Mild TW for mentions of disordered eating throughout the "one month" section of this chapter.
A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.
—From Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn
—-—-—
a great leap in the dark
part ii: fifteen
—-—-—
glass
—-—-—
eleven months before selections.
"Caverley."
I step forward. Kova is half-distracted jotting down numbers on his board, the weight of the girl before me— Calvaire, I believe, one of the contingent who've joined in the last two days. I don't wait for him to nod at me, just take my place on the scale.
There's a pause, a beat where I can feel my heart rattling against my ribcage for just a second. Boney. Too boney. Are those my words, or Akello's? Regardless, they're the truth. "123.6," Kova reads. His voice deviates from its normal medium tone and it's subtle, but I know where to find it: a near-invisible undertone of disappointment, of disapproval. "Dabral."
I step away, back down towards the mass of cadets. I'm not sure when I started shivering but my skin is icy now; I want to bury myself in the crowd, surround myself in the warmth and obscurity of fifty-odd people while they watch everyone but me.
Avari shifts on the scale, only the slightest waver between her feet betraying her nervousness.
Kova's voice is even again. "161.2."
"Kind of dehumanizing, isn't it?" Her voice is low, but the new girl, Calvaire, meets my eyes from beside me. "Like we're livestock or something."
It rubs me the wrong way. She hasn't even made it into the gym yet and she's eager to criticize everything. "It's good to know where we're at, how we stack up," I say.
"Oh, I know," she says, confidently nonchalant. "Just, maybe it doesn't have to be in front of everyone. Just my thought."
There are too many people here, not to mention Kova. Not worth getting caught talking on day one, not when I need a good first impression. I've seen what happens for the last two years when you don't have one. Regardless, I resent her attitude. Kova knows what he's doing; it's practices like this that are the reason we get stragglers, kids from other academies who transfer over a few years in because they know it's the Atheneum that offers the best training in the district, not whatever local warehouse she was training in before.
I only shrug. It's not an argument worth getting into, anyways. Especially not when my entire place here is so precarious already, so fragile, like glass.
Elior. Ferric. Frey. Each name leaves paired with a number higher than mine, even a handful of the smaller girls standing five or six inches shorter than me. A few of the boys have over eighty pounds on me, and with every new body, I feel like I shrink. Not enough. You don't weigh enough, you aren't good enough, you can't possibly do enough to save yourself— you know it's out of your control, you weren't even worth being given the power to look after yourself. Why are you here? What does it matter?
Such has been the continuous dialogue since Akello's ultimatum, not that Cas or Avari or anyone knows a damn word Akello said to me. As painful as it was, I'm grateful that nobody questioned it when I told them instead that Akello simply told me I was fucking worthless, disrespectful, a waste of my time.
Maybe it's too familiar by now. Or maybe they agree.
"Isunza," Kova says next. Khione's the only one who could crack a smile right now, marching up to the scale like he couldn't possibly care about the number. He looks like he's doing all he can not to rock back and forth, holding his arms at his sides, as Kova reads his weight out. Then he's off the scale and back in the crowd. It's that easy.
He has it so easy.
"Tell me it's not animalistic," Calvaire is saying again. "Line 'em up, weigh 'em, and maybe, if they're lucky, they get shipped off to slaughter."
"What?"
"Exactly. Remind me what district we are? Because this feels a little Ten to me."
I shake my head. "You're overthinking this."
"I just don't like it," she says. "But, hey. If you don't have a problem with it, all the more power to you."
The issue is… I do. But that's rooted, more than anything, in my own shortcomings. I'd have nothing to worry about were I not skinnier, stringier than the others. The scale's just a tool to operationalize how far behind I am. In itself, it's not so evil. Just honest. Painfully so.
Cas stands at the front now, so much more sure than he was the day he was Reaped. This time, he knows there's nothing to worry about.
"167.8," Kova reads.
Cas doesn't visibly react. What's there to react to? He's strong enough, secure in his abilities. He takes his place next to Khione and for just an instant, my chest flares with envy.
"Moreau."
Another unfamiliar name, but the face is recognizable— that's the massive kid now, pulling out of the left side of the group. Dark hair, dark eyes, with enough muscle and height to pose an immediate threat; and yes, there are mumbles now, undoubtedly from kids like Pike and Az who are threatened by the very concept of anyone being better than them, physically or otherwise. But they go quiet when he steps onto the scale, the whole room seemingly holding its breath, waiting for his result.
Kova allows a flicker of disbelief to filter into his brow. "224.8."
Cas double-takes. Somewhere on the right side there's a tittering of nervous giggles, more muttered side comments, although at this point, Pike looks more impressed than put-off.
Calvaire just laughs.
Moreau steps away and down towards her as Kova calls another name, but the attention remains on him, whether curious or jealous or, in Az's case, disdainful. It's not hard to guess why; if I were competing with someone new like him, already a proven threat based on looks alone, I'd feel gutted knowing they came from somewhere else, marched right in and took my place here.
I can't tell yet if any of the new girls are any good, but how much does it matter? They're not relying on anyone else to get past fifteens. Only themselves.
"So much for a quiet first impression," Calvaire mumbles, a smirk playing across her lips.
He shrugs. "I've got nothing to hide."
"Navarro," Kova calls across the group. He looks up long enough for his gaze to settle on Moreau. Curious? Intrigued? Regardless, Moreau has piqued everyone's interest, for better or for worse. Kova reads out Torin's number, but it doesn't seem to matter much anymore. Only Moreau's weight will be significant.
Maybe that means nobody will remember mine.
"Hey."
Calvaire's staring at me.
"What?"
"How tall are you, anyway?"
So it's not about my weight. "Five-eleven."
"Sheesh." She nods at Moreau. "Need to get some meat on those bones. Tarq's got over a hundred pounds on you."
