eager, aren't you?"

I let my feet drop, exhaling against the fatigue in my back. The exercises are painless, just tedious and tiring. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're so quick to— to listen, I guess. To follow instructions." Rhodes lets his legs dangle over the side of the bench, relaxed in the relative silence of the empty training room. It's just the three of us today, Aspra, Rhodes, and me. Most of the others have gone home. The eighteens, of course, are done. The seventeens are occupied, taking part in some sort of Capitol boot camp, according to Rhodes: practicing interview directions, running mock private sessions, and otherwise staying out of trouble. "Except for Cavara," he'd said. "She's probably getting into more trouble than she ever could in the combat gym."

"What's the worst she can do?" I'd said back, partly kidding, partly morbidly curious.

"With a pair of heels?" He'd grimaced. "Don't test her."

It's not lonely in here, though. Aspra doesn't say much, typically buried in whatever administrative work she's got in between patching up severed hands and possible concussions, but her presence is comforting. And Rhodes isn't bad company, either. As far as trainers around here go, he's about the only one who's ever given me the time of day.

You're so quick to— to listen, I guess. To follow instructions. "Isn't that normal, though?" I ask.

"You'd be surprised," he says. "Especially when it comes to getting injured. There are a damn lot of kids who think they know better about what they can and can't manage. Sometimes they get away with it. But sometimes they don't."

"I'd just rather not take my chances," I say, lifting my legs again for the next set of exercises. "Even if I feel dumb doing this."

Rhodes doesn't even pretend to reassure me. "Yeah. It looks dumb as hell."

"Rhodes."

"Aspra," he says, matching her tone. "She's still going to do them."

I am. I'm not letting this happen again, either, which is just as powerful in making sure I do my stupid exercises as my fear of letting either of them down by not following their advice. I sit up, finally finished. "See?" I say. "I just crushed those."

"Well, I'm inspired," says Rhodes. "Aspra? Thoughts?"

She turns from her desk. There's a small screen behind her, showing faces and listing odds of all the tributes in the Capitol, but she seems disinterested. "How'd that feel, Scout?"

"Really good. No pain at all."

"Then I say let's add in some running. You've had no pain with walking or with the exercises, so I'm comfortable letting you go run."

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. "Right now?"

Aspra half-smirks. "Maybe tomorrow. You're going to be more tired now after those exercises. Let's just have you stretch out, and then you'll be good to go."

"And you had a session earlier," Rhodes points out.

It wasn't so bad, either. Since the Reaping, we've had to shuffle trainers around to fill the spaces left by those who travelled to the Capitol with Jasira and Cyrus, meaning Akello's moved to jointly coach the fifteens and sixteens and Nell has taken over for full command of the thirteens and fourteens. I prefer her passive-aggression and displeasure for all of us much more than Akello's open, pointed disdain any day. I've gotten back into some basic weapons work— no one-on-one combat, but technical work is fair game. As it's the last week or so of the year, most of it really is just review, anyways.

"I know," I say, swinging my legs in front of me and easing into my right hamstring. "I've just missed running." My eyes go up though, not past my right toes but towards the screen next to Aspra. I scoot closer to watch the odds rise and fall on-screen; it's muted, but it's clear there's some discussion by the announcers as to who to watch, who might be our top contenders this year. Yes, there's Jasira, who garnered a solid nine in her private session yesterday. But both One kids got nines as well. There they are now, with odds higher than Jasira's. How?

"Hard to believe it all starts tomorrow," Rhodes mumbles. "Seems like we've been preparing for only a few months."

I nod, but I'm still distracted. Odds aren't everything, but something about seeing One above us rubs me the wrong way. Even Cyrus, who flashes on-screen now as the announcers discuss him, earned a ten. He has the same odds as the One kids.

There's no way what they're teaching them over there is anywhere near as brutal as what we're doing. No chance. So what's with the numbers?

"How is One higher than us?" I ask. I turn to Rhodes. "I mean, you know Jasira and Cyrus. How is anyone above them?"

He just shrugs. "Any number of factors. Chariot appearances, Reaping impressions, training scores. You have to remember… the Capitol loves its pretty people. One never disappoints."

"But that doesn't mean they can survive."

"It means they get money, though," he points out. "And mid-Games, when you're getting tired, when you're running low on food, when the stress is weighing on you… sponsor gifts can make all the difference."

"More than skill?"

"Maybe," he says. "There's a reason they're all about the odds being in your favor. All we can do is try to stack them on you guys as much as we can."

The Five kids appear now, their portraits evidencing hardship, strife. I frown, considering his words. "You sound like you know all that firsthand."

"You learn over the years."

I look at him. "Mentor?"

"Can't mentor if you never volunteered," he says with a smile. "But you watch enough Games, spend enough years around here, you start to see the patterns."

I'm curious now, even if it might be too forthright to ask. The Atheneum is frequented by former Victors but very few who never made it. Can't blame them; there's no real welcome for second place and if there's a hierarchy among victors, at least they're above those who never entered. I ask anyway, making it less blunt by leading with a question I already know the answer to. "So you're not a victor?"

"Neither of us is," he says proudly. "Only don't tell Valerius, we've been posing here for years by telling him we won the 65th and a half Games and as soon as someone teaches him how to count, he's not going to be happy with us."

"Your secret's safe with me," I vow.

"But yeah. I work with the Twelves now. Spent a year doing Seventeens with Easton and it's a lot more relaxed with the younger kids. Less pressure, you know."

Oh, do I. "Got it."

"I've only done it the last two years, though. Must have just missed your class. Fourteens?" I nod. "Yeah. The Twelves aren't nearly so busy so I'm in here now to help out miss Aspra. Although, between you and me?" He raises his eyebrows. "I think I make it worse."

"Rhodes," Aspra chides. "You're fine."

"Yeah, yeah, you appreciate the help, whatever. Don't really need it, if you ask me."

"Then you're blind," she says. And I'd have to agree. Every other day, at least on normal training days, there are at least a handful of us with injuries we're either working to overcome or that have just occurred. Aspra can't help everyone at once, much less when something really serious happens.

Speaking of…

"Sorry if this is… not my business," I venture. "But I was in here a few weeks ago right when Domitius got hurt. Can I ask what happened to…" I trail off.

"It probably isn't anyone's business," Aspra says. "But his whole class knows and truthfully I expected it to be common knowledge by now. Lost his hand. Out of the program." I wince. "All we could do was make sure he didn't bleed out. Because I'm not equipped for an emergency like that. I can't make miracles happen."

Neither Rhodes nor I know what to say for a few moments. I try to ease the tension. "I mean, I think my back is doing pretty well for that not to have been a miracle."

Unfortunately, she isn't in the mood. "It just amazes me," she says, "that they're able to treat all of you the way they do. No care for your physical health. No care for what's safe."

I don't dare voice the thought, but it comes to me regardless: the Games aren't safe. Of course they aren't. So how can training be, if training's what's meant to prepare us? How can we evade death if we haven't already learned how?

District 12, the screen now reads. Their odds, predictably, are the lowest of the bunch. Those numbers, at least, can be trusted. Twelve has nearly nothing to their name, year in and year out. I watch the soundless announcers, but I'm not reading their lips, simply avoiding responding to Aspra because what do I even say to that?

I don't say anything. I just curl back onto my back, pulling my knee towards my chest, and let that stretch pull on my back. Not too hard. Just to ease some of my own tension.

I can feel her watching me, though. "Sorry," I say habitually.

"No need to apologize," she mumbles. "I'm just glad you're seeing improvement."

"Me, too." But of course, that's not what she means. She wants me to bite, perhaps, but how can I turn on my trainers? I've been hurt, yes, but that was based on my own mistakes. I do believe there's care for us, too. Just some of the trainers make it less obvious, maintain their intensity, which isn't in itself a bad thing. How else are we going to learn discipline and respect?

Victors are made under pressure. Durability is paramount, and the trainers do us no favors by coddling us. Even Akello has reasoning behind his methods. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

There's an announcement on-screen advertising the interviews tonight, just over an hour from now. "I think I'm done," I say, getting to my feet easily. "I need to get home in time for the interviews, anyway."

"You're alright to go," Aspra nods. "Make sure you stretch tonight and tomorrow if you're going to run, though. I don't want you back here all tight again."

"Yes, ma'am."

Rhodes gives a small wave. "Enjoy the interviews. You watching with your family?"