My lip curls. "'Meat on those bones?' Now who's being District Ten?"
Her eyes glint in amusement. "Touché."
"And maybe be careful talking in front of Kova," I say, my voice lower, recalling how Cavara described his wrath the day I met her. "Unless you want to get chewed out before we even get in the gym."
"Noted." Calvaire quiets another level. "By the way— I'm Mallen."
She's so comfortable here already. Too comfortable, if I were judging, but I'm trying not to. "Scout," I nod. "Good to meet you."
"Roulier," Kova calls. Pike steps up. "191.4."
Pike sneers at Tarq before returning to his place.
"And… try to ignore him," I add. "And Aziel. They're— they're pretty toxic."
I can't just let her come in at a complete disadvantage. Not when she's already forced to try to fit into a new schedule with seventy-odd kids who've trained together for years at this point. Someone like Avari or Elissa might disagree, but Mallen doesn't have a clue what it's really like here. It's the least I can do. That's all that I owe her, nothing more.
It's funny, though. As Mallen leans over to relay my message to Tarq, the both of them donned in the same tops and shorts as the rest of us, they don't look so out of place. Not really. And assuming they're halfway decent with a knife or a sword, the only difference between them and us is that no one really knows where they came from. They have no reputation, and how freeing that must be.
I despise myself for it, but for the second time this afternoon, envy sinks its fangs into my chest, latches on, sends its venom coursing through my blood. And for a moment, I feel that I understand Pike and Aziel.
nine months before selections.
My stomach twists with nerves.
It's not Rhodes' fault. He knows what he's doing, at least. This is day three with the bow for me. Before that were axes, machetes, short swords.
I won't let him convince me to try anything heavier. I already know I can't handle the weight.
"Hey," Rhodes says. "Breathe a little. Promise it won't kill you."
"I am breathing."
"Then try to relax."
"I am relaxed."
"Yeah, alright. Relax your grip again, then, how about that?"
I loosen my fingers on the bow, feeling its body shift in my hand.
"Yeah. That's half the problem. When your grip is that rigid—" He reaches to pull the weapon towards him, just an inch or so. "—the bow's going to angle inwards, like so. You're consistently missing to that same side every time."
"I don't want to drop it," I say, my eyes focused on the other end of the gym.
"You're not going to. Trust yourself."
It's Cavara. She's just come in the gym for her session, and while I'd typically be happy to see her, this isn't the time. I have to remind myself that she's got bigger things on her mind than how well I can fire an arrow. I'm not her present competition. She's got nine months to try to get selected.
So how come I always catch her watching?
"Sure," I say, and take a long breath. My fingers curl around the weapon, still awkwardly, but a bit more loosely. Still, it's slow, overly controlled. I should be able to load and fire a bow in mere seconds from a crouch, from my knees, off-balance. Instead, I'm staring down a rudimentary target as my arms waver.
Screw it. My fingers tense before I let the arrow fly and it pierces the edge of the target, half an inch from my last shot.
"Don't say it," I mumble.
"Say what?"
"That I didn't change anything. It just—" I let the bow fall against my side and rub at the edges of my eyes with my free hand. "I'm just not getting it."
"Here's what I think," Rhodes says, getting to his feet again. "And feel free to disagree. We've been working on archery for a few days. It's obviously newer to you than sword or spear work just because it hasn't been practiced as much with Kova or Akello. But I don't think I'm doing you many favors breathing down your neck, either."
Cavara's got her arms crossed. Valerius talks to the group, the ten Eighteens as well as two Seventeens girls, the ones they'd been talking about moving up. From what I've been able to pick up, not a single one of the Eighteens is anywhere near pleased they're attending their sessions. "Okay."
"What I mean is, we've got about twenty-five minutes left. I don't think it's the worst idea to have you practice on your own, work out for yourself what seems to work and what doesn't. You don't need me correcting you when you know what you're doing wrong."
"So I— oh," I realize.
"I'll still be here," he says, "but more as a supervisory measure. You're smart enough to try different things out for yourself. And if you have questions, or want pointers, of course I'm here. But I want you to work on your own as much as you can. If you're comfortable," he adds.
"Yeah, I am," I agree. He does have a point— I know the mistakes I'm making. It's just such a pain to keep having to correct them. "Okay. Sure."
He steps away, and I pull another arrow from the quiver on my back. I bite my lip, notching it along the fine string of the bow. The tension builds in my fingers as I draw the arrow back, adjusting my grip ever so slightly at the end. My hands are slick, though, and the bow dips as I release the arrow. When the arrow sticks in the wall, it's a foot below the target.
Fix it. I rub my palms on my t-shirt and reach back for another arrow, feeling for the correct angle of the string, testing the tension. I inhale, staring down the target. Exhale. Release.
I catch Cavara's eyes right as the arrow sticks in the second ring of the target.
Valerius is talking and she's watching me, even as I notice her. I look away to pull another arrow out, but when I look back she's still looking this way.
I frown, notching and firing another arrow. When I look again, she's focused back on Valerius like she was never watching me at all.
Another arrow. Another correction to be made. I check on Cavara every time I shoot, but she's lost in her own session now, hurling knives at dummies and paying close attention to Valerius' guidance.
That way she watches me, though— it's unnerving. It doesn't look like pure curiosity, more so… concern, maybe. But I'm healthy now. She's the one I see whenever I stop into the training room, icing or heating that fickle wrist of hers that doesn't respond to treatment no matter how long she tries to bring the swelling down. So what is it?
My next shot misses the target high. I readjust, this time just a hair too far to the right. Grip, I remind myself, and correct again. First ring. Second ring. Second ring. I take an extra moment with my final arrow, making sure my grip, my angle, my body positioning is perfect. Fire.
Second ring, again.
I put my bow down to retrieve my two dozen arrows, stacking them neatly again in my quiver before I loop it back over my shoulder. I catch Rhodes' eye as I return to my shooting spot, almost expecting him to chide me for my mistakes. But he says nothing, just nods and motions for me to continue.
Before I shoot again, I check Cavara. Her eyes are back on me.
I shoot and miss the target completely. The arrow lodges in the wall beside it, strangely secure. That's what she's concerned about, dummy. That you're so bad at this you won't even make it to where she's at.
And you know the best part? She has every reason to be.
My fingers notch another arrow as I chew at the inside of my mouth. I close my eyes, take a breath. Release.
Third ring. Worse. I'm somehow getting worse.
When I look up again, Cavara's turned the other way.
seven months before selections.
"How many is that?"
I grimace, pushing the bar back up. It presses roughly against the base of my grip and my wrists ache from holding my hands steady. "I don't know. You're supposed to be counting."
"Oh, yeah." Mallen considers. "Well, it's more than two."
"You're a terrible partner, you know."
"Hey," she chides. "Just say it's eight and be done."
"Hey," I say, matching her tone. "I'm not trying to cheat, okay?"
She stands behind me, holding her hands out to catch the bar if it falls, a steady force. But I manage the weight this time.
I set the bar back along its holder and we switch places. Mallen settles along the bench and I position myself behind the bar, steadying my breath and shaking out my shoulders. "Alright. Eight more, Mal."
She perches the bar between her thumbs and forefingers, grunting as she pulls it from the rack, but she has no trouble with her own set. When she reaches eight, she continues, as she always does. Ten, twelve, fourteen. At sixteen, sweat glinting on her forehead and adhering her loose hairs to her skin, she allows me to help her lift the bar back to where it rests.
"That's why you keep losing count of my reps," I say. "You just don't know how to count."
"Ha, ha. Are we done yet?"
"One more each," I sigh, and sit back on the bench. "Just give me a minute."
The Vaults are busy as ever, but the energy is never quite enough to suck out the permanent chill that settles along the stone walls and ices over the low ceilings. Two racks down, Elissa grits her teeth, her neck tight with exertion as she forces a bar with twice my rack's weight back up from her chest. Avari, behind her, keeps her hands out to catch the bar if she lets it fall.
Cas is three racks down, the other way, pressing even more weight back into Torin's hands like it's nothing to him.
"Ready?" Mallen asks.
"Sure," I say, and lay back against the bench. I fit the bar into my hands even as my chest and inner shoulders protest, fatigue lingering from my last two rounds. "Can you try to count this time?"
"Can't. Don't know how."
"Oh, hush." I let the bar come down then force it back up: one, two, three. On four I bare my teeth. On five I pause, my arms extended, willing the burning in my arms to dissipate before I try again.
"Three more, Scouty."
I chuckle, but it comes out strained. Breathe. I pull the bar down and push back up: six.
"Two more."
I keep my arms straight, the exhaustion setting in. Two more. Two more. I let the bar ease down and then push back up. But I'm stuck. I grimace and push but it won't move.
"Come on. Push."
I groan and force the bar back up. Seven.
"One more. You can do one more. Then you're done."
"I'm going to need your help," I get out.
"No, you won't. Let's go."
My shoulders tremble and my grip is slick. But I can do one more. The soreness is hard and cold when the bar drops gently against the bottom of my chest. When I push back up, forcing air out between my gritted teeth, my chest feels like it's splitting.
"Come on, Scout," Mallen growls.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my lips splitting into a grimace. Everything I have left, I put into the bar. One inch at a time. My entire upper body trembles.
"Almost there."
My arms freeze, refusing to push the bar any further.
"Almost—"
"Mallen," I gasp, and she catches the bar as it falls back against me.
"One more. I'll help."
Breathing heavily, I push the bar back up, her fingers and wrists lifting the weight I can't, until it settles back on the rack. My heart thumps in my throat.
Almost. But not quite.
"I'll count it," she grins.
I sit up and roll my shoulders back, my jaw and neck sore and rigid from exertion and frustration. "Thanks."
"My turn."
I take her place behind the bar, shaking my arms out. She leans back against the bench, fitting the bar back in her grasp. "Shit, your hands were sweaty."
"Leave me alone," I groan. "Ready?"
"If this slips out of my hands and breaks my face, I'm telling Kova it's your fault."
"Sure your face isn't already broken?"
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever."
I hardly have to help her. Her first eight reps are so fluid. They can't be effortless, not when her eyes are so focused, her jaw so set, but they at least look like it.
She reaches ten easily. At twelve, her breathing becomes more forced. At fourteen, her arms start shaking.
It's hard not to let envy fester in my chest. When she reaches seventeen, I finally let it come, burning along my skin and flushing my cheeks.
Mallen doesn't let me help her until she hits nineteen. I lift the bar back up and into the rack as she mutters curses under her breath.
"Ouch," she grimaces, sitting back up and rubbing her eyes.
"Not bad," I say, "considering you only had to get to eight."
Next to us, Emory and Petra finish up their weights, just a half-pound less than us. Down another rack, Avari grits her teeth and lifts her far heavier bar back into the rack, no help required.
Mallen has no issue with my weight. That much is obvious, has been for weeks. But I've never dared ask until now. "Why don't you switch with someone, Mal? You clearly can lift more than I can."
Mallen is back on her feet, unscrewing the weights from either end of the bar. She doesn't answer at first, making sure each weight is back on its stack. I follow suit, clearing our station before Kova can come by and bark at us to clean up after ourselves.
"I can," she says. "Lift more, I mean. But Kova doesn't need to know that, does he?"
I frown. "Don't you want to get stronger?"
"I do. That's why I do way more reps." She spins one of the weights, its temporary ringing overpowering Emory's hissing from the next rack. "But I like lifting with you. You're the only one who's nice to me."