I nod— it's far easier than explaining that I'm likely not. "Of course."

"Well, enjoy," he says.

"Thanks."

There are screens in the foyer, too, just outside of the gym. They're all over the center, really, as long as they won't get in the way of any flying weapons. Some of the sixteens cluster around one, watching attentively as their packs hang slack on their backs.

I could stay here and watch, technically. Or I could if my parents wouldn't chide me for being late as though it makes any difference to them. But I'm not in the mood to fight them. I never am. Too much misguided energy I could put towards something useful, like training.

I step away and leave the Atheneum, letting the doors clatter shut behind me.

The living room is unsurprisingly empty—lights off, chairs cold.

There's dinner in the kitchen, kept lukewarm under foil, but I know Mom's in there and it's easier to simply avoid her. The TV, of course, is already on; required viewing mandates a specific schedule where the screen simply plays. As far as Two families seem to go, mine is fairly disinterested. Of course, we watch because we must. But I'm the only one with any passion for it.

I am hungry, though. It's far too early to go to bed without eating and regardless, I need to be eating more. I brace myself at the doorway, listening for any quiet conversation, but it's just her reading at the table. Dad and Aris are nowhere to be seen.

My shoulders relax, even if just slightly. "Hi, Mom."

"How was training?" Her eyes track me as I approach the one remaining plate on the stove, leaving the counter to buffer the space between us. Like we need it. Like I could confide in her when training is anything besides my usual answer.

"Good," I say simply. "Aspra says I can get back into running tomorrow."

"That's good," she says, almost exuberantly, and I believe she means it.

"Yeah. Got to do some weapon work today again, too, and I'm not too far behind." Of where I used to be. Of course, I'm still out of the reach of people like Avari, like Aziel, who still feel weeks and weeks ahead of where I am.

"I'm sure that feels good."

Like she knows. "Yeah. It's good."

She nods, but there's not much more to say. Eager to escape before things get really awkward, I scoop up my plate and a fork and retreat back to the living room, where the interviews are minutes away from starting. I tap a button on the side of the screen and the television unmutes.

"—and of course, our Gamemakers have any number of surprises in store this year that even I don't know a thing about!" There's laughter from the audience as Casitella Vaden, Mistress of Ceremonies, continues her introductory monologue. "Of course, most of the drama will, in fact, be coming from our ever-magnificent cast of characters. Twenty-four tributes from each of our twelve districts will be competing for the ultimate prize— and I'm sure you're quite eager to meet them!"

There's an uproar from the crowd. The cameras zoom to their hysterical features, hair colored pink or green or purple and pressed tight to their scalp or spiked or curled in artificial ringlets, piercings and tattoos coloring their necks and arms where they aren't covered by clothing as bright and spectacular as the Capitol can create. If our Reaping revealed us to be fervent and hungry, this is beyond that; this is savage fanaticism. It sends chills along my arms. That sort of admiration is something I can only dream of.

Casitella grins, blood-red lips drawing to either side to make way for blinding white teeth, bared in a smile that's proud to an extreme. "Of course you are. Well, I won't keep you waiting any longer. Ladies and Gentlemen of Panem, may I introduce to you: the talented, the marvelous, Evianna Laurier, from District One!"

Evianna appears to uproarious whistling and cheers. Her dress is dark and long, the sleeves short enough to exhibit tanned, toned biceps, arms somehow both strong enough to manage a weapon while thin enough to be conventionally attractive. Sure, strength is my priority, but it's enough for envy to swell in my chest. She's One, I remind myself. She can't hold a candle to us.

"Evianna, darling, it's wonderful to have you here," Casitella coos as Evianna takes a controlled seat next to her. "I've seen so much of you onscreen that seeing you here, before me— well, I'm starstruck!"

"I appreciate it, Casitella," Evianna smiles. "But don't get too anxious. This won't be the last time I'm here."

"Of course!" The crowd howls in admiration. "If your score is any indication, you stand quite a significant chance. I'd be surprised if I weren't seeing you again in a few weeks with that nine. Second-highest of the bunch… care to elaborate?"

"I suppose it's a solid score. I think there's room for improvement, though." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes quite like her first did. "I think there's more for me to prove, Casitella. And I'm more than ready to show it."