Oh. The envy dies as quickly as it came.
"Thanks," is all I know how to say.
"Thanks, yourself," Mallen says.
Next to her, Emory and Petra have cleared their station. Martina's done at the next rack. Elissa's laughing loudly with Avari. And watching them all, I realize I've spent every single weights session wanting to be better, lift more, being so jealous of everyone around me. Meanwhile, Mallen's had that opportunity plenty of times. But she'd rather have a friend along for the ride than be all alone at the top.
I'd probably hate weights, too, if it weren't for her. Some days it feels like Mallen is the only force keeping me from falling into complete self-deprecation.
We're just a minute away from heading back upstairs for the remainder of our session. Already regular partners are finding each other, in place to pair up quickly for the warmup sparring drills we always do.
I don't need to ask her. We've been partnered together for weeks. But I know it'll make her happy. "Sparring buddies, Mal?"
She grins, her eyes glinting. "Say less."
five months before selections.
My hands ache with fatigue from tightening my fingers into curled firsts, from stretching the skin along my knuckles until the color drains. I catch myself and release the joints, loosen my jaw, roll my shoulders back, but tension, albeit unplaceable, remains.
Up ahead, on the large screen that's been erected at the end of our street, Evianna Laurier steps forward, her footfall practiced but not so precise. Not since that brutal blow to her thigh, of course, that left her leg spitting blood along the stone base of the Cornucopia. Of course, that might have been the very thing that saved her life. When the Four boy made to strike at her chest, he stumbled in the slick slipperiness on the pavement, giving Evianna time to get the upper hand.
And now, look at her. Panem's new favorite. Panem's new darling.
For what it's worth, Jasira was always better in front of crowds.
"I was lucky enough to ally with both of your district's tributes," Evianna continues, visibly reading every word from the cue card in her hands. "They were always so strong. They... inspired me to keep fighting, even at the very end."
I can't deal with this. For once I'm pleased to be on a side street, not in front of all the cameras. Because I can't keep my expression neutral, can't fight the disdain that crawls across my lips. "She killed Jasira," I mumble, low enough that I'm not even certain Aris or Nico can hear it. "This speech is bullshit."
"Scout," Aris grumbles.
I tilt my head to look at him. Shirt neatly pressed, hair combed and tidy for once, he almost looks excited for the occasion, if you're not focused on the way his eyes are perpetually narrowed in an almost-arrogant display of boredom. "Aris," I say back, frowning.
"Be respectful."
I'm surprised, more than anything, that he's actually responding. I shouldn't waste it, but I guess I don't know any better. "I care more than you do, actually."
"Not that you're doing any job of showing it."
"Why does it matter?" I understand, even if I don't agree with it, that he's irritated about being here— being home at all, really, but even more so out in public pretending to celebrate a foreign winner of a competition he frankly doesn't care for like he should. "Aris."
He shoots me a dark look. "Be quiet, Scout."
Even outside of the main square, there are too many prying eyes around— my mother and father, at the very least. I bite my tongue, still letting my gaze flit around. But no one's watching us, least of all the two Peacekeepers paired up in the next doorway. No, because it's Evianna, Evianna, Evianna.
Or, if you're Aris, it's the Peacekeepers themselves.
I don't know if it's my disillusion with being here or my frustration at Aris, but I let one more comment slip that I know I shouldn't. "Staring at them any longer isn't going to make them want you back."
Guilt douses me, icy and instantaneous, at the look he gives me. And maybe it's unforgivable, and maybe it's wrong. But even with disbelief pinching the edges of his eyes, I don't take my words back.
I challenge the steeliness of his gaze, challenge the soreness in my abdomen of guilt that wants nothing more than to make me bow. They push me away, urging me to give in, but I don't look back at Evianna until Aris finally looks away.
three months before selections.
Cavara narrows her eyes, focused or vicious or both.
I can't hear what Akello's saying, but he traces the skin of the dummy along its throat. Cavara straddles it, pinning it down, and in an instant draws a deep cut along its neck.
Akello motions, and Cavara obliges, plunging her hand into the gap and drawing out a handful of filling.
"What is she…" I mumble.
"Oh." Rhodes sounds disappointed. "Doesn't really transfer over that well when it's just dummies, but… well, you know how the Capitol loves a good show."
"Torture?" I ask, intrigued.
"Sort of." He grimaces. "Well, yes. They eat that up. But that's not what she's doing."
"And what is she doing? With the filling?"
"You see how she's cut the throat open?" He grabs at his throat and motions outward. "It's a killing blow, sure, but it's really to get at the tongue. After they're dead, she'd pull their tongue out through their throat. It's less about the torture, and more about the intimidation factor."
"Sure," I say, still morbidly curious. "But… they get rid of the bodies right after. What's the point, then?"
"It's not about the other tributes," he says. "It's about the viewers. And you can bet no one at home will be able to miss that."
Cavara's watching Akello now, his hands motioning for her to turn the dummy over. She does, drawing a deep cut along the spine.
"And that…"
"Cutting the spine out," he says, "piece by piece. Or pulling the ribs out through the back to expose the lungs. There's all sorts of possibilities if you're creative enough."
"There's an idea," I say. "If we ever run out of things for me to work on."
Rhodes snorts softly. "Sure. I'll add it to the list."
I watch Cavara a moment longer as she skins the dummy, sends her knife into the spots she knows will yield the most blood— each femoral artery, both sides of the front of its throat, where she hasn't already split the fabric. Akello mutters something to her and she grimaces, driving the knife down into the dummy's neck and ripping it down until the tear stretches from its throat to its groin.
"You ready to keep going?" Rhodes says.
Cavara stands, retrieving another dummy— the place has hundreds, stitched up and restocked as we need. As she turns, she scans the gym again.
Once again, it's me she settles on.
This time, Akello looks over, too.
"Yeah," I say, my face flushing. I turn away, shaking out my shoulder, and try to refocus on my station.
Rhodes hands me another knife. Knives, at my request three months ago, because I couldn't stand to keep shooting arrows and the larger, heavier weapons were still out of the question for me. "You alright?"
I fight the urge to look back over at Akello, having to remind myself he doesn't control me like he did last year. "Yeah. Getting tired."
Or doesn't he? Not a single soul knows what he told me the day Jasira died. He and I both know, even without speaking to each other, that he still maintains that power over me. I see it in his face whenever we pass in the gym or in the foyer, his eyes shadowed with lucid, untempered hatred.
"Your arm's still getting used to it," Rhodes says. "Fatigue is normal. If it hurts, though, we'll finish up early and Aspra or I can hook you up with some ice."
"No, it's feeling fine." I roll my neck back, loosening up the muscles around my shoulder, and watch the target.
But all I can think about is Cavara. How she was so friendly to me last year, at least for her. How things changed as soon as this year started.
"What's up?"
I watch her now as she carves a deep gash in the dummy's left wrist, her head down, shoulders bowed.
"Cavara's just been weird lately. That's all."
"Weirder than normal?"
I crack a smile, but set my lips again a moment later. "Yeah. I don't know. She's just been… cold, I guess."
"She's really stressed," Rhodes says. "Between you and me, Eighteens is doing a number on her emotionally. It's a ton of pressure."
"Yeah," I say quickly. That much I can believe.
"She's tough, really tough," Rhodes continues. "I think it's good you're worried about her, but she'll make it through alright."
I nod, tightening my grip on my knife. Rhodes steps back.
From fifteen feet, my knife pierces the left shoulder, right by the collarbone.
"Watch where your follow-through is going," Rhodes says. "More towards the target, less across your body."
I twist my lips and grab another knife. It balances along my thumb which curls around the handle, my other fingers gripping the middle of the blade.
I step and throw, hard. The blade spins and just skims the edge of the target's throat.
"She's literally always watching," I find myself saying, rebalancing. "I'll look over whenever I'm in the gym, and she always looks over. Just sort of stares. Never says a word, just looks. No— you—" I scoff. "Don't look over now, she's probably doing it again."
But she's not. When I check, her eyes are on Akello, him shaping his hands in some sort of complicated explanation for whatever technique Cavara's meant to try next.
"I don't know. It's weird."
"You ever going to ask her about it?"
It's an obvious question, one I'd been expecting him to ask. But, no. Because, frankly, I don't know how to ask her about it. We haven't spoken as much since the beginning of this year aside from brief how-are-yous in the training room, and there's a reason for that.
"Maybe," I say.
"Maybe," he mocks.
"Listen," I say. "She's— she's doing her own thing. I'm just reading into it too much."
But I don't think I am. I know exactly when things went south with us. I just wish I knew why.
Especially considering it's her influence, her expertise with knives and the intimidating way she wields them, that inspired me to pick up throwing knives in the first place.
"Then let's let her be," Rhodes says.
"Yeah, you're right. We're here for knives."
"Yes, we are," he smiles. "But— I'll keep a closer eye on her in the training room."
"You don't need to."
"I'd rather make sure she's alright."
I can't argue with that. I just still feel that that won't help, necessarily, when it's me who's the problem. I did something, said something, that rubbed her the wrong way. And it's been awkward at best ever since.
Guilt gnaws at the base of my stomach and I grip for a knife, trying to force the tension out of my torso and through my fingers, into the metal point of the blade.
I put three more knives in my off hand. I send the first flying and shuffle a second back into my right hand, and throw. Throw. Throw.
One on the left shoulder. Two just below the heart.
One right in the center of its chest.
"That'll kill," Rhodes says.
"Let's just hope whatever Twelve girl ends up on the other end of those has the good sense to stand still, just so I can be sure I get her."
"You really need to stop with that," Rhodes says.
"What?"
"Those are excellent throws. You're making progress. There's no need to be so hard on yourself."
I shrug. "I guess."
"I'm serious, Scout. You're making really, really solid improvements, and we've been doing knives for, what, ten weeks? Twelve? Seriously. You can be proud of yourself every once in a while, you know."
I smile, trying to ease his mind. "Okay. Fine. Those were good throws."
Just not by Akello's standards.
And, really, aren't his the only ones that matter?
one month before selections.
My arms shiver inside my sweatshirt sleeves, my fingers frozen around my plate. It rattles atop the surface of the table as I slide into my seat at the table. "Sorry."
"You okay, Scout?"
"Hm?"
"You just…" Nico frowns. "You look exhausted."
I debate, for only a second, using another excuse. But the house is empty but for Nico and me, and to be honest, I don't really have the energy for lies today. "I am," I mumble, and take another bite of breakfast. Eggs, again. It's about all I know how to make and it's filling enough, even if it's been weeks since I've really tasted anything properly.
Nico picks at the crust on his toast, flicking away fragments as they're caught between his nails. "Is training that bad?"
Yes. No. I don't know. I can't tell whether my exhaustion is physical, from weeks of seemingly endless conditioning and weapons drills, or emotional, for the same reasons.
"It's— pretty rough," I admit. "But Mom and Dad don't help, either."
He nods, taking another bite. He was here last night, too, when they got in another fight about Mom's Capitol papers. The yelling went on for over an hour, but the silence that followed was arguably just as tense. That's when Nico knocked on my door and spent the next few hours curled up against my wall, just a book and my presence, in theory, giving him some comfort.
This morning, at the very least, they've given us space. Aris, too. I've hardly spoken to him since Evianna's victory tour and the tension when we pass in the hall is nearly unbearable. Even if he spends most of the day in his room, out of sight, he's never truly out of mind until he leaves the house.