More cheers. "As are we to see what you're capable of. Now, as much as we've loved seeing you here at our opening ceremonies and through your work in the Capitol so far, I don't know a thing about you otherwise! Who is Evianna? What is life like back home?"

This much is always predictable. I half-listen while I peel back the foil on my plate. Chicken and rice. It's bland, but it's fuel. I take small nibbles of the meat while Evianna describes her family, how her drive to win comes from wanting to help her impoverished single mother, how she volunteered as much to make her proud as much as to ideally help provide for her. It's enough to make the crowd fall in love, as if they needed a reason beyond her appearance. Rhodes was right: the Capitol loves its pretty people.

There's a crackling of floorboard behind me and I jump, but it's Mom again, coming out to watch. I keep my eyes on the screen but observe her out of my periphery as she comes around my right side and crosses in front of me to the far armchair. She keeps the newspaper pinched between her narrow fingers, but she's intrigued by the interviews, more than I thought she'd be.

"One?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"District One?"

"Yeah. They just started."

She nods and curls her legs up under her, leaning forward as Evianna waves to the crowd and leaves them applauding behind her. Her district partner takes the stage next, carried by broad, muscular legs and sporting a posture that's firm and unshakeable.

"Alasdair Mireille, in the very flesh." Casitella is just as stricken by him as she was his partner. "How are you feeling, on our last evening before these games get going?"

"I can't lie, Casitella. I'm ready. I'm fully prepared to do what I need to do to win. And I'm not afraid of a little danger here and there, either. This year?" He smirks. "It's mine. These games are mine to win."

"The confidence," Casitella gushes. "I love to hear it. Of course, how could you not be confident? You've the best odds of winning so far, one of the best scores."

"Oh, Casi," he says, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Those numbers are good, but they're just that— numbers. I'd rather let my actions do the talking."

"You sound almost eager."

"Well, of course, I am. I volunteered for this."

"Now, let's actually get into that. I always just find it fascinating and— truthfully— inspiring to see young people volunteering. So, what's your story, Alasdair?"

My mother folds down the first few pages of her paper, flicking for something in the later pages. The rattling tugs me away from the screen. "Just the latest from the Capitol," she says. "Doesn't have all the updates from this afternoon, of course, but takes the scores into account. He's—" She checks the page again. "Yes. He's the predicted winner."

"But how accurate is that?" I ask. "It's just a Capitol report."

She frowns. "It's from the very source."

"Right, but it's going to be biased. It doesn't mean anything."

"I wouldn't say that." She watches me carefully as I stir the rice around on my plate, letting it get colder. "They're getting information from Gamemakers, former victors, all sorts of analysts watching the sponsorships. And look at last year, even. Same source, got the entire top six correct. Victor was off by a few placements, but this information is important."

I press my fork into the rice grains, crushing them against their platter. "Still biased."

"How so?"

I nod towards the screen. "Both those One kids are supposed to beat ours. Seven has a kid who's predicted to even kill one of them. How does that make any sense?"

"Because they're strong, too. Two isn't indestructible. Eat your food."

"There's no chance Jasira gets beat by Alasdair. None."

"Based on what?"

"Based on training. Based on what I've seen from her. She doesn't lose."

"What about Cyrus?"

I consider, gnawing at my lip. "He's good, too. Of course he is. But I don't know how he scored higher than her. She can't— there's no chance they beat her swordwork. No one's better than her in the whole district. Except the victors, maybe, but even then, she's basically at that level. I just— I don't see how she gets beat."

And there she is, tall and proud and deadly in front of Casitella, who beckons for her to sit. "So, Jasira—"

"I go by Jas, typically."

"Jas, then. Everything we've seen from you, from your spectacular arrival to your chariot introduction to your training score— it really makes you out to be quite the contender. How are you feeling about your chances?"

"I'll just say this, Casitella." She lifts her eyebrows for only a second, her lips curling into a playful smirk. "I'm all for supporting my allies from One, but their confidence is misplaced. Oh, of course I believe they'll go far with me. But as for who's winning?" She cocks her head. "It's always been me."

The audience absolutely feasts on her words. Confidence, competence, and charisma, with just a spice of friendly— or not— competition. Jasira knows how to get their attention. "There's no doubt in your mind, then."