When it's just Nico, though, my words come easier. It's not that I think the others don't care. I simply don't want any of them, Mom or Dad or Aris, to even know that training hurts the way it does.
Physically is a no-brainer. If I'm not at school or training or out with Cas or Avari or Mallen or Khione, I'm home, icing or sleeping or trying to force food down my throat. It's the rest of it I don't feel comfortable with them knowing. How the threat of Kova screaming over a simple lapse is enough to shock me into unquestioning submission. How my own successes feel so meaningless stacked against those of Avari or Martina, who will always outperform me.
How Akello's continual pressure feels like it's grinding me into the ground.
I take another bite of eggs, but nausea swells in my throat and stomach. Frustration burns along my skin, thawing the ice along my arms and hands. You need to eat this. Eat this.
"Surprised they haven't split by now," he says suddenly.
I nearly choke. "What?"
"Sorry. They just… I mean, it feels like they don't like each other much, don't you think?"
I forgot water. Of course I did. I stand up to fill a glass and wash the remnants of my last bite down my throat.
"Mom wouldn't allow it, though," Nico adds.
"More like Dad wouldn't. Not if he had any say in it."
"Yeah, but Mom wouldn't want that reputation at all, I think. They'd rather make each other miserable."
There's another three eggs in the pan. I haven't even finished the two on my plate and the very sight of them makes my stomach curl. "You want any eggs?"
"I thought you were supposed to be eating them."
I sigh. "I am. I just… I can't."
"Why not?"
Because every time I take a bite, I'm thinking of numbers, numbers I can't reach no matter how hard I fight to see food as fuel. Because every time I look at what's on my plate I'm not just thinking about how it might strengthen me, but how something else will always be better. Because as hungry as I am, my disgust at what's in front of me always seems stronger.
"I don't like eggs," I say.
Nico cracks a smile. "Neither do I. Aris might, though."
"They'll get cold before he's back."
He only shrugs. No one ever really knows when he's coming home. And from my perspective, Nico doesn't really care anymore. Neither do I.
"They're just prideful, Mom and Dad," I continue, picking my plate up. "That's why no one ever wins those arguments. They'll never agree on the Capitol and yet they force themselves to continue with an extended conversation that's clearly only hurting them. Don't think there's much we can do to change that. Just— I guess all we can do is escape it."
I've done it before, too, gone to crash at Avari's or, more often, Mallen's, when I can't handle the stress at home for any longer. And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't at least considered the bunks the Atheneum offers, thought about trading privacy and independence for some quiet. It's traditional, though, for those to be reserved for the Seventeens and Eighteens who've secured their status as finalists in their year. And besides, where would that leave Nico?
He smiles, soft and sad. "I guess we can't just wait for it to resolve itself, can we?"
"You can," I say, and scrape the rest of the eggs into the bin. "I'm just not that optimistic anymore."
selections.
Valerius' soundless appearance at the front of the gym is enough to silence the entire room.
Rows of seats, spanning from wall to wall, are filled with cadets: the stringy, nervous shapes of Twelves, the hardened, toned shoulders of Seventeens.
All ten Eighteens, plus one Seventeens girl, sit in the center of the front row. Ready at attention. Eager to hear their names.
Valerius, typically so solemn, smiles as he surveys what's nearly the entire population of the Atheneum.
"Welcome, everyone," he says.
Nobody dares make a sound. This isn't like the Reaping, where energy is imperative, raucous applause expected. Respect, here, comes from what isn't said.
"Over eighty-one Hunger Games, District Two has sent one hundred and sixty-two tributes into the arena to fight for this district. Out of eighty-one chances, nineteen have returned to us. They are the unbreakable. They are our Victors."
From around the room, postures straighten— the bodies belonging to our living Victors.
"Casimir," Valerius reads. "The First Games. The first Victor."
We're silent in reverence.
"Septimus. The Eighth Games." He pauses. "Lyra. The Seventeenth Games."
There she is, leaned against Gunnar near the doors to the foyer. She nods; it's all she'll ever give. She never did want much recognition, but she accepts it all the same.
"Edric. The Twenty-First Games." Valerius bows his head. "Aurelie. The Twenty-Sixth Games."
Aurelie sets her jaw, scanning the crowd of cadets with a gaze as piercing as the knives she used to skin her competitors, layer by layer, at the end of her Games.
"Cyprian. The Thirtieth Games."
Cyprian nods in acknowledgement.
"Aelia. The Thirty-Second Games."
She's the first to let a smile creep up the edge of her lips, hardly discernible were she not ten feet away from me. It's the closest I've ever been to her, and I can feel my neck flush in admiration.
"Gunnar. The Thirty-Third Games."
He raises a hand, lowering it just as quickly to ensure Lyra is stable.
"Faris," Valerius reads, bowing his head again for our last deceased victor. "The Thirty-Eighth Games."
We all know what comes next: Valerius, Urban, Nell, and Kova, all in the same span of fifteen years: the Forty-Seventh, the Fifty-Second, the Fifty-Fifth, and the Sixty-First Games.
As Valerius reads their names, I find Akello easily; he hasn't moved from where I last left him. His face is set, displeased as usual, but I know what this is about, as if he's ever made it a secret. He resents never being chosen. He could have been the fifth in those fifteen years. But he never quite made it.
"Rodoin," Valerius continues. "The Sixty-Third Games."
"Shit, if I were trying to volunteer this year I would have gotten up and socked him already."
"Shh," I hush Mallen, even as she whispers under her breath. "We're almost there."
She can't know my stomach's roiling, knowing my fate depends entirely on this ceremony— who's picked will very well mean the difference between a Victor and no Victor, whether we can predict exactly how or not.
"Garrick. The Sixty-Seventh Games."
"Scouty. The Eighty-Fifth Games."
"If any of them look at us— I swear to Panem, Mal—"
"Eliora. The Seventieth Games."
"You'll cut me?"
"Yes."
"Kijana. The Seventy-Second Games." Valerius scans the crowd, and Mallen freezes. I almost laugh. All bark, no bite. "Easton. The Seventy-Sixth Games."
"Not going to lie," Mallen whispers, "but Easton could get it."
Cavara said that too, or something of that sort, the day I met her. It's funny how similar the two are. Except one's talking to me, and one isn't.
"Neo," Valerius finishes. "The Seventy-Eighth Games." He allows a pause for us to acknowledge Neo before, finally, continuing. "Each year, our oldest, most skilled cadets undertake a grueling set of tests, or Trials. These are a means for us to examine what our volunteer candidates have learned in their time here, to balance their strengths against their weaknesses, and, ultimately, to select the pair we have determined are best-equipped to fight for our District and return, victorious, to where they were raised."
From the podium before him, Valerius extracts a single envelope.
"These two cadets— and these two only— are permitted to volunteer at the Reaping ceremony one month from today. As always, you will respect our choice of volunteer and trust that the utmost care went into our selection. As for our volunteers, you will honor their sacrifice, holding them in the highest esteem from now until they depart for the Capitol."
Pressure rushes in my ears and I tap my fingers on my knee to keep my feet from clattering along the floor.
"Now: our volunteers for the Eighty-Second Games." Valerius tears the top of the envelope open, pulling out a single piece of card paper. He clears his throat.
Then Valerius cracks a grin. He chuckles. "So this is how Valencia feels every year. I'm— I'm shaking. Thank Panem we chose easy names so I won't mispronounce anything." There's a pattering of laughter as some of the tension eases out of the room. Valerius scans the card, taking a breath. "Elias Moloch and Claudia Lennox!"
Now comes the applause, the hoots, the howls from every corner. Funny, though; they don't seem as uproarious as usual.
Then they take the stage, Elias and Claudia, and I realize why— Claudia's the Seventeens girl.
I can't see any of their faces, but from behind, their body language says it all. The rest of the Eighteens girls are pissed.
"Elias," Valerius says. "Do you accept?"
"Yes," he says, unable to fight back the grin that splits across his face. "Yes, of course."
"And Claudia," Valerius says. "Do you accept?"
"Of course," Claudia says, without a second's hesitation.
Cavara is hunched, her limbs seemingly heavy. Disappointment can't be a strong enough word for what she feels.
"Fight for us," Valerius bellows. "Kill for us. Win for us."
"Fight for us," the crowd repeats, our voices deep and solemn. "Kill for us. Win for us."
Cavara hardly mouths the words. I watch her until my heart crumbles, and then I look away. She won't die, I tell myself. This is… better for her.
We get to our feet as Elias and Claudia shake hands. The true, official naming of our tributes will be done at the Reaping, but the Atheneum's selection has always been just as reverent to me.
"Our volunteers!" Valerius announces, and with that, the selection is done.
But not for everyone.
"What are you doing now?" Mallen asks as we push back towards the foyer for some space, out and away from the crowd. "Want dinner? Mom's cooking."
"Can't, I'm working with Rhodes tonight," I say. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"Sure thing. Just make sure you don't get stabbed in the meantime."
"I'll try my best," I say.
Easton's talking with Valerius back inside the gym, a few of the Victors lingering in the gym to catch up. When most of the gym is empty, I head back in, making a beeline for the targets Rhodes and I typically use. He's got the knives set up already, and as I do my warmups, loosening up my legs and shoulders with light tosses and stretching, I watch as Cavara comes back into the gym.
I can't help it. I freeze, watching as she marches right up to Akello.
"You promised me!"
Cavara's howls reach all ears in the vicinity.
"You— fucking—"
"I didn't promise you a damn thing," Akello says, his voice cold.
"Bullshit. You were supposed to get me Games ready. You had three fucking years to help train me."
"Of course, you're blaming me."
Cavara scoffs, so vicious and potent I can practically taste the disdain. "I did everything you told me to. I gave everything—"
"And you weren't the best."
"None of us were, huh? So just give it to a seventeen-year-old, why don't you?"
Akello's aware, now, of the curious eyes on the two of them. "You know, maybe we don't have this bitch fit in the middle of the gym—"
"You're saying," Cavara says, clearly not caring where she is or who hears her, "that you all trained five of us, from Twelves to Eighteens, and then decided not a single fucking one of us was worth the energy, the hours, hell, the pain—"
"Claudia is better than you. That's what it comes down to—"
"She is not!"
I glance at Rhodes. He puts his knife down, as if debating whether to get involved.
"Perrigon," Valerius warns, stepping away from Easton.
"Tell me why, Valerius," Cavara says, a hitch in her throat. "Tell me why you think a seventeen-year-old is better than a single one of us, let alone all five."
"I don't owe you an explanation. We made the choice that gives us the best chance to secure a Victor—"
"By taking Claudia out of next year's pool?"
"Do not interrupt me."
"You're fucking enabling him!" Cavara yells, but her voice trembles, on the verge of cracking or biting or hissing, just barely balanced between the boundary of extremes.
Valerius stares, his gaze icy enough to subdue her. "Step outside."
Cavara's chest rises and falls, her face burning with injustice.
"Outside."
"Fine." She moves to walk out, but as she nears the doorway her foot strikes at a shelf, knocking over a stack of spare weapons.
"Pick that up," growls Akello.
Cavara whirls around. "Fuck you, Akello."
His hands are around her throat in an instant, slamming her back and head against the wall. "How—"
"Akello—"
"—dare—"
"Stop!"
Valerius pulls him back. Akello releases Cavara, but she doesn't move. Her eyes are frozen on him, wide with unparalleled terror, as she grabs at her own throat, as if in disbelief that he actually grabbed her— or, perhaps, that he actually let go.