"None at all." And while I know that the tributes have their angles, their stage personas, Jasira is entirely serious. She doesn't doubt her abilities one bit.

As well she shouldn't. We've given her the best training the districts can afford.

"She's not supposed to win," is all my mother says. "Now, eat."

"You don't trust Two?"

She seems taken aback. "Is that why you're worried about bias? Because it doesn't favor Two?"

"One isn't better than us." I skewer a bite of chicken onto my fork before she can chide me again. It's going to be dry, though. It always is. "Anyone who says otherwise is just openly lying."

"Do you think I'm lying to you?"

I've raised the meat past my lips but it's not that flavor that leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth. There's a shifting in my abdomen, nerves or dread or anxiety, maybe, that hums nervously in the pit of my stomach. Too far. "No." She waits for me to elaborate. "I just… I just think Two should be winning this. That's all it is."

"Is it?"

"Yes," I say. Let it go, I plead internally. Don't make this worse than it needs to be.

She folds the pages back over as Jasira takes her leave to more uproarious applause. Cyrus replaces her, his gait stiff even if his expression reads absolute arrogance— not everyone's built for crowds. My fork scrapes against my plate but I'm really not hungry for this anymore, not when Jasira and Cyrus and Alasair and Evianna and all the others have been feasting in the Capitol for a week and by comparison, the entirety of this setting feels inferior: lackluster at best, bleak at worst.

I don't want to be bitter. Actually, I hate it. But it's times like this that I remember why the quiet is far preferable to being in the presence of someone who makes me feel, somehow, so alone.

"I expect a bit more respect from you. Not just towards me, but towards the opinions of the Capitol."

My stomach drops further. I'm used to disappointing her. But I've always respected the Capitol, or I thought I have. "I'm sorry," I get out.

I'm not listening to Cyrus anymore. I should be. But guilt drowns out every response he offers Casitella.

"I know." My mother smiles faintly. She doesn't mean harm, even if sometimes I take it from her. "I'm glad you're confident in your training. It means it's worth pursuing."

But even if she's somewhat placated, I know that's not the full reason. I'm afraid, for once, that my ties to Two interfere with my ties to the Capitol. I'm from here, of course, but the Capitol is ours to serve with our duty to the Games and our military might. I'm not quite sure where that divide began. I'm not sure how to abate it, either.

"Just remember," she says, her fingertip tracing the edges of the pages— delicate, like Akello handles a knife blade— "The only power we can trust comes from the Capitol. Everything else is rooted in chance."

I nod. She gets to her feet as the District Three girl now, unremarkably, replaces Cyrus onstage.

"I'll let you enjoy the rest," my mother says, and retreats back down the hall to her room.

I keep my gaze focused on Casitella and her newest interviewee, but I can't quite shake that discomfort from my mother's words. Everything else is rooted in chance.

To an extent, she's right, of course. We don't win every year. Sometimes an outlier comes around and shakes up the betting, raises unprecedented hell in the arena by displaying an uncanny knack for survival.

But it's evident there's much more to it. All we've seen of these twenty-four, from Reaping recaps to tonight, reveals a stark disparity between the trained and the terrified. Makeup and gorgeous clothing can't mask the fact that most of these kids will be lucky to survive their first ten minutes in the arena. Not when there are experienced fighters, those of us from Two and One and Four who don't need powder and war paint to ultimately look deadly.

On one hand, yes, it's odds. That's the mantra repeated by the Capitol every year: may the odds be ever in your favor. But if you stack them towards yourself, you don't need favor. Just opportunity.

Whether the world believes it or not, Jasira will get hers. Cyrus will get his. And some way, somehow, I'm going to get mine.

agreatleap. weebly .com

Hey hi hello howdy again!

Nothing really groundbreaking or earth-shattering to say here. Four chapters in and I'm already out of fresh bullshit to spew at the end of chapters. Who have I become?

Thanks to everyone who has read and discussed AGL with me so far! I very very much appreciate it. Thanks as well for the birthday wishes— I really couldn't resist a birthday update. In the words of the great Anne-Marie in the aptly-titled "Birthday": goddamn it's my birthday, and I'ma do what I like. Which apparently is just fishing for validation. No shame.

See you soon for the last chapter of Part I!