"Please," Valerius says. "Outside, please. Both of you. Now."
Cavara still won't move. Not until Akello passes her in the doorway, until she has another few moments to recover. She has to know the whole gym is watching her, now. But she doesn't look up.
"What…" I try to start, but I don't even know what to say.
Rhodes doesn't seem to, either. "Let's get back to knives."
"He can't do that," I say. But I know he can, and he has. Even if he never had me in a chokehold, how many times did he grab my arm so hard it bruised? Publicly berate me? Valerius stepped in this time, but that's not enough to stop a pattern of fear control Akello's always secured.
"He shouldn't, but he does." Rhodes looks at me now, concern unmistakeable in his features. "I'm sorry that you have to deal with him. That he acts the way he does."
Sorry doesn't make it any easier to deal with, though. "It's just how he trains us. It's tough, but it makes us tough, too."
"I—" Rhodes pauses, doubt drawing curves in his forehead.
"Doesn't he?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, finally. "If you think you're stronger for it, then yeah. It's just not the way I train my kids."
I couldn't imagine Rhodes, of all people, screaming or strangling or striking anyone he disagreed with. I see him sometimes when the Twelves' sessions overlap with ours and can't help the swell of jealousy that rises up each time I remember we had Nell instead, Nell for two scathing years, and the most she ever respected any of us was day freaking one because that was the one day our parents were allowed to be there to watch us go inside— the first time, the only time.
It's better, of course, that these kids get Rhodes before they get Nell. I wouldn't wish those first two years on anybody. And I know I grew because of it. But I don't think I need Nell or Akello or Kova's brutality all the time. I'm glad I get Rhodes now, for however long I'm even here.
If Elias and Claudia go day one, that gives me just over a month. Even a finale death gives me only another couple of weeks. But how dare I even doubt Two's chances? Last year was a fluke, nothing more. I have to keep planning like I'm going to Sixteens, preparing for Trials more than a year out. That's fueled me through this year, certainly, even with the uncertainty of where I'll be at the end.
No doubts, I remind myself.
But that's just not realistic. What was it my mother said? The only power we can trust comes from the Capitol. Everything else is rooted in chance.
It's a stark reminder that, perhaps, our victory isn't so inevitable.
"Knives," I say, trying to shake my head clear.
"Right," Rhodes says. "Should I go get Akello for some target practice?"
Despite myself, I grin. "I'm not sure I'm good enough to throw around him yet."
"Around him? Who said you were trying to miss him?"
"I genuinely can't tell if you're kidding," I say.
Rhodes shrugs. "Neither can I. Besides, I think he's occupied. Maybe just normal targets for now."
"That's unfortunate," I say. "Maybe you can invite him to our next session. He likes me so much, I'm sure he'd say yes."
"Oh, good idea, Scout."
I let a smile light on the edges of my lips. My fingers hover over the stack of blades, but I freeze, just a second, before I pick the first one.
I know we're just joking, but if Akello were to see me now, would he give me a second chance?
I set my jaw, closing my fingers around the first knife. I fling it forwards, hardly letting it leave my fingers before I grab for the second, then the third, tossing knives in sharp succession. I don't watch where they go, only focus for a fraction of a moment on the target before me, the rudimentary head and torso drawn into the wall.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
I'm out.
I exhale, letting myself look at where they landed.
One didn't stick. One landed inches from the left shoulder, right where my hair would fall.
Eight landed. Two in the left shoulder, five in the chest. One directly in the throat.
"That's exceptional," Rhodes says.
I linger on the sight for a moment. There's one knife, angled sideways like it was struck by another that perhaps didn't find its purchase in the target. That's the one that struck the center of the throat.
It is exceptional. But it doesn't feel as rewarding as it should.
Because I know it doesn't matter what I do. If the way Akello just treated Cavara is any indication, he'll see what he wants to see. And if the way he's acted so brazenly towards me, her, all of us, is any indication, he won't take back anything he does.
"Scout?"
"Sorry. Thank you," I say. I do mean it. It's not his fault I'm distracted. I kneel to pick up the knife on the floor, then draw the others out of the target. Nearly all of them are deeply embedded, requiring an extra tug to remove.
"I'm serious. That's about as perfect as you can get," Rhodes says. "What, did you actually pretend that target was Akello this time?"
Akello and me, his office. I'm struggling to breathe. Every inch of me aches with blows and bruises he gave me, through Emory by proxy.
"You need to be hungry for blood. Unafraid of consequence. Prepared to murder without hesitation."
"I need another chance."
"If we get a winner next year, then maybe I can afford to take on another charity case. But only if we get another victor."
Charity case. Lost cause. Liability. Easier target.
Disrespectful. Embarrassment. 123.6. Boney. Twenty. Burden. Worthless.
Exceptional just doesn't seem to fit.
"Something like that," I say, and pull the last knife free.
agreatleap. weebly .com
Hey friends! Been a minute, hasn't it?
Obviously this was a beefier chapter than usual and took a fat amount of time. I had to play around with formatting, what I wanted to fit over the span of this year, and what I needed to set up for later on down the road. A lot of important development here, and I really didn't want to miss a thing. In my opinion, this is well worth the wait.
A special thanks again to the lovely optimisms and goldie031 for looking over some sections for me, and to everyone else who has been a sounding board for any of my plots or ideas for this story. You all are shining stars.
Important note: I had to change up some of the ages of several of my victors, so a few of them in this chapter have had their Games years switched around, and I even realized I mixed up a few of the names from my victor list. I have now gone back and changed Chapter 3 to reflect the changes that were made here. Sorry for any confusion!
That should be all from me for this chapter. School starts back up on Monday but ideally, the rest of Part II should come a bit quicker than this one. Thank you for your patience, and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts/critiques/predictions, whatever they may be